Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [the lemonade war series txt] 📗

and calling aloud,

“Those who would save themselves, follow me!” he pushed across

the drawbridge, dispersing the archers who would have intercepted

them. He was followed by his Saracens, and some five or six

men-at-arms, who had mounted their horses. The Templar’s retreat

was rendered perilous by the numbers of arrows shot off at him

and his party; but this did not prevent him from galloping round

to the barbican, of which, according to his previous plan, he

supposed it possible De Bracy might have been in possession.

“De Bracy! De Bracy!” he shouted, “art thou there?”

“I am here,” replied De Bracy, “but I am a prisoner.”

“Can I rescue thee?” cried Bois-Guilbert.

“No,” replied De Bracy; “I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue.

I will be true prisoner. Save thyself---there are hawks abroad

---put the seas betwixt you and England---I dare not say more.”

“Well,” answered the Templar, “an thou wilt tarry there, remember

I have redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will,

methinks the walls of the Preceptory of Templestowe will be cover

sufficient, and thither will I, like heron to her haunt.”

Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his followers.

Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued

to fight desperately with the besiegers, after the departure of

the Templar, but rather in despair of quarter than that they

entertained any hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly

through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first

kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of one of the

ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, such as was of yore

raised on the field of battle by the scalds of the yet heathen

Saxons. Her long dishevelled grey hair flew back from her

uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance

contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she

brandished the distaff which she held in her hand, as if she had

been one of the Fatal Sisters, who spin and abridge the thread of

human life. Tradition has preserved some wild strophes of the

barbarous hymn which she chanted wildly amid that scene of fire

and of slaughter:---

1.

Whet the bright steel,

Sons of the White Dragon!

Kindle the torch,

Daughter of Hengist!

The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,

It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;

The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,

It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.

Whet the steel, the raven croaks!

Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!

Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!

Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!

2.

The black cloud is low over the thane’s castle

The eagle screams—he rides on its bosom.

Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,

Thy banquet is prepared!

The maidens of Valhalla look forth,

The race of Hengist will send them guests.

Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!

And strike your loud timbrels for joy!

Many a haughty step bends to your halls,

Many a helmed head.

3.

Dark sits the evening upon the thanes castle,

The black clouds gather round;

Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant!

The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest against

them.

He, the bright consumer of palaces,

Broad waves he his blazing banner,

Red, wide and dusky,

Over the strife of the valiant:

His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers;

He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the

wound!

4.

All must perish!

The sword cleaveth the helmet;

The strong armour is pierced by the lance;

Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,

Engines break down the fences of the battle.

All must perish!

The race of Hengist is gone---

The name of Horsa is no more!

Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword!

Let your blades drink blood like wine;

Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,

By the light of the blazing halls!

Strong be your swords while your blood is warm,

And spare neither for pity nor fear,

For vengeance hath but an hour;

Strong hate itself shall expire

I also must perish! *

Note G. Ulrica’s Death Song

The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and

rose to the evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far

and wide through the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed

down, with blazing roof and rafter; and the combatants were

driven from the court-yard. The vanquished, of whom very few

remained, scattered and escaped into the neighbouring wood. The

victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with wonder, not

unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks and

arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica

was for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen,

tossing her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reined

empress of the conflagration which she had raised. At length,

with a terrific crash, the whole turret gave way, and she

perished in the flames which had consumed her tyrant. An awful

pause of horror silenced each murmur of the armed spectators,

who, for the space of several minutes, stirred not a finger, save

to sign the cross. The voice of Locksley was then heard, “Shout,

yeomen!---the den of tyrants is no more! Let each bring his

spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous at the Trysting-tree in

the Harthill-walk; for there at break of day will we make just

partition among our own bands, together with our worthy allies in

this great deed of vengeance.”

CHAPTER XXXII.

Trust me each state must have its policies:

Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters;

Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk,

Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline;

For not since Adam wore his verdant apron,

Hath man with man in social union dwelt,

But laws were made to draw that union closer.

Old Play

The daylight had dawned upon the glades of the oak forest. The

green boughs glittered with all their pearls of dew. The hind

led her fawn from the covert of high fern to the more open walks

of the greenwood, and no huntsman was there to watch or intercept

the stately hart, as he paced at the head of the antler’d herd.

The outlaws were all assembled around the Trysting-tree in the

Harthill-walk, where they had spent the night in refreshing

themselves after the fatigues of the siege, some with wine, some

with slumber, many with hearing and recounting the events of the

day, and computing the heaps of plunder which their success had

placed at the disposal of their Chief.

The spoils were indeed very large; for, notwithstanding that much

was consumed, a great deal of plate, rich armour, and splendid

clothing, had been secured by the exertions of the dauntless

outlaws, who could be appalled by no danger when such rewards

were in view. Yet so strict were the laws of their society, that

no one ventured to appropriate any part of the booty, which was

brought into one common mass, to be at the disposal of their

leader.

The place of rendezvous was an aged oak; not however the same to

which Locksley had conducted Gurth and Wamba in the earlier part

of the story, but one which was the centre of a silvan

amphitheatre, within half a mile of the demolished castle of

Torquilstone. Here Locksley assumed his seat---a throne of turf

erected under the twisted branches of the huge oak, and the

silvan followers were gathered around him. He assigned to the

Black Knight a seat at his right hand, and to Cedric a place upon

his left.

“Pardon my freedom, noble sirs,” he said, “but in these glades I

am monarch---they are my kingdom; and these my wild subjects

would reck but little of my power, were I, within my own

dominions, to yield place to mortal man.---Now, sirs, who hath

seen our chaplain? where is our curtal Friar? A mass amongst

Christian men best begins a busy morning.”---No one had seen the

Clerk of Copmanhurst. “Over gods forbode!” said the outlaw

chief, “I trust the jolly priest hath but abidden by the wine-pot

a thought too late. Who saw him since the castle was ta’en?”

“I,” quoth the Miller, “marked him busy about the door of a

cellar, swearing by each saint in the calendar he would taste the

smack of Front-de-Boeuf’s Gascoigne wine.”

“Now, the saints, as many as there be of them,” said the Captain,

“forefend, lest he has drunk too deep of the wine-butts, and

perished by the fall of the castle!---Away, Miller!---take with

you enow of men, seek the place where you last saw him---throw

water from the moat on the scorching ruins ---I will have them

removed stone by stone ere I lose my curtal Friar.”

The numbers who hastened to execute this duty, considering that

an interesting division of spoil was about to take place, showed

how much the troop had at heart the safety of their spiritual

father.

“Meanwhile, let us proceed,” said Locksley; “for when this bold

deed shall be sounded abroad, the bands of De Bracy, of

Malvoisin, and other allies of Front-de-Boeuf, will be in motion

against us, and it were well for our safety that we retreat from

the vicinity.---Noble Cedric,” he said, turning to the Saxon,

“that spoil is divided into two portions; do thou make choice of

that which best suits thee, to recompense thy people who were

partakers with us in this adventure.”

“Good yeoman,” said Cedric, “my heart is oppressed with sadness.

The noble Athelstane of Coningsburgh is no more---the last

sprout of the sainted Confessor! Hopes have perished with him

which can never return!---A sparkle hath been quenched by his

blood, which no human breath can again rekindle! My people, save

the few who are now with me, do but tarry my presence to

transport his honoured remains to their last mansion. The Lady

Rowena is desirous to return to Rotherwood, and must be escorted

by a sufficient force. I should, therefore, ere now, have left

this place; and I waited---not to share the booty, for, so help

me God and Saint Withold! as neither I nor any of mine will touch

the value of a liard,---I waited but to render my thanks to thee

and to thy bold yeomen, for the life and honour ye have saved.”

“Nay, but,” said the chief Outlaw, “we did but half the work at

most---take of the spoil what may reward your own neighbours and

followers.”

“I am rich enough to reward them from mine own wealth,” answered

Cedric.

“And some,” said Wamba, “have been wise enough to reward

themselves; they do not march off empty-handed altogether. We do

not all wear motley.”

“They are welcome,” said Locksley; “our laws bind none but

ourselves.”

“But, thou, my poor knave,” said Cedric, turning about and

embracing his Jester, “how shall I reward thee, who feared not to

give thy body to chains and death instead of mine!---All forsook

me, when the poor fool was faithful!”

A tear stood in the eye of the rough Thane as he spoke---a mark

of feeling which even the death of Athelstane had not extracted;

but there was something in the half-instinctive attachment of his

clown, that waked his nature more keenly than even grief itself.

“Nay,” said the Jester, extricating himself from master’s

caress, “if you pay my service with the water of your eye, the

Jester must weep for company, and then what becomes of his

vocation?---But, uncle, if you would indeed pleasure me, I pray

you to pardon my playfellow Gurth, who stole a week from your

service to bestow it on your son.”

“Pardon him!” exclaimed Cedric; “I will both pardon and reward

him.---Kneel down, Gurth.”---The swineherd was