Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [philippa perry book .txt] 📗

in these lists! But they will be empty⁠—no one will risk to break a lance for the innocent, the forlorn.”

“The better for thee, if it prove so,” said the Preceptor; “if no champion appears, it is not by thy means that this unlucky damsel shall die, but by the doom of the Grand Master, with whom rests all the blame, and who will count that blame for praise and commendation.”

“True,” said Bois-Guilbert; “if no champion appears, I am but a part of the pageant, sitting indeed on horseback in the lists, but having no part in what is to follow.”

“None whatever,” said Malvoisin; “no more than the armed image of Saint George when it makes part of a procession.”

“Well, I will resume my resolution,” replied the haughty Templar. “She has despised me⁠—repulsed me⁠—reviled me⁠—And wherefore should I offer up for her whatever of estimation I have in the opinion of others? Malvoisin, I will appear in the lists.”

He left the apartment hastily as he uttered these words, and the Preceptor followed, to watch and confirm him in his resolution; for in Bois-Guilbert’s fame he had himself a strong interest, expecting much advantage from his being one day at the head of the Order, not to mention the preferment of which Mont-Fitchet had given him hopes, on condition he would forward the condemnation of the unfortunate Rebecca. Yet although, in combating his friend’s better feelings, he possessed all the advantage which a wily, composed, selfish disposition has over a man agitated by strong and contending passions, it required all Malvoisin’s art to keep Bois-Guilbert steady to the purpose he had prevailed on him to adopt. He was obliged to watch him closely to prevent his resuming his purpose of flight, to intercept his communication with the Grand Master, lest he should come to an open rupture with his Superior, and to renew, from time to time, the various arguments by which he endeavoured to show, that, in appearing as champion on this occasion, Bois-Guilbert, without either accelerating or ensuring the fate of Rebecca, would follow the only course by which he could save himself from degradation and disgrace.

XL

Shadows avaunt!⁠—Richard’s himself again.

Richard III

When the Black Knight⁠—for it becomes necessary to resume the train of his adventures⁠—left the Trysting-tree of the generous Outlaw, he held his way straight to a neighbouring religious house, of small extent and revenue, called the Priory of Saint Botolph, to which the wounded Ivanhoe had been removed when the castle was taken, under the guidance of the faithful Gurth, and the magnanimous Wamba. It is unnecessary at present to mention what took place in the interim betwixt Wilfred and his deliverer; suffice it to say, that after long and grave communication, messengers were dispatched by the Prior in several directions, and that on the succeeding morning the Black Knight was about to set forth on his journey, accompanied by the jester Wamba, who attended as his guide.

“We will meet,” he said to Ivanhoe, “at Coningsburgh, the castle of the deceased Athelstane, since there thy father Cedric holds the funeral feast for his noble relation. I would see your Saxon kindred together, Sir Wilfred, and become better acquainted with them than heretofore. Thou also wilt meet me; and it shall be my task to reconcile thee to thy father.”

So saying, he took an affectionate farewell of Ivanhoe, who expressed an anxious desire to attend upon his deliverer. But the Black Knight would not listen to the proposal.

“Rest this day; thou wilt have scarce strength enough to travel on the next. I will have no guide with me but honest Wamba, who can play priest or fool as I shall be most in the humour.”

“And I,” said Wamba, “will attend you with all my heart. I would fain see the feasting at the funeral of Athelstane; for, if it be not full and frequent, he will rise from the dead to rebuke cook, sewer, and cupbearer; and that were a sight worth seeing. Always, Sir Knight, I will trust your valour with making my excuse to my master Cedric, in case mine own wit should fail.”

“And how should my poor valour succeed, Sir Jester, when thy light wit halts?⁠—resolve me that.”

“Wit, Sir Knight,” replied the Jester, “may do much. He is a quick, apprehensive knave, who sees his neighbours blind side, and knows how to keep the lee-gage when his passions are blowing high. But valour is a sturdy fellow, that makes all split. He rows against both wind and tide, and makes way notwithstanding; and, therefore, good Sir Knight, while I take advantage of the fair weather in our noble master’s temper, I will expect you to bestir yourself when it grows rough.”

“Sir Knight of the Fetterlock, since it is your pleasure so to be distinguished,” said Ivanhoe, “I fear me you have chosen a talkative and a troublesome fool to be your guide. But he knows every path and alley in the woods as well as e’er a hunter who frequents them; and the poor knave, as thou hast partly seen, is as faithful as steel.”

“Nay,” said the Knight, “an he have the gift of showing my road, I shall not grumble with him that he desires to make it pleasant.⁠—Fare thee well, kind Wilfred⁠—I charge thee not to attempt to travel till tomorrow at earliest.”

So saying, he extended his hand to Ivanhoe, who pressed it to his lips, took leave of the Prior, mounted his horse, and departed, with Wamba for his companion. Ivanhoe followed them with his eyes, until they were lost in the shades of the surrounding forest, and then returned into the convent.

But shortly after matin-song, he requested to see the Prior. The old man came in haste, and enquired anxiously after the state of his health.

“It is better,” he said, “than my fondest hope could have anticipated; either my wound has been slighter than the effusion of blood led me to suppose, or