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

points of Maurice de Bracy’s might have challenged the prize of extravagance with the gayest, being turned up and twisted like the horns of a ram. Such was the dress of a gallant of the period; and, in the present instance, that effect was aided by the handsome person and good demeanour of the wearer, whose manners partook alike of the grace of a courtier, and the frankness of a soldier.

He saluted Rowena by doffing his velvet bonnet, garnished with a golden broach, representing St. Michael trampling down the Prince of Evil. With this, he gently motioned the lady to a seat; and, as she still retained her standing posture, the knight ungloved his right hand, and motioned to conduct her thither. But Rowena declined, by her gesture, the proffered compliment, and replied, “If I be in the presence of my jailor, Sir Knight⁠—nor will circumstances allow me to think otherwise⁠—it best becomes his prisoner to remain standing till she learns her doom.”

“Alas! fair Rowena,” returned De Bracy, “you are in presence of your captive, not your jailor; and it is from your fair eyes that De Bracy must receive that doom which you fondly expect from him.”

“I know you not, sir,” said the lady, drawing herself up with all the pride of offended rank and beauty; “I know you not⁠—and the insolent familiarity with which you apply to me the jargon of a troubadour, forms no apology for the violence of a robber.”

“To thyself, fair maid,” answered De Bracy, in his former tone⁠—“to thine own charms be ascribed whate’er I have done which passed the respect due to her, whom I have chosen queen of my heart, and lodestar of my eyes.”

“I repeat to you, Sir Knight, that I know you not, and that no man wearing chain and spurs ought thus to intrude himself upon the presence of an unprotected lady.”

“That I am unknown to you,” said De Bracy, “is indeed my misfortune; yet let me hope that De Bracy’s name has not been always unspoken, when minstrels or heralds have praised deeds of chivalry, whether in the lists or in the battlefield.”

“To heralds and to minstrels, then, leave thy praise, Sir Knight,” replied Rowena, “more suiting for their mouths than for thine own; and tell me which of them shall record in song, or in book of tourney, the memorable conquest of this night, a conquest obtained over an old man, followed by a few timid hinds; and its booty, an unfortunate maiden, transported against her will to the castle of a robber?”

“You are unjust, Lady Rowena,” said the knight, biting his lips in some confusion, and speaking in a tone more natural to him than that of affected gallantry, which he had at first adopted; “yourself free from passion, you can allow no excuse for the frenzy of another, although caused by your own beauty.”

“I pray you, Sir Knight,” said Rowena, “to cease a language so commonly used by strolling minstrels, that it becomes not the mouth of knights or nobles. Certes, you constrain me to sit down, since you enter upon such commonplace terms, of which each vile crowder hath a stock that might last from hence to Christmas.”

“Proud damsel,” said De Bracy, incensed at finding his gallant style procured him nothing but contempt⁠—“proud damsel, thou shalt be as proudly encountered. Know then, that I have supported my pretensions to your hand in the way that best suited thy character. It is meeter for thy humour to be wooed with bow and bill, than in set terms, and in courtly language.”

“Courtesy of tongue,” said Rowena, “when it is used to veil churlishness of deed, is but a knight’s girdle around the breast of a base clown. I wonder not that the restraint appears to gall you⁠—more it were for your honour to have retained the dress and language of an outlaw, than to veil the deeds of one under an affectation of gentle language and demeanour.”

“You counsel well, lady,” said the Norman; “and in the bold language which best justifies bold action I tell thee, thou shalt never leave this castle, or thou shalt leave it as Maurice de Bracy’s wife. I am not wont to be baffled in my enterprises, nor needs a Norman noble scrupulously to vindicate his conduct to the Saxon maiden whom he distinguishes by the offer of his hand. Thou art proud, Rowena, and thou art the fitter to be my wife. By what other means couldst thou be raised to high honour and to princely place, saving by my alliance? How else wouldst thou escape from the mean precincts of a country grange, where Saxons herd with the swine which form their wealth, to take thy seat, honoured as thou shouldst be, and shalt be, amid all in England that is distinguished by beauty, or dignified by power?”

“Sir Knight,” replied Rowena, “the grange which you contemn hath been my shelter from infancy; and, trust me, when I leave it⁠—should that day ever arrive⁠—it shall be with one who has not learnt to despise the dwelling and manners in which I have been brought up.”

“I guess your meaning, lady,” said De Bracy, “though you may think it lies too obscure for my apprehension. But dream not, that Richard Coeur de Lion will ever resume his throne, far less that Wilfred of Ivanhoe, his minion, will ever lead thee to his footstool, to be there welcomed as the bride of a favourite. Another suitor might feel jealousy while he touched this string; but my firm purpose cannot be changed by a passion so childish and so hopeless. Know, lady, that this rival is in my power, and that it rests but with me to betray the secret of his being within the castle to Front-de-Boeuf, whose jealousy will be more fatal than mine.”

“Wilfred here?” said Rowena, in disdain; “that is as true as that Front-de-Boeuf is his rival.”

De Bracy looked at her steadily for an instant.

“Wert thou really ignorant of