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

of a friar to accept refreshment, if you are offered any.”

“Farewell, uncle,” added Wamba; “and remember pax vobiscum.”

Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his expedition; and it was not long ere he had occasion to try the force of that spell which his Jester had recommended as omnipotent. In a low-arched and dusky passage, by which he endeavoured to work his way to the hall of the castle, he was interrupted by a female form.

“Pax vobiscum!” said the pseudo friar, and was endeavouring to hurry past, when a soft voice replied, “Et vobis⁠—quaso, domine reverendissime, pro misericordia vestra.”

“I am somewhat deaf,” replied Cedric, in good Saxon, and at the same time muttered to himself, “A curse on the fool and his pax vobiscum! I have lost my javelin at the first cast.”

It was, however, no unusual thing for a priest of those days to be deaf of his Latin ear, and this the person who now addressed Cedric knew full well.

“I pray you of dear love, reverend father,” she replied in his own language, “that you will deign to visit with your ghostly comfort a wounded prisoner of this castle, and have such compassion upon him and us as thy holy office teaches⁠—Never shall good deed so highly advantage thy convent.”

“Daughter,” answered Cedric, much embarrassed, “my time in this castle will not permit me to exercise the duties of mine office⁠—I must presently forth⁠—there is life and death upon my speed.”

“Yet, father, let me entreat you by the vow you have taken on you,” replied the suppliant, “not to leave the oppressed and endangered without counsel or succour.”

“May the fiend fly away with me, and leave me in Ifrin with the souls of Odin and of Thor!” answered Cedric impatiently, and would probably have proceeded in the same tone of total departure from his spiritual character, when the colloquy was interrupted by the harsh voice of Urfried, the old crone of the turret.

“How, minion,” said she to the female speaker, “is this the manner in which you requite the kindness which permitted thee to leave thy prison-cell yonder?⁠—Puttest thou the reverend man to use ungracious language to free himself from the importunities of a Jewess?”

“A Jewess!” said Cedric, availing himself of the information to get clear of their interruption⁠—“Let me pass, woman! stop me not at your peril. I am fresh from my holy office, and would avoid pollution.”

“Come this way, father,” said the old hag, “thou art a stranger in this castle, and canst not leave it without a guide. Come hither, for I would speak with thee.⁠—And you, daughter of an accursed race, go to the sick man’s chamber, and tend him until my return; and woe betide you if you again quit it without my permission!”

Rebecca retreated. Her importunities had prevailed upon Urfried to suffer her to quit the turret, and Urfried had employed her services where she herself would most gladly have paid them, by the bedside of the wounded Ivanhoe. With an understanding awake to their dangerous situation, and prompt to avail herself of each means of safety which occurred, Rebecca had hoped something from the presence of a man of religion, who, she learned from Urfried, had penetrated into this godless castle. She watched the return of the supposed ecclesiastic, with the purpose of addressing him, and interesting him in favour of the prisoners; with what imperfect success the reader has been just acquainted.

XXVII

Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate,
But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin?
Thy deeds are proved⁠—thou know’st thy fate;
But come, thy tale⁠—begin⁠—begin.

But I have griefs of other kind,
Troubles and sorrows more severe;
Give me to ease my tortured mind,
Lend to my woes a patient ear;
And let me, if I may not find
A friend to help⁠—find one to hear.

Crabbe’s Hall of Justice

When Urfried had with clamours and menaces driven Rebecca back to the apartment from which she had sallied, she proceeded to conduct the unwilling Cedric into a small apartment, the door of which she heedfully secured. Then fetching from a cupboard a stoup of wine and two flagons, she placed them on the table, and said in a tone rather asserting a fact than asking a question, “Thou art Saxon, father⁠—Deny it not,” she continued, observing that Cedric hastened not to reply; “the sounds of my native language are sweet to mine ears, though seldom heard save from the tongues of the wretched and degraded serfs on whom the proud Normans impose the meanest drudgery of this dwelling. Thou art a Saxon, father⁠—a Saxon, and, save as thou art a servant of God, a freeman.⁠—Thine accents are sweet in mine ear.”

“Do not Saxon priests visit this castle, then?” replied Cedric; “it were, methinks, their duty to comfort the outcast and oppressed children of the soil.”

“They come not⁠—or if they come, they better love to revel at the boards of their conquerors,” answered Urfried, “than to hear the groans of their countrymen⁠—so, at least, report speaks of them⁠—of myself I can say little. This castle, for ten years, has opened to no priest save the debauched Norman chaplain who partook the nightly revels of Front-de-Boeuf, and he has been long gone to render an account of his stewardship.⁠—But thou art a Saxon⁠—a Saxon priest, and I have one question to ask of thee.”

“I am a Saxon,” answered Cedric, “but unworthy, surely, of the name of priest. Let me begone on my way⁠—I swear I will return, or send one of our fathers more worthy to hear your confession.”

“Stay yet a while,” said Urfried; “the accents of the voice which thou hearest now will soon be choked with the cold earth, and I would not descend to it like the beast I have lived. But wine must give me strength to tell the horrors of my tale.” She poured out a cup, and drank it with a frightful avidity, which seemed desirous of draining the last drop