other that it was time to declare the pledge of Rebecca forfeited.
At this instant a knight, urging his horse to speed, appeared on
the plain advancing towards the lists. A hundred voices exclaimed,
"A champion! A champion!" and amidst a ringing cheer the knight
rode into the tilt-yard, although his horse appeared to reel from
fatigue.
To the summons of the herald, who demanded his rank, his name, and
purpose, the stranger answered, raising his helmet as he spoke, "I
am Wilfred of Ivanhoe."
"I will not fight with thee at present," said Bois-Guilbert. "Get
thy wounds healed."
"Ha! proud Templar," said Ivanhoe, "hast thou forgotten that twice
didst thou fall before this lance? I will proclaim thee a coward
in every court in Europe unless thou do battle without farther
delay."
"Dog of a Saxon!" said the Templar, "take thy lance, and prepare
for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!"
At once each champion took his place, the trumpets sounded, and
the knights charged each other in full career. The wearied horse
of Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, went down, as all
had expected, before the well-aimed lance and vigorous steed of
the Templar. But although the spear of Ivanhoe did but touch the
shield of Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment of all
who beheld it, reeled in his saddle, lost his stirrups, and fell
in the lists.
Ivanhoe was soon on foot, hastening to mend his fortune with his
sword; but his antagonist arose not. Wilfred, placing his foot on
his breast, and the sword's point to his throat, commanded him to
yield him, or die on the spot. Bois-Guilbert returned no answer.
"Slay him not, sir knight," cried the Grand Master. "We allow him
vanquished."
He descended into the lists, and commanded them to unhelm the
conquered champion. His eyes were closed; the dark red flush was
still on his brow. As they looked on him in astonishment the eyes
opened, but they were fixed and glazed. The flush passed from his
brow, and gave way to the pallid hue of death.
Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had died a victim to the
violence of his own contending passions.
"This is indeed the judgment of God," said the Grand Master,
looking upwards; "Thy will be done!"
Turning then to Wilfred of Ivanhoe, he said, "I pronounce the
maiden free and guiltless. The arms and the body of the deceased
knight are at the will of the victor."
His further speech was interrupted by a clattering of horses'
feet, and the Black Knight, followed by a numerous band of men-
at-arms, galloped into the lists.
At a glance he saw how matters stood. "Bohun," he said, addressing
one of his attendant knights, "do thine office."
The officer stepped forward, and, laying his hand on the shoulder
of Albert de Malvoisin, said, "I arrest thee of high treason."
"Who dares to arrest a Knight of the Temple in my presence?" said
the Grand Master; "and by whose authority is this bold outrage
offered?"
"By my authority," said the king, raising his visor, "and by the
order of Richard Plantagenet who stands before you."
While he spoke the royal standard of England was seen to float
over the towers of the preceptory instead of the Temple banner;
and before long the followers of the king were in complete
possession of the entire castle.
Meanwhile Rebecca, giddy and almost senseless at the rapid change
of circumstances, was locked in the arms of her aged father; and
shortly after the two retreated hurriedly from the lists.
Not many days passed before the nuptials of Wilfred and the fair
Rowena were celebrated in the noble minster of York, attended by
the king in person.
On the second morning after this happy bridal Rebecca was shown
into the apartment of the Lady of Ivanhoe. She had come, she said,
to pay the debt of gratitude which she owed to Wilfred, and to ask
his wife to transmit to him her grateful farewell. She prayed that
God might bless their union, and, as she rose to leave, she
handed Rowena a casket filled with most precious jewels. "Accept
them, lady," she said; "to me they are valueless; I will never
wear jewels more. My father and I, we are going to a far country
where at least we shall dwell in liberty. He to whom I dedicate my
future life will be my Comforter if I do His will. Say this to thy
lord should he chance to inquire after the fate of her whose life
he saved." She then hastened to bid Rowena adieu, and glided from
the apartment.
Wilfred lived long and happily with his bride, for they were
attached to each other by the bonds of early affection, and they
loved each other the more from the recollection of the obstacles
which had so long impeded their union.
GUY MANNERING
Retold by Sir Edward Sullivan
The Castle of Ellangowan was an old and massive structure,
situated by the seashore in the southwestern part of Scotland. It
had been for many years the dwelling-place of a family named
Bertram, each of whom had in succession borne the title of the
Laird of Ellangowan. They had once been people of wealth and
importance in the neighbourhood; but through lack of prudence and
other misfortunes, they had, one after another, lost much of the
greatness and prosperity which had belonged to them in better
days. One of their number became at last so poor that he could no
longer maintain the old family residence; so he contented himself
with occupying a much smaller house which he had himself built,
from the windows of which he could still look out on the ancient
abode of his forefathers, as it dwindled year by year to the
condition of a neglected ruin.
At the time that our story commences, one Godfrey Bertram was the
Laird of Ellangowan, and the owner of the now diminished estates.
He was a good-tempered, easy-going kind of man, and became, in
consequence, very popular with all the poorer people of the
district, and especially with the gipsies, a large number of whom
were at all times to be found in the neighbourhood.
His wife had brought him a little money when he married; and he
and she continued to lead a quiet and not unhappy life in their
new home. Amongst Mr. Bertram's most intimate companions in his
retirement was one Abel Sampson, a tall and awkward-looking man,
with a harsh voice and huge feet, who was known to the people
around as "the dominie." He was a man who spoke but little, and
generally used very long words when he did; but he had a kindly
and good-natured heart. He was for a time the parish schoolmaster
at the village of Kippletringan, which was close to Ellangowan,
and was employed now and then as a kind of clerk by the laird.
The village of Kippletringan was situated a little distance from
the sea; and although the neighbourhood was dignified by the
possession of a customhouse, the place was still the favourite
haunt of a large body of desperate and determined smugglers, who,
it was supposed, were assisted by many of the small shopkeepers of
the locality in disposing of the contraband goods which were
surreptitiously brought from foreign parts.
One cloudy November evening, a young traveller, Guy Mannering by
name, just come from the University of Oxford, was making his way
with difficulty over the wild and lonely moorland which extended
for many miles on the outskirts of the village. He had lost the
road to Kippletringan, whither he was bound, but was lucky enough
to find a guide to conduct him there before he had gone completely
astray; and late at night he arrived at Godfrey Bertram's house,
where he was hospitably welcomed by the owner. Supper was got
ready, a good bottle of wine was opened, and the laird and the
dominic and Guy Mannering were enjoying themselves comfortably,
when the conversation was interrupted by the shrill voice of
someone coming upstairs.
"It's Meg Merrilies, the gipsy, as sure as I'm a sinner," said Mr.
Bertram; and, as the door opened, a tall woman, full six feet
high, with weather-beaten features and hair as black as midnight,
stepped into the room.
Her appearance was altogether of so strange a kind, that it made
Mannering start. After some conversation with the laird, the gipsy
woman informed him that she had come to tell the fortune of his
little son, who was born that night, and asked to be told the
exact hour of his birth.
Now Guy Mannering himself, amongst other accomplishments,
possessed a knowledge of the stars; and on learning the time at
which young Bertram was born, he went outside to study the
heavens, with a view to foretelling what the future of the child
would be.
The sky had become beautifully clear, for the rising wind had
swept away the clouds with which it had been previously overcast,
and the observer was enabled to note carefully the positions of
the principal planets, from which he made out that three periods
of the infant's life would be attended by great danger to him,
namely, his fifth, his tenth, and his twenty-first year.
On the morning following, Mannering strolled out towards the old
castle, thinking to himself whether he should tell Mr. Bertram
what he had learned from the stars respecting his young son's
future life. The castle was merely a ruin at this time, and as he
wandered amidst the gloomy remnants of the ancient structure, his
attention was arrested by the voice of the gipsy whom he had seen
the night before. He soon found an opening in one of the walls
through which he could observe Meg Merrilies without himself being
seen.
She was sitting on a broken stone, in a strange, wild dress, and
engaged in spinning a thread drawn from wool of three different
colours. She was at the same time half singing and half muttering
a kind of charm, which seemed to have reference to the child which
had been born the night before; and as she finished, Mannering
heard her murmur something about the thread of life being three
times broken and three times mended, and distinctly heard her
say: "He'll be a lucky lad an he win through wi't." [Footnote: "He
will be a lucky lad if he lives through it."]
He was about to speak to the gipsy, when he heard a hoarse voice
calling to her in angry tones from outside, and in a moment after,
a man, who was apparently a sea-captain, came in to where Meg
Merrilies was seated.
He was short in height, but prodigiously muscular, strong, and
thick-set, with a surly and savage scowl upon his unpleasant
features. He spoke with a foreign accent, and upbraided the gipsy
for keeping him waiting so long, ordering her, with a curse, to
come and bless his ship before it set out on its voyage. While
still addressing the gipsy, he caught sight of Guy Mannering, and
was about to draw a weapon against him, when she told him that he
was a friend of Mr. Bertram's. He then introduced himself to
Mannering, and said his name was Dirck Hatteraick, the captain of
the vessel that was lying off the shore. Mannering wished him
good-day shortly after, and as he saw him embarking in a small
boat, he was convinced, from his conversation and appearance, that
the captain was a smuggler.
On returning to the new house at Ellangowan, Mannering learned
from Mr. Bertram that this Dirck Hatteraick was the terror of all
the excise and custom-house cruisers, with which he had had many a
fierce fight.
Before Guy Mannering took his departure from Ellangowan, Mr.
Bertram asked him the result of his studying the stars on the
preceding night, and, in reply, was handed a paper by Mannering,
which he was told he should keep in a sealed envelope for five
whole years.
When the visitor had gone, Mrs. Bertram, the mother of the baby
boy, was very anxious to read the paper, for she was a superstitious
lady; but after a struggle with her curiosity, she contented
herself with making a small velvet bag, into which she sewed
the paper, and the whole was then hung as a charm round the
neck of her young child.
Time rolled on, and when little Harry Bertram grew to be four
years old, he was already a great favourite with Dominie Sampson,
who had acted as his tutor and was his constant companion. But
just about this time the Laird of Ellangowan was appointed one of
the magistrates of the county; and shortly after his appointment
he began, little by little, to become very unpopular with the
gipsies, with whom he had before been such a favourite. He thought
it his duty now to punish and exterminate all amongst them who
were poachers and trespassers, and caused even the poor beggars at
his door to be sent to the workhouse.
One tribe of these gipsies, amongst whom Meg Merrilies was a kind
of queen, had lived for a long time unmolested in a few huts in a
glen upon the estate of Ellangowan, at a place called Derncleugh.
It was a miserable and squalid village, but for all that Mr.
Bertram was determined to evict them and all their poor
belongings. He was no doubt doing as the law directed him, but, as
far as concerned the inhabitants of Derncleugh, he was acting with
great harshness, for Meg Merrilies had all along shown a strong
affection for his boy, little Harry Bertram.
The day of eviction came at length, and a large body of men under
the direction of Frank Kennedy, a custom-house officer, made their
way to the miserable village, and on the gipsies refusing to leave
peaceably, proceeded to unroof their cottages and pull down the
wretched doors and windows. There was no resistance, and when the
work was ended, the now homeless tribe gathered together the
remnants of their property, and set forth with sullen and
revengeful thoughts to look for a new settlement.
Mr. Bertram had been some distance from home on the day of the
eviction; but on returning in the evening he met the troop of
gipsies. Some of the men muttered angry remarks as he passed them
on the road, but he thought it best to make no answer. Meg
Merrilies had, however, lagged behind the rest, and was standing
alone on a high bank above the road as the laird went by. Her
dress was even stranger than usual, and her black hair hung loose
about her, while her dark eyes flashed angrily. She had a light
sapling in her hand, and as the laird looked up to where she
stood, she said to him:
"Ride your ways, Laird of Ellangowan! ride your ways, Godfrey
Bertram! This day have ye quenched seven smoking hearths--see if
your own fire burn the blither for that. Ye have riven the roof
off seven cottar houses--look if your own roof-tree stand the
faster. Ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram! what do ye glower after
our folk for? There's thirty hearts there that would have spent
their life-blood ere ye had scratched your finger. Yes, there's
thirty yonder, from the old wife of an hundred to the babe that
was born last week, that ye have turned out o' their houses, to
sleep with the black-cock in the moors! Ride your ways, Ellan-
gowan! Our bairns are hanging at our weary backs; look that your
braw cradle at home be the fairer spread up. Not that I am wishing
ill to little Harry, God forbid! So ride your way, for these are
the last words ye'll ever hear Meg Merrilies speak, and this is
the last twig that I'll ever cut in the bonny woods of Ellangowan."
And having uttered this dark and threatening speech, she turned
contemptuously from him, to join her comrades in misfortune.
Meanwhile, the smugglers under their captain, Dirck Hatteraick,
had been carrying on their lawless trade as usual, and the Laird
of Ellangowan was as determined to put them down as he had been to
get rid of the gipsies. He was actively assisted in his endeavours
against them by the same Frank Kennedy who had carried out the
eviction of Meg Merrilies and her companions, and the smugglers
had sworn to be revenged upon their enemy.
On the day that young Harry Bertram was five years old, Dirck
Hatteraick's ship was in the bay outside the village of
Kippletringan. A sloop of war in the king's service was pursuing
it in order to seize the smuggled goods which were on board, when
Frank Kennedy, looking out, saw that Hatteraick was likely to
escape, as he had got his vessel round a headland called Warroch
Point, where it was concealed from the sloop, unless someone went
down to the Point and made a signal to the pursuers.
He accordingly mounted his horse and galloped off. On his way he
happened to meet little Bertram, who was walking with the dominie,
and as he had often promised to give the child a ride, he took him
up on his nag, and rode off towards the Point.
Shortly afterwards the discharges of several cannon were heard,
and after an interval a still louder explosion, as of a vessel
blown up.
As evening came on, Mr. and Mrs. Bertram were expecting little
Harry to come home, and as he did not return, became very uneasy
about him. After waiting for him in anxiety for some time, the
news came in that Kennedy's horse had come back riderless to its
stable.
All was now bustle at Ellangowan. The laird and his servants
rushed away to the wood of Warroch; but they searched long and in
vain for any trace of Kennedy or the boy. It was already growing
dark, when a shrill and piercing shout was heard from the sea-
shore under the wood, and on hurrying to the place, Mr. Bertram
was horrified to see the dead body of Frank Kennedy lying on the
beach, right under a high precipice of rocks.
In his wild dismay and terror for his child, and remembering the
words of Meg Merrilies, the laird hurried away to Derncleugh,
hoping to get some news of him from any of the gipsies who might
still be lingering round the place. He wandered amongst the ruins
of the cottages, where he found no one, although he noticed the
remains of a fire in one of the huts. After a little, one of his
servants came running to him and told him to come home at once--
that Mrs. Bertram was dying. Half stupefied, he went back; but
only to find that his wife was dead, that a little daughter had
been born to him, and that his boy was gone.
The sheriff of the county arrived next morning and opened an
inquiry. The wood was again searched, with the result that traces
of a struggle were found near the top of the cliff, over the place
where Kennedy's body was found lying. Footprints of men and of a
small boy were seen here and there. Witnesses who were examined
said that they had seen the smuggler's ship grounding, and taking
fire, and finally blowing up with a great explosion; but no one
could say what had become of its crew. The gipsies were suspected,
and Meg Merrilies was arrested; but when questioned she denied
that she had been at the place. They found, however, a cut upon
her arm; and on removing the handkerchief with which she had it
bounda it was found to be marked with the name of Harry Bertram.
No further evidence could be procured of her guilt, and she was at
length set free, under sentence of banishment from the county.
For many years after this Mr. Bertram continued to live a solitary
and mournful life at Ellangowan. The poor dominie never ceased to
blame himself for the loss of the boy, as Harry was in his charge
on the day on which he had disappeared; but he still lived with
the laird as before, and was chiefly employed in teaching
Bertram's daughter, little Lucy, who was now growing up into a
gentle and bonny girl.
The laird had been always a bad man of business, and after his
wife's death he got into the hands of a scheming and dishonest
attorney named Glossin, who in the end craftily succeeded in
making himself rich at the expense of his employer.
The debts of the laird became at length so many that the property
at Ellangowan had to be mortgaged, and things ultimately went so
badly with the poor owner, that the men to whom he owed so much
money determined to insist on the estate being sold, together with
the house and all the furniture.
It was rumoured, too, amongst the country-folk that Glossin was
the man, of all others, who was most eager to turn the Bertrams
out of their house, in order that he might buy the property
himself, and become the Laird of Ellangowan.
Now the property in Ellangowan had been what is called "settled"
in such a way that it could not be sold if Mr. Bertram had a son
living. It was therefore likely to be disposed of very cheap, as
no one knew for certain that young Bertram was dead; while if he
should happen to be alive, there was still a chance of his coming
back and claiming the estates.
When Glossin, the attorney, found that there was no more to be got
out of his client in the way of money, he commenced openly to show
the wickedness of his bad and cruel nature; and the very sight of
him became hateful to the unhappy Godfrey Bertram.
So things went on until Lucy Bertram was seventeen years old, and
her father had become a weak and poor old man, and then Glossin
determined to play his last card.
The estates of Ellangowan were advertised to be sold to the
highest bidder, and a day was fixed for the auction.
Before describing how the sale took place, it will be necessary to
tell something of Guy Mannering, who, as will be remembered, had
left Ellangowan shortly after the day that young Harry Bertram was
born.
He became a soldier; and having served for a long time in India,
was appointed colonel of his regiment. His wife and daughter were
with him there, and they had become very intimate with a young
officer in the same regiment, called Vanbeest Brown, who, it was
supposed, had came from Holland, where he had previously been
engaged in trade of some kind. Colonel Mannering, for some reason,
never cared for Brown, but chiefly because he had foolishly
listened to the dishonourable suggestions of a friend, who, for
reasons of his own, had secretly poisoned his mind against the
young officer. The dislike ripened after some time into an open
quarrel, followed by a duel between the colonel and his subaltern,
in which, after exchanging shots, Mannering believed he killed his
adversary. Mrs. Mannering died shortly after, and the colonel and
his daughter returned to England.
Now it so happened that Colonel Mannering arrived at the village
of Kippletringan a day or two before the time at which the sale of
Ellangowan was to take place. He was much distressed at hearing
the pitiable account that was given to him of his old friend,
Godfrey Bertram; and the idea at once occurred to him that he
would buy the property himself, and by doing so help the laird.
Accordingly, on the day of the auction, he made his way to
Ellangowan House, where he was told, on inquiry, that the old
laird was dangerously ill, and was to be found up at the ruined
castle in company with his daughter. Thither Colonel Mannering
went to look for him. He found old Mr. Bertram sitting in an easy-
chair on the slope beside the castle with his feet wrapped in
blankets, and beside him his daughter and the dominie, and a
handsome young man whom he did not recognise, but who, he
afterwards learned, was a gentleman called Charles Hazlewood, who
was deeply in love with Miss Bertram.
Mannering was much affected when the old laird failed to remember
him, for he had not forgotten his hospitable kindness many years
before, on the night when little Harry was born. While he was
engaged in conversation with Miss Bertram and her companion, a
voice was heard close by, which Lucy at once recognised as that of
her father's enemy, Glossin, and she sent the dominie to keep him
away. The sound of the voice had, however, also reached the old
man's ears. He started up on hearing it, and turning towards
Glossin, he addressed him in tones of passion and indignation.
"Out of my sight, ye viper," he said; "ye frozen viper that I
warmed till ye stung me! Are ye not afraid that the walls of my
father's dwelling should fall and crush ye, limb and bone? Were ye
not friendless, houseless, penniless, when I took ye by the hand;
and are ye not expelling me--me, and that innocent girl--
friendless, houseless, and penniless, from the house that has
sheltered us and ours for a thousand years?"
A few moments after, the carriage was announced, in which Lucy
Bertram and her father were to leave their home; but it was no
longer necessary. The old Laird of Ellangowan was so exhausted by
his last effort of indignant anger, that when he sunk upon his
chair, he expired almost without a struggle or a groan.
The sale of the property was then postponed until after the
funeral; and Colonel Mannering, having done what he could for Miss
Bertram in her unhappy condition, left the neighbourhood with the
intention of returning in time for the adjourned sale, for the
purpose of buying the estate.