IV

About one hour afterward a man arrayed in the cowl and frock of a

hermit, and having his knotted cord twisted around his middle, stood

before the portal of the castle of Front-de-Boeuf. The warder demanded

of him his name and errand.

"[v]_Pax vobiscum_," answered the priest, "I am a poor brother of the

[v]Order of St. Francis who come hither to do my office to certain

unhappy prisoners now secured within this castle."

"Thou art a bold friar," said the warder, "to come hither, where, saving

our own drunken confessor, a rooster of thy feather hath not crowed

these twenty years."

With these words, he carried to the hall of the castle his unwonted

intelligence that a friar stood before the gate and desired admission.

With no small wonder he received his master's command to admit the holy

man immediately; and, having previously manned the entrance to guard

against surprise, he obeyed, without farther scruple, the order given

him.

"Who and whence art thou, priest?" demanded Front-de-Boeuf.

"_Pax vobiscum_," reiterated the priest, with trembling voice. "I am a

poor servant of Saint Francis, who, traveling through this wilderness,

have fallen among thieves, which thieves have sent me unto this castle

in order to do my ghostly office on two persons condemned by your

honorable justice."

"Ay, right," answered Front-de-Boeuf; "and canst thou tell me, the

number of those banditti?"

"Gallant sir," said the priest, "[v]_nomen illis legio_, their name is

legion."

"Tell me in plain terms what numbers there are, or, priest, thy cloak

and cord will ill protect thee from my wrath."

"Alas!" said the friar, "[v]_cor meum eructavit_, that is to say, I was

like to burst with fear! But I conceive they may be--what of yeomen,

what of commons--at least five hundred men."

"What!" said the Templar, who came into the hall that moment, "muster

the wasps so thick here? It is time to stifle such a mischievous brood."

Then taking Front-de-Boeuf aside, "Knowest thou the priest?"

"He is a stranger from a distant convent," replied Front-de-Boeuf; "I

know him not."

"Then trust him not with our purpose in words," urged the Templar. "Let

him carry a written order to De Bracy's company of Free Companions, to

repair instantly to their master's aid. In the meantime, and that the

shaveling may suspect nothing, permit him to go freely about his task of

preparing the Saxon hogs for the slaughter-house."

"It shall be so," said Front-de-Boeuf. And he forthwith appointed a

domestic to conduct the friar to the apartment where Cedric and

Athelstane were confined.

The natural impatience of Cedric had been rather enhanced than

diminished by his confinement. He walked from one end of the hall to the

other, with the attitude of a man who advances to charge an enemy or

storm the breach of a beleaguered place, sometimes ejaculating to

himself and sometimes addressing Athelstane. The latter stoutly and

[v]stoically awaited the issue of the adventure, digesting in the

meantime, with great composure, the liberal meal which he had made at

noon and not greatly troubling himself about the duration of the

captivity.

"_Pax vobiscum_!" pronounced the priest, entering the apartment. "The

blessing of Saint Dunstan, Saint Dennis, Saint Duthoc, and all other

saints whatsoever, be upon ye and about ye."

"Enter freely," said Cedric to the friar; "with what intent art thou

come hither?"

"To bid you prepare yourselves for death," was the reply.

"It is impossible!" said Cedric, starting. "Fearless and wicked as they

are, they dare not attempt such open and [v]gratuitous cruelty!"

"Alas!" returned the priest, "to restrain them by their sense of

humanity is the same as to stop a runaway horse with a bridle of silk

thread. Bethink thee, therefore, Cedric, and you also, Athelstane, what

crimes you have committed in the flesh, for this very day will ye be

called to answer at a higher [v]tribunal."

"Hearest thou this, Athelstane?" said Cedric. "We must rouse up our

hearts to this last action, since better it is we should die like men

than live like slaves."

"I am ready," answered Athelstane, "to stand the worst of their malice,

and shall walk to my death with as much composure as ever I did to my

dinner."

"Let us, then, unto our holy [v]gear, father," said Cedric.

"Wait yet a moment, good [v]uncle," said the priest in a voice very

different from his solemn tones of a moment before; "better look before

you leap in the dark."

"By my faith!" cried Cedric; "I should know that voice."

"It is that of your trusty slave and jester," answered the priest,

throwing back his cowl and revealing the face of Wamba. "Take a fool's

advice, and you will not be here long."

"How meanest thou, knave?" demanded the Saxon.

"Even thus," replied Wamba; "take thou this frock and cord and march

quietly out of the castle, leaving me your cloak and girdle to take the

long leap in thy stead."

"Leave thee in my stead!" exclaimed Cedric, astonished at the proposal;

"why, they would hang thee, my poor knave."

"E'en let them do as they are permitted," answered Wamba. "I trust--no

disparagement to your birth--that the son of Witless may hang in a chain

with as much gravity as the chain hung upon his ancestor the

[v]alderman."

"Well, Wamba," said Cedric, "for one thing will I grant thy request. And

that is, if thou wilt make the exchange of garments with Lord Athelstane

instead of me."

"No," answered Wamba; "there were little reason in that. Good right

there is that the son of Witless should suffer to save the son of

Hereward; but little wisdom there were in his dying for the benefit of

one whose fathers were strangers to his."

"Villain," cried Cedric, "the fathers of Athelstane were monarchs of

England!"

"They might be whomsoever they pleased," replied Wamba; "but my neck

stands too straight on my shoulders to have it twisted for their sake.

Wherefore, good my master, either take my proffer yourself, or suffer me

to leave this dungeon as free as I entered."

"Let the old tree wither," persisted Cedric, "so the stately hope of the

forest be preserved. Save the noble Athelstane, my trusty Wamba! It is

the duty of each who has Saxon blood in his veins. Thou and I will abide

together the utmost rage of our oppressors, while he, free and safe,

shall arouse the awakened spirits of our countrymen to avenge us."

"Not so, father Cedric," said Athelstane, grasping his hand--for, when

roused to think or act, his deeds and sentiments were not unbecoming his

high race--"not so. I would rather remain in this hall a week without

food save the prisoner's stinted loaf, or drink save the prisoner's

measure of water, than embrace the opportunity to escape which the

slave's untaught kindness has [v]purveyed for his master. Go, noble

Cedric. Your presence without may encourage friends to our rescue; your

remaining here would ruin us all."

"And is there any prospect, then, of rescue from without?" asked Cedric,

looking at the jester.

"Prospect indeed!" echoed Wamba. "Let me tell you that when you fill my

cloak you are wrapped in a general's cassock. Five hundred men are there

without, and I was this morning one of their chief leaders. My fool's

cap was a [v]casque, and my [v]bauble a truncheon. Well, we shall see

what good they will make by exchanging a fool for a wise man. Truly, I

fear they will lose in valor what they may gain in discretion. And so

farewell, master, and be kind to poor Gurth and his dog Fangs; and let

my [v]coxcomb hang in the hall at Rotherwood in memory that I flung away

my life for my master--like a faithful fool!"

The last word came out with a sort of double expression, betwixt jest

and earnest. The tears stood in Cedric's eyes.

"Thy memory shall be preserved," he said, "while fidelity and affection

have honor upon earth. But that I trust I shall find the means of saving

Rowena and thee, Athelstane, and thee also, my poor Wamba, thou shouldst

not overbear me in this matter."

The exchange of dress was now accomplished, when a sudden doubt struck

Cedric.

"I know no language but my own and a few words of their mincing Norman.

How shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?"

"The spell lies in two words," replied Wamba: "_Pax vobiscum_ will

answer all queries. If you go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, _Pax

vobiscum_ carries you through it all. It is as useful to a friar as a

broomstick to a witch or a wand to a conjurer. Speak it but thus, in a

deep, grave tone,--_Pax vobiscum_!--it is irresistible. Watch and ward,

knight and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm upon them all. I

think, if they bring me out to be hanged to-morrow, as is much to be

doubted they may, I will try its weight."

"If such prove the case," said his master, "my religious orders are soon

taken. _Pax vobiscum_! I trust I shall remember the password. Noble

Athelstane, farewell; and farewell, my poor boy, whose heart might make

amends for a weaker head. I will save you, or return and die with you.

Farewell."

"Farewell, noble Cedric," said Athelstane; "remember it is the true part

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

Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his expedition and presently

found himself in the presence of Front-de-Boeuf. The Saxon, with some

difficulty, compelled himself to make obeisance to the haughty baron,

who returned his courtesy with a slight inclination of the head.

"Thy penitents, father," said the latter, "have made a long [v]shrift.

It is the better for them, since it is the last they shall ever make.

Hast thou prepared them for death?"

"I found them," said Cedric, in such French as he could command,

"expecting the worst, from the moment they knew into whose power they

had fallen."

"How now, sir friar," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thy speech, me thinks,

smacks of the rude Saxon tongue?"

"I was bred in the convent of Saint Withold of Burton," answered Cedric.

"Ay," said the baron; "it had been better for thee to have been a

Norman, and better for my purpose, too; but need has no choice of

messengers. That Saint Withold's of Burton is a howlet's nest worth the

harrying. The day will soon come that the frock shall protect the Saxon

as little as the mail-coat."

"God's will be done!" returned Cedric, in a voice tremulous with

passion, which Front-de-Boeuf imputed to fear.

"I see," he said, "thou dreamest already that our men-at-arms are in thy

refectory and thy ale-vaults. But do me one cast of thy holy office and

thou shalt sleep as safe in thy cell as a snail within his shell of

proof."

"Speak your commands," replied Cedric, with suppressed emotion.

"Follow me through this passage, then, that I may dismiss thee by the

postern."

As he strode on his way before the supposed friar, Front-de-Boeuf thus

schooled him in the part which he desired he should act.

"Thou seest, sir friar, yon herd of Saxon swine who have dared to

environ this castle of Torquilstone. Tell them whatever thou hast a mind

of the weakness of this [v]fortalice, or aught else that can detain

them before it for twenty-four hours. Meantime bear this scroll--but

soft--canst thou read, sir priest?"

"Not a jot I," answered Cedric, "save on my [v]breviary; and then I know

the characters because I have the holy service by heart, praised be

Saint Withold!"

"The fitter messenger for my purpose. Carry thou this scroll to the

castle of Philip de [v]Malvoisin; say it cometh from me and is written

by the Templar, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, and that I pray him to send it

to York with all speed man and horse can make. Meanwhile, tell him to

doubt nothing he shall find us whole and sound behind our battlement.

Shame on it, that we should be compelled to hide thus by a pack of

runagates who are wont to fly even at the flash of our pennons and the

tramp of our horses! I say to thee, priest, contrive some cast of thine

art to keep the knaves where they are until our friends bring up their

lances."

With these words, Front-de-Boeuf led the way to a postern where, passing

the moat on a single plank, they reached a small barbican, or exterior

defense, which communicated with the open field by a well-fortified

sally-port.

"Begone, then; and if thou wilt do mine errand, and return hither when

it is done, thou shalt see Saxon flesh cheap as ever was hog's in the

shambles of Sheffield. And, hark thee! thou seemest to be a jolly

confessor--come hither after the onslaught and thou shalt have as much

good wine as would drench thy whole convent."

"Assuredly we shall meet again," answered Cedric.

"Something in the hand the whilst," continued the Norman; and, as they

parted at the postern door, he thrust in Cedric's reluctant hand a gold

[v]byzant, adding, "Remember, I will flay off both cowl and skin if thou

failest in thy purpose."

The supposed priest passed out of the door without further words.

Front-de-Boeuf turned back within the castle.

"Ho! Giles jailer," he called, "let them bring Cedric of Rotherwood

before me, and the other churl, his companion--him I mean of

Coningsburgh--Athelstane there, or what call they him? Their very names

are an encumbrance to a Norman knight's mouth, and have, as it were, a

flavor of bacon. Give me a stoop of wine, as jolly Prince John would

say, that I may wash away the relish. Place it in the armory, and

thither lead the prisoners."

His commands were obeyed; and upon entering that Gothic apartment, hung

with many spoils won by his own valor and that of his father, he found a

flagon of wine on a massive oaken table, and the two Saxon captives

under the guard of four of his dependants. Front-de-Boeuf took a long

draught of wine and then addressed his prisoners, for the imperfect

light prevented his perceiving that the more important of them had

escaped.

"Gallants of England," said Front-de-Boeuf, "how relish ye your

entertainment at Torquilstone? Faith and Saint Dennis, an ye pay not a

rich ransom, I will hang ye up by the feet from the iron bars of these

windows till the kites and hooded crows have made skeletons of you!

Speak out, ye Saxon dogs, what bid ye for your worthless lives? What say

you, you of Rotherwood?"

"Not a [v]doit I," answered poor Wamba, "and for hanging up by the feet,

my brain has been topsy-turvy ever since the [v]biggin was bound first

around my head; so turning me upside down may peradventure restore it

again."

"Hah!" cried Front-de-Boeuf, "what have we here?"

And with the back of his hand he struck Cedric's cap from the head of

the jester, and throwing open his collar, discovered the fatal badge of

servitude, the silver collar round his neck.

"Giles--Clement--dogs and varlets!" called the furious Norman, "what

villain have you brought me here?"

"I think I can tell you," said De Bracy, who just entered the apartment.

"This is Cedric's clown."

"Go," ordered Front-de-Boeuf; "fetch me the right Cedric hither, and I

pardon your error for once--the rather that you but mistook a fool for

a Saxon [v]franklin."

"Ay, but," said Wamba, "your chivalrous excellency will find there are

more fools than franklins among us."

"What means this knave?" said Front-de-Boeuf, looking toward his

followers, who, lingering and loath, faltered forth their belief that if

this were not Cedric who was there in presence, they knew not what was

become of him.

"Heavens!" exclaimed De Bracy. "He must have escaped in the monk's

garments!"

"Fiends!" echoed Front-de-Boeuf. "It was then the boar of Rotherwood

whom I ushered to the postern and dismissed with my own hands! And

thou," he said to Wamba, "whose folly could over-reach the wisdom of

idiots yet more gross than thyself. I will give thee holy orders, I will

shave thy crown for thee! Here, let them tear the scalp from his head

and pitch him headlong from the battlements. Thy trade is to jest: canst

thou jest now?"

"You deal with me better than your word, noble knight," whimpered forth

poor Wamba, whose habits of [v]buffoonery were not to be overcome even

by the immediate prospect of death; "if you give me the red cap you

propose, out of a simple monk you will make a [v]cardinal."

"The poor wretch," said De Bracy, "is resolved to die in his vocation."

The next moment would have been Wamba's last but for an unexpected

interruption. A hoarse shout, raised by many voices, bore to the inmates

of the hall the tidings that the besiegers were advancing to the attack.

There was a moment's silence in the hall, which was broken by De Bracy.

"To the battlements," he said; "let us see what these knaves do

without."

So saying, he opened a latticed window which led to a sort of projecting

balcony, and immediately called to those in the apartment, "Saint

Dennis, it is time to stir! They bring forward [v]mantelets and

[v]pavisses, and the archers muster on the skirts of the wood like a

dark cloud before a hail-storm."

Front-de-Boeuf also looked out upon the field and immediately snatched

his bugle. After winding a long and loud blast, he commanded his men to

their posts on the walls.

"De Bracy, look to the eastern side, where the walls are lowest. Noble

Bois-Guilbert, thy trade hath well taught thee how to attack and defend,

so look thou to the western side. I myself will take post at the

barbican. Our numbers are few, but activity and courage may supply that

defect, since we have only to do with rascal clowns."

The Templar had in the meantime been looking out on the proceedings of

the besiegers with deeper attention than Front-de-Boeuf or his giddy

companion.

"By the faith of mine order," he said, "these men approach with more

touch of discipline than could have been judged, however they come by

it. See ye how dexterously they avail themselves of every cover which a

tree or bush affords and avoid exposing themselves to the shot of our

cross-bows? I spy neither banner nor pennon, and yet I will gage my

golden chain that they are led by some noble knight or gentleman

skillful in the practice of wars."

"I espy him," said De Bracy; "I see the waving of a knight's crest and

the gleam of his armor. See yon tall man in the black mail who is busied

marshaling the farther troop of the rascally yeomen. By Saint Dennis, I

hold him to be the knight who did so well in the tournament at Ashby."

The demonstrations of the enemy's approach cut off all farther

discourse. The Templar and De Bracy repaired to their posts and, at the

head of the few followers they were able to muster, awaited with calm

determination the threatened assault, while Front-de-Boeuf went to see

that all was secure in the besieged fortress.

V

In the meantime, the wounded Wilfred of Ivanhoe had been gradually

recovering his strength. Taken into her litter by Rebecca when his own

father hesitated to succor him, the young knight had lain in a stupor

through all the experiences of the journey and the capture of Cedric's

party by the Normans. De Bracy, who, bad as he was, was not without some

[v]compunction, on finding the occupant of the litter to be Ivanhoe, had

placed the invalid under the charge of two of his squires, who were

directed to state to any inquirers that he was a wounded comrade. This

explanation was now accordingly returned by these men to Front-de-Boeuf,

when, in going the round of the castle, he questioned them why they did

not make for the battlements upon the alarm of the attack.

"A wounded comrade!" he exclaimed in great wrath and astonishment. "No

wonder that churls and yeomen wax so presumptuous as even to lay leaguer

before castles, and that clowns and swineherds send defiances to nobles,

since men-at-arms have turned sick men's nurses. To the battlements, ye

loitering villains!" he cried, raising his [v]stentorian voice till the

arches rang again; "to the battlements, or I will splinter your bones

with this truncheon."

The men, who, like most of their description, were fond of enterprise

and detested inaction, went joyfully to the scene of danger, and the

care of Ivanhoe fell to Rebecca, who occupied a neighboring apartment

and who was not kept in close confinement.

The beautiful young Jewess rejoined the knight, whom she had so signally

befriended, at the moment of the beginning of the attack on the castle.

Ivanhoe, already much better and chafing at his enforced inaction,

resembled the war-horse who scenteth the battle afar.

"If I could but drag myself to yonder window," he said, "that I might

see how this brave game is like to go--if I could strike but a single

blow for our deliverance! It is in vain; I am alike nerveless and

weaponless!"

"Fret not thyself, noble knight," answered Rebecca, "the sounds have

ceased of a sudden. It may be they join not battle."

"Thou knowest naught of it," returned Wilfred, impatiently; "this dead

pause only shows that the men are at their posts on the walls and expect

an instant attack. What we have heard was but the distant muttering of

the storm, which will burst anon in all its fury. Could I but reach

yonder window!"

"Thou wilt injure thyself by the attempt, noble knight," replied the

attendant. Then she added, "I myself will stand at the lattice and

describe to you as I can what passes without."

"You must not; you shall not!" exclaimed Ivanhoe. "Each lattice will

soon be a mark for the archers; some random shaft may strike you. At

least cover thy body with yonder ancient buckler and show as little of

thyself as may be."

Availing herself of the protection of the large, ancient shield, which

she placed against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with

tolerable security, could witness part of what was passing without the

castle and report to Ivanhoe the preparations being made for the

storming. From where she stood she had a full view of the outwork likely

to be the first object of the assault. It was a fortification of no

great height or strength, intended to protect the postern-gate through

which Cedric had been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle

moat divided this species of barbican from the rest of the fortress, so

that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut off the

communication with the main building by withdrawing the temporary

bridge. In the outwork was a sally-port corresponding to the postern of

the castle, and the whole was surrounded by a strong palisade. From the

mustering of the assailants in a direction nearly opposite the outwork,

it seemed plain that this point had been selected for attack.

Rebecca communicated this to Ivanhoe, and added, "The skirts of the wood

seem lined with archers, although only a few are advanced from its dark

shadow."

"Under what banner?" asked Ivanhoe.

"Under no ensign of war which I can observe," answered Rebecca.

"A singular novelty," muttered the knight, "to advance to storm such a

castle without pennon or banner displayed! Seest thou who they are that

act as leaders? Or, are all of them but stout yeomen?"

"A knight clad in sable armor is the most conspicuous," she replied; "he

alone is armed from head to foot, and he seems to assume the direction

of all around him."

"Seem there no other leaders?" demanded the anxious inquirer.

"None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station," said

Rebecca. "They appear even now preparing to attack. God of Zion protect

us! What a dreadful sight! Those who advance first bear huge shields and

defenses made of plank; the others follow, bending their bows as they

come on. They raise their bows! God of Moses, forgive the creatures thou

hast made!"

Her description was suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault,

which was the blast of a shrill bugle, at once answered by a flourish of

the Norman trumpets from the battlements. The shouts of both parties

augmented the fearful din, the assailants crying, "Saint George for

merry England!" and the Normans answering them with cries of

"[v]_Beauseant! Beauseant!_"

It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was to be decided, and

the desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an equally vigorous

defense on the part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their

woodland pastimes to the most effective use of the longbow, shot so

rapidly and accurately that no point at which a defender could show the

least part of his person escaped their [v]cloth-yard shafts. By this

heavy discharge, which continued as thick and sharp as hail, two or

three of the garrison were slain and several others wounded. But,

confident in their armor of proof and in the cover which their situation

afforded, the followers of Front-de-Boeuf, and his allies, showed an

obstinacy in defense proportioned to the fury of the attack, replying

with the discharge of their large cross-bows to the close and continued

shower of arrows. As the assailants were necessarily but indifferently

protected, they received more damage than they did.

"And I must lie here like a bedridden monk," exclaimed Ivanhoe, "while

the game that gives me freedom or death is played out by the hands of

others! Look from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that

you are not marked by the archers beneath--look out once more and tell

me if they yet advance to the storm."

With patient courage, Rebecca again took post at the lattice.

"What dost thou see?" demanded the wounded knight.

"Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes

and hide the bowmen who shoot them."

"That cannot endure," remarked Ivanhoe. "If they press not on to carry

the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little

against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the sable knight and see how

he bears himself, for as the leader is, so will his followers be."

"I see him not," said Rebecca.

"Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the

wind blows highest?"

"He blenches not! he blenches not!" cried Rebecca. "I see him now; he

heads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They

pull down the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes.

His high black plume floats over the throng, like a raven over the field

of the slain. They have made a breach in the barriers--they rush

in--they are thrust back! Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders; I see his

gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the

pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. Have mercy, God!"

She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a

sight so terrible.

"Look forth again, Rebecca," urged Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her

retiring; "the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are

now fighting hand to hand. Look again; there is less danger."

Rebecca again looked forth and almost immediately exclaimed: "Holy

prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to

hand in the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the

progress of the strife." She then uttered a loud shriek, "He is down! he

is down!"

"Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe; "tell me which has fallen?"

"The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then shouted with joyful

eagerness, "But no--the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed!--he is on

foot again and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his

single arm. His sword is broken--he snatches an ax from a yeoman--he

presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow. The giant stoops and totters

like an oak under the steel of a woodsman--he falls--he falls!"

"Front-de-Boeuf?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.

"Front-de-Boeuf!" answered the Jewess. "His men rush to the rescue,

headed by the haughty Templar--their united force compels the champion

to pause--they drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls."

"The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" Ivanhoe eagerly

queried.

"They have! they have!" answered Rebecca; "and they press the besieged

hard on the outer wall. Some plant ladders, some swarm like bees and

endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other. Down go stones,

beams, and trunks of trees on their heads, and as fast as they bear the

wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places. Great God! hast thou

given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the

hands of their brethren!"

"Think not of that," said Ivanhoe. "This is no time for such thoughts.

Who yield--who push their way?"

"The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering; "the

soldiers lie groveling under them like crushed reptiles; the besieged

have the better."

"Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the knight; "do the false yeomen

give way?"

"No," exclaimed Rebecca, "they bear themselves right yeomanly--the Black

Knight approaches the postern with his huge ax--the thundering blows he

deals you may hear above all the din of the battle. Stones and beams are

hailed down on the bold champion--he regards them no more than if they

were thistle-down or feathers!"

"By Saint John of Acre," cried Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his

couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a

deed!"

"The postern-gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes--it is

splintered by his blows--they rush in--the outwork is won! Oh, God! they

hurl the defenders from the battlements--they throw them into the

moat--men, if ye indeed be men, spare them that can resist no longer!"

"The bridge--the bridge which communicates with the castle--have they

won that pass?"

"No," replied Rebecca. "The Templar has destroyed the plank on which

they crossed--few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle--the

shrieks and cries you hear tell the fate of the others! Alas! I see it

is more difficult to look on victory than on battle."

"What do they now, maiden?" asked Ivanhoe. "Look forth yet again; this

is no time to faint at bloodshed."

"It is over for the time," answered Rebecca. "Our friends strengthen

themselves within the outwork which they have mastered; it affords them

so good a shelter from the foeman's shot that the garrison only bestow a

few bolts on it from interval to interval, as if to disquiet rather than

to injure them."

"Our friends," said Wilfred, "will surely not abandon an enterprise so

gloriously begun and so happily attained. Oh, no! I will put my faith in

the good knight whose ax hath rent heart-of-oak and bars of iron."