occasioned by his strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty
war-trumpets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward on the planked
bridge, to warn Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him.
But his warning would have come too late; the massive pinnacle already
tottered, and De Bracy, who still heaved at his task, would have
accomplished it had not the voice of the Templar sounded close in his
ear:
"All is lost, De Bracy; the castle burns."
"Thou art mad to say so!" replied the knight.
"It is all in a light flame on the western side. I have striven in vain
to extinguish it."
With the stern coolness which formed the basis of his character, Brian
de Bois-Guilbert communicated this hideous intelligence, which was not
so calmly received by his astonished comrade.
"Saints of Paradise!" said De Bracy; "what is to be done?"
"Lead thy men down," said the Templar, "as if to a sally; throw the
postern gate open. There are but two men who occupy the float, fling
them into the moat, push across for the barbican. I will charge from
the main gate, and attack the barbican on the outside; and if we can
regain that post, be assured we shall defend ourselves until we are
relieved, or at least till they grant us fair quarter."
"It is well thought upon," said De Bracy; "I will play my part.
Templar, thou wilt not fail me?"
"Hand and glove, I will not!" said Bois-Guilbert. "But haste thee, in
the name of God!"
De Bracy hastily drew his men together, and rushed down to the postern
gate, which he caused instantly to be thrown open. But scarce was this
done ere the portentous strength of the Black Knight forced his way
inward in despite of De Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost
instantly fell, and the rest gave way notwithstanding all their
leader's efforts to stop them.
"Dogs!" said De Bracy, "will ye let _two_ men win our only pass for
safety?"
"He is the devil!" said a veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the
blows of their sable antagonist.
"And if he be the devil," replied De Bracy, "would you fly from him
into the mouth of hell? The castle burns behind us, villains!--let
despair give you courage, or let me forward! I will cope with this
champion myself."
And well and chivalrous did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had
acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage
to which the postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted
champions were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows
which they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight
with his ponderous axe.
At length the Norman received a blow which, though its force was partly
parried by his shield, for otherwise never more would De Bracy have
again moved limb, descended yet with such violence on his crest that he
measured his length on the paved floor.
"Yield thee, De Bracy," said the Black Champion, stooping over him, and
holding against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the
knights despatched their enemies, and which was called the dagger of
mercy--"Yield thee, Maurice De Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art
but a dead man."
"I will not yield," replied De Bracy, faintly, "to an unknown
conqueror. Tell me thy name or work thy pleasure on me; it shall never
be said that Maurice De Bracy was prisoner to a nameless churl."
The Black Knight whispered something into the ear of the vanquished.
[Footnote: The Black Knight is Richard the Lion-Hearted, king of
England, who has returned from the Crusades to reclaim his throne from
his usurping brother.]
"I yield me to be true prisoner, rescue or no rescue," answered the
Norman, exchanging his tone of determined obstinacy for one of deep
though sullen submission.
"Go to the barbican," said the victor, in a tone of authority, "and
there wait my further orders."
"Yet first let me say," said De Bracy, "what it imports thee to know.
Wilfred of Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the
burning castle without present help."
"Wilfred of Ivanhoe!" exclaimed the Black Knight--"prisoner, and
perish! The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if a hair
of his head be singed. Show me his chamber!"
"Ascend yonder winding stair," said De Bracy; "it leads to his
apartment. Wilt thou not accept my guidance?" he added in a submissive
voice.
"No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders, I trust thee not, De
Bracy."
During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at
the head of a body of men, had pushed across the bridge as soon as they
saw the postern open, and drove back the dispirited and despairing
followers of De Bracy, of whom some asked quarter, some offered vain
resistance, and the greater part fled toward the courtyard.
De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and cast a sorrowful glance
after his conqueror. "He trusts me not!" he repeated; "but have I
deserved his trust?"
He then lifted his sword from the floor, took off his helmet in token
of submission, and, going to the barbican, gave up his sword to
Locksley, whom he met by the way.
As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the
chamber where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He
had been awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle;
and his attendant, who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself
at the window to watch and report to him the fate of the attack, was
for some time prevented from observing either by the increase of the
smouldering and stifling vapor. At length the volumes of smoke which
rolled into the apartment, the cries for water, which were heard even
above the din of the battle, made them sensible of the progress of this
new danger.
"The castle burns," said Rebecca--"it burns! What can we do to save
ourselves?"
"Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life," said Ivanhoe, "for no human
aid can avail me."
"I had not found thee, Wilfred," said the Black Knight, who at that
instant entered the apartment, "but for thy shouts."
And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him with him to the postern, and
having there delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, again
entered the castle to assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.
One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from
window and shot-hole. But in other parts the great thickness of the
walls and the vaulted roofs of the apartments resisted the progress of
the flames, and there the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce
more dreadful element held mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued
the defenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and satiated in
their blood the vengeance which had long animated them against the
soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the garrison resisted to
the uttermost; few of them asked quarter; none received it. The air was
filled with groans and clashing of arms; the floors were slippery with
the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.
Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed, in quest of Rowena,
while the faithful Gurth, following him closely through the _mêlée_,
neglected his own safety while he strove to avert the blows that were
aimed at his master. The noble Saxon was so fortunate as to reach his
ward's apartment just as she had abandoned all hope of safety, and, with
a crucifix clasped in agony to her bosom, sat in expectation of instant
death. He committed her to the charge of Gurth, to be conducted in
safety to the barbican, the road to which was now cleared of the enemy,
and not yet interrupted by the flames. This accomplished, the loyal
Cedric hastened in quest of his friend Athelstane, determined, at every
risk to himself, to save that last scion of Saxon royalty. But ere
Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall In which he had himself been a
prisoner, the inventive genius of Wamba the Jester had procured
liberation for himself and his companion in adversity.
When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the hottest,
the Jester began to shout, with the utmost power of his lungs, "Saint
George and the dragon! Bonny Saint George for merry England! The castle
is won!" And these sounds he rendered yet more fearful by banging
against each other two or three pieces of rusty armor which lay
scattered around the hall.
A guard, which had been stationed in the outer or ante-room, and whose
spirits were already in a state of alarm, took fright at Wamba's
clamor, and, leaving the door open behind them, ran to tell the Templar
that foemen had entered the old hall. Meantime the prisoners found no
difficulty in making their escape into the ante-room, and from thence
into the court of the castle, which was now the last scene of contest.
Here sat the fierce Templar, mounted on horseback, surrounded by
several of the garrison both on horse and foot, who had united their
strength to that of this renowned leader, in order to secure the last
chance of safety and retreat which remained to them. The drawbridge had
been lowered by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers,
who had hitherto only annoyed the castle on that side by their
missiles, no sooner saw the flames breaking out, and the bridge
lowered, than they thronged to the entrance, as well to prevent the
escape of the garrison as to secure their own share of booty ere the
castle should be burned down. On the other hand, a party of the
besiegers, who had entered by the postern, were now issuing out into
the courtyard, and attacking with fury the remnant of the defenders,
who were thus assaulted on both sides at once. Animated, however, by
despair, and supported by the example of their indomitable leader, the
remaining soldiers of the castle fought with the utmost valor; and,
being well armed, succeeded more than once in driving back the
assailants, though much inferior in numbers.
Athelstane, who was slothful, but not cowardly, beheld the Templar.
"By the soul of Saint Edward," he said, "yonder over-proud knight shall
die by my hand!"
"Think what you do!" cried Wamba; "hasty hand catches frog for fish. Ye
may be leader, but I will be no follower; no bones of mine shall be
broken. And you without armor too! Bethink you, silk bonnet never kept
out steel blade. Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must
drench. _Deus vobiscum_ [Footnote: _Deus vobiscum_ means _God be with
you_] most doughty Athelstane!" he concluded, loosening the hold which
he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon's tunic.
To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one whose
dying gasp had just relinquished it, to rush on the Templar's band, and
to strike in quick succession to the right and left, levelling a
warrior at each blow, was, for Athelstane's great strength, now
animated with unusual fury, but the work of a single moment; he was
soon within two yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his loudest
tone.
"Turn, false-hearted Templar! turn, limb of a band of murdering and
hypocritical robbers!"
"Dog!" said the Templar, grinding his teeth, "I will teach thee to
blaspheme the holy order of the Temple of Zion;" and with these words,
half-wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette toward the Saxon, and
rising in the stirrups, so as to take full advantage of the descent of
the horse, he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athelstane.
"Well," said Wamba, "that silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade!" So
trenchant was the Templar's weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had
been a willow-twig, the tough and plaited handle of the mace, which the
ill-fated Saxon reared to parry the blow, and, descending on his head,
levelled him with the earth.
"_Ha! Beau-seant!_" exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, "thus be it to the
maligners of the Temple knights!" Taking advantage of the dismay which
was spread by the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, "Those who
would save themselves, follow me!" he pushed across the drawbridge,
dispersing the archers who would have intercepted them. He was followed
by his Saracens, and some five or six men-at-arms, who had mounted
their horses. The Templar's retreat was rendered perilous by the
numbers of arrows shot off at him and his party; but this did not
prevent him from galloping round to the barbican, of which, according
to his previous plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have been
in possession.
"De Bracy! De Bracy!" he shouted, "art thou there?"
"I am here," replied De Bracy, "but I am a prisoner."
"Can I rescue thee?" cried Bois-Guilbert.
"No," replied De Bracy; "I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I
will be true prisoner. Save thyself; there are hawks abroad. Put the
seas betwixt you and England; I dare not say more."
"Well," answered the Templar, "an thou wilt tarry there, remember I
have redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks
the walls of the preceptory of Templestowe will be cover sufficient,
and thither will I, like heron to her haunt."
Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his followers.
Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued to
fight desperately with the besiegers, after the departure of the
Templar, but rather in despair of quarter than that they entertained
any hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of
the castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a
turret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-
song, such as was of yore raised on the field of battle by the scalds
of the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled gray hair flew back
from her uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance
contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the
distaff which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal
Sisters who spin and abridge the thread of human life.
The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to
the evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide
through the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with
blazing roof and rafter; and the combatants were driven from the
courtyard. The vanquished, of whom very few remained, scattered and
escaped into the neighboring wood. The victors, assembling in large
bands, gazed with wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in
which their own ranks and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of
the Saxon Ulrica was for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had
chosen, tossing her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reigned
empress of the conflagration which she had raised. At length, with a
terrific crash, the whole turret gave way, and she perished in the
flames which had consumed her tyrant. An awful pause of horror silenced
each murmur of the armed spectators, who, for the space of several
minutes, stirred not a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of
Locksley was then heard--"Shout, yeomen! the den of tyrants is no more!
Let each bring his spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous at the
trysting-trees in the Harthill Walk; for there at break of day will we
make just partition among our own bands, together with our worthy
allies in this great deed of vengeance."
THE DEATH OF HECTOR
_From_ HOMER'S ILIAD
[Footnote: One of the greatest poems that has ever been written is the
_Iliad,_ an epic of great length dealing with the siege of Troy. The
author is generally considered to be the old Greek poet and singer
Homer. although some authorities believe that the poem was not all
written by any one man.
The selection from the _Iliad_ which is given here is from the
translation by Alexander Pope. The passage has been abridged somewhat.]
NOTE.--Of all the mythical or half-mythical events which the ancient
Greeks believed formed a part of their early history, there is none
about which more stories have grown up than the Trojan War. According
to the Greek belief, this struggle took place somewhere in the twelfth
century B. C., but it now seems entirely likely that there was really
no such contest, and that the stories told about it were but myths.
To the marriage of Peleus with the sea-nymph Thetis, all the gods were
invited except Eris, or Discord, who, angered at the slight, determined
to have vengeance. She took, therefore, a most beautiful golden apple
on which were inscribed the words _For The Fairest,_ and tossed it
into the midst of the merry wedding party. Instantly a dispute arose,
Juno, queen of the gods, Minerva, goddess of wisdom, and Venus, goddess
of love and beauty, each claiming the fruit. Finally it was decided to
leave the choice to an impartial judge, and Paris, son of Priam, the
old king of Troy, was chosen.
Paris was utterly ignorant of the fact that he was the son of the king,
having been banished from his home in his infancy because a prophecy
had foretold that he should bring about the destruction of his native
city. Rescued and brought up by a shepherd, he lived a simple
shepherd's life on Mount Ida.
When the three radiant goddesses stood before him he was overcome with
the difficulty of his task, and each of the three attempted to help him
out by offering a bribe. Juno offered prosperity through life, Minerva
wisdom and influence, but Venus, smiling slyly, promised him the love
of the most beautiful woman in the world. Moved not by this bribe, but
by the unsurpassable beauty of Venus, Paris awarded her the apple, and
thus gained for himself and for his people the hatred of Juno and
Minerva.
Later Paris was received back into his father's palace, and was sent on
an embassy to the home of Menelaus, king of Sparta, in Greece. While at
the home of Menelaus, Paris fell in love with Helen, the wife of his
host, the most beautiful woman in the world, and persuaded her to
return to Troy with him. Thoroughly roused, Menelaus sought the aid of
the other Grecian kings in his attempt to get back his wife and punish
the Trojans for the treachery of their prince, and a huge expedition
under the command of Agamemnon, brother of Menelaus, set out for Troy.
The Grecian army could make no immediate head against the Trojans, and
for nine years it encamped outside the city of Troy, attempting to
bring about its downfall. Battles and contests between single champions
were frequent, but neither side seemed able to win any permanent
victory.
Achilles was the bravest and strongest of the Grecian heroes, and all
looked to him as the man through whom success must come. However, he
became angered at Agamemnon and withdrew from the contest, and victory
seemed about to fall to the Trojans. One day Patroclus, the friend and
kinsman of Achilles, distressed at the Greek fortunes, removed of
Achilles his armor, and at the head of Achilles's own men, went forth
to do battle with the Trojans. He was slain by Hector, the son of
Priam, the bravest of the Trojan defenders, and in anger at his
friend's death, Achilles returned to the conflict. The battle was waged
outside the city, and owing to the prowess of Achilles, matters looked
bad for the Trojans.
Apollo, god of light, who favored the Trojans, took upon himself the
form of a Trojan warrior, and while appearing to flee, drew Achilles
after him, and thus allowed the Trojans to gain the shelter of the city
walls. The selection from the _Iliad_ given here begins just as
Apollo throws off his disguise and reveals his identity to Achilles.
Thus to their bulwarks, smit with panic fear,
The herded Ilians* rush like driven deer:
There safe they wipe the briny drops away,
And drown in bowls the labors of the day.
Close to the walls, advancing o'er the fields
Beneath one roof of well-compacted shields,
March, bending on, the Greeks' embodied powers,
Far stretching in the shade of Trojan towers.
Great Hector singly stay'd: chain'd down by fate
There fix'd he stood before the Scaean gate;
Still his bold arms determined to employ,
The guardian still of long-defended Troy.
*[Footnote: _Ilium_, or _Ilion_, was another name for Troy,
and the Ilians were Trojans.]
Apollo now to tired Achilles turns
(The power confess'd in all his glory burns):
"And what," he cries, "has Peleus'* son in view,
With mortal speed a godhead to pursue?
For not to thee to know the gods' is given,
Unskill'd to trace the latent marks of heaven.
What boots thee now, that Troy forsook the plain?
Vain thy past labor, and thy present vain:
Safe in their walls are now her troops bestow'd,
While here thy frantic rage attacks a god."
*[Footnote: Achilles was the son of Peleus and the sea-nymph Thetis.]
The chief incensed--"Too partial god of day!
To check my conquests in the middle way:
How few in Ilion else had refuge found!
What gasping numbers now had bit the ground!
Thou robb'st me of a glory justly mine,
Powerful of godhead, and of fraud divine:
Mean fame, alas! for one of heavenly strain,
To cheat a mortal who repines in vain."
Then to the city, terrible and strong,
With high and haughty steps he tower'd along,
So the proud courser, victor of the prize,
To the near goal with double ardor flies.
Him, as he blazing shot across the field,
The careful eyes of Priam* first beheld
Not half so dreadful rises to the sight
Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night,
Orion's dog* (the year when autumn weighs),
And o'er the feebler stars exerts his rays;
Terrific glory! for his burning breath
Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death,
So flamed his fiery mail. Then wept the sage:
He strikes his reverend head, now white with age;
He lifts his wither'd arms; obtests* the skies;
He calls his much-loved son with feeble cries:
The son, resolved Achilles' force to dare,
Full at the Scaean gates expects* the war;
While the sad father on the rampart stands,
And thus adjures him with extended hands:
*[Footnote: Priam was the old king of Troy, father of Hector.]
*[Footnote: _Orion's dog_ means Sirius, the dog star, which was
believed by the ancients to be a star of very bad omen.]
*[Footnote: _Obtests_ means _entreats_.]
*[Footnote: _Expects_ here means _awaits_.]
"Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone;
Hector! my loved, my dearest, bravest son!
Mehinks already I behold thee slain,
And stretch'd beneath that fury of the plain,
Implacable Achilles! might'st thou be
To all the gods no dearer than to me!
Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the shore,
And bloody dogs grow fiercer from thy gore.
How many valiant sons I late enjoy'd,
Valiant in vain! by thy cursed arm destroy'd,
Or, worse than slaughter'd, sold in distant isles
To shameful bondage, and unworthy toils,
What sorrows then must their sad mother know,
What anguish I? unutterable woe!
Yet less that anguish, less to her, to me,
Less to all Troy, if not deprived of thee.
Yet shun Achilles! enter yet the wall;
And spare thyself, thy father, spare us all!
Save thy dear life; or, if a soul so brave
Neglect that thought, thy dearer glory save.
Pity, while yet I live, these silver hairs;
While yet thy father feels the woes he bears,
Yet cursed with sense! a wretch, whom in his rage
(All trembling on the verge of helpless age)
Great Jove has placed, sad spectacle of pain!
The bitter dregs of fortune's cup to drain:
To fill the scenes of death his closing eyes,
And number all his days by miseries!
Who dies in youth and vigor, dies the best,
Struck through with wounds, all honest on the breast.
But when the Fates* in fulness of their rage
Spurn the hoar head of unresisting age,
In dust the reverend lineaments deform,
And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm:
This, this is misery! the last, the worst,
That man can feel! man, fated to be cursed!"
*[Footnote: The Fates were thought of by the ancient peoples as
three old women, who spun the thread of human life, twisted it,
and cut it off whenever they thought it was long enough.]
He said, and acting what no words could say,
Rent from his head the silver locks away.
With him the mournful mother bears a part;
Yet all her sorrow turn not Hector's heart.
The zone unbraced, her bosom she display'd;
And thus, fast-falling the salt tears, she said:
"Have mercy on me, O my son! revere
The words of age; attend a parent's prayer!
If ever thee in these fond arms I press'd,
Or still'd thy infant clamors at this breast;
Ah, do not thus our helpless years forego,
But, by our walls secured, repel the foe."