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LESSON 8
OUR scene now returns to the exterior of the Castle, or Precep’tory, of Tem’plestowe, about the hour when the bloody die was to be cast for the life or death of Rebecca. A throne was erected for the Grand Master at the east end of the tilt-yard, surrounded with seats of distinction for the Preceptors and Knights of the Order.
At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of fagots, so arranged around a stake, deeply fixed in the ground, as to leave a space for the victim whom they were destined to consume, to enter within the fatal circle in order to be chained to the stake by the fetters which hung ready for the purpose.
The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to a black chair placed near the pile. On her first glance at the terrible spot where preparations were making for a death alike dismaying to the mind and painful to the body, she was observed to shudder and shut her eyes—praying internally, doubtless, for her lips moved though no speech was heard. In the space of a minute she opened her eyes, looked fixedly on the pile, as if to familiarize her mind with the object, and then slowly and naturally turned away her head.
It was the general belief that no one could or would appear for a Jewess accused of sorcery; and the knights whispered to each other that it was time to declare the pledge of Rebecca forfeited. At that 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 despite the prejudices of the multitude, they shouted unanimously as the knight rode into the tilt-yard.
The second glance, however, served to destroy the hope that his timely arrival had excited. His horse, urged for many miles to its utmost speed, appeared to reel from fatigue; and the rider, however undauntedly he presented himself in the lists, either from weakness, from weariness, or from both combined, seemed scarce able to support himself in the saddle.
To the summons of the herald, who demanded his rank, his name and purpose, the stranger knight answered readily and boldly, “I am a good knight and noble, come hither to uphold with lance and sword the just and lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York; to maintain the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless, and to defy Sir Brian the Templar as a traitor, murderer, and liar; as I will prove in this field with my body against his, by the aid of God, and of Saint George,
the good knight.”
“The stranger must first show,” said a Templar, “that he is a good knight, and of honourable lineage. The Temple sendeth not forth her champions against nameless men.”
“My name,” said the knight, raising his helmet, “is better known, my lineage more pure, than thine own. I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe.”
“I will not fight with thee at present,” said the Templar, in a changed and hollow voice. “Get thy wounds healed, purvey thee a better horse, and it may be I will hold it worth my while to scourge out of thee this boyish spirit of bravado.”
“Ha! proud Templar,” said Ivanhoe, “hast thou forgotten that twice thou didst fall before this lance? Remember the lists at A’cre—remember the passage of arms at Ash’by—remember thy proud vaunt in the halls of Roth’erwood, and the gage of your gold chain against my reliquary,
that thou wouldst do battle with Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and recover the honour thou hadst lost! By that reliquary, and the holy relic it contains, I will proclaim thee, Templar, a coward in every Court in Europe—unless thou do battle without further delay.”
Sir Brian turned his countenance irresolutely towards Rebecca, and then exclaimed, looking fiercely at Ivanhoe, “Dog of a Saxon! take thy lance, and prepare for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!”
“Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?” said Ivanhoe.
“I may not deny what thou hast challenged,” said the Grand Master, “provided the maiden accept thee as her champion. Yet I would thou wert in better plight to do battle. An enemy of our Order hast thou ever been, yet would I have thee honourably met withal.”
TILT-YARD
“Thus—thus as I am, and not otherwise,” said Ivanhoe; “it is the judgment of God—to his keeping I commend myself.—Rebecca,” said he, riding up to the fatal chair, “dost thou accept of me for thy champion?”
“I do,” she said, “I do,”—fluttered by an emotion which the fear of death had been unable to produce—“I do accept thee as the champion whom Heaven hath sent me. Yet, no—no; thy wounds are uncured. Meet not that proud man—why shouldst thou perish also?”
But Ivanhoe was already at his post; he had closed his visor
and assumed his lance. Sir Brian did the same; and his esquire remarked, as he clasped his visor, that his face—which had, notwithstanding the variety of emotions by which he had been agitated, continued during the whole morning of an ashy paleness—had now become suddenly very much flushed.
The Grand Master, who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca’s glove, now threw it into the lists. The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full career. The weary 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. This issue of the combat all had foreseen; but although the spear of Ivanhoe, in comparison, did but touch the shield of Sir Brian, that champion, to the astonishment of all who beheld it, reeled in his saddle, lost his stirrup, and fell in the lists!
Ivanhoe, extricating himself from his fallen horse, 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. The Templar returned no answer.
“Slay him not, Sir Knight,” cried the Grand Master “unshriven and unabsolved—kill not body and soul! We acknowledge 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— “Fiat voluntas tua!”
When the first moments of surprise were over, Wilfred of Ivanhoe demanded of the Grand Master, as judge of the field, if he had manfully and rightfully done his duty in the combat?
“Manfully and rightfully hath it been done,” said the Grand Master; “I pronounce the maiden free and guiltless. The arms and the body of the deceased knight are at the will of the victor.”
“I will not despoil him of his weapons,” said the Knight of Ivanhoe, “nor condemn his corpse to shame. God’s arm, no human hand, hath this day struck him down. But let his obsequies be private, as becomes those of a man who died in an unjust quarrel. —And for the maiden—”
He was interrupted by the clatter of horses’ feet, advancing in such numbers, and so rapidly, as to shake the ground before them; and the Black Knight galloped into the lists. He was followed by a numerous band of men-at-arms, and several knights in complete armour.
“I am too late,” he said, looking around him. “I had doomed Sir Brian for mine own property. —Ivanhoe, was this well, to take on thee such a venture, and thou scarce able to keep thy saddle?”
“Heaven, my liege,” answered Ivanhoe, “hath taken this proud man for its victim. He was not to be honoured in dying as your will had designed.”
“Peace be with him,” said Richard,
looking steadfastly on the corpse, “if it may be so—he was a gallant knight, and has died in his steel harness full knightly.”
During the tumult Rebecca saw and heard nothing: she was locked in the arms of her aged father, giddy, and almost senseless, with the rapid change of circumstances around her. But one word from Isaac at length recalled her scattered feelings.
“Let us go,” he said, “my dear daughter, my recovered treasure—let us go to throw ourselves at the feet of the good youth.”
“Not so,” said Rebecca; “oh no—no—no; —I must not at this moment dare to speak to him. Alas! I should say more than—No, my father; let us instantly leave this evil place.”
Isaac, yielding to her entreaties, then conducted her from the lists, and by means of a horse which he had provided, transported her safely to the house of the Rabbi Nathan.
— SIR WALTER SCOTT
antagonist, opponent.
astonishment, surprise.
bravado, boastfulness.
champion, defender.
commend, intrust.
consume, destroy.
demanded, asked.
designed, intended.
destined, appointed.
dismaying, appalling.
distinction, honour.
entreaties, solicitations.
exhausted, wearied.
extricating, disengaging.
familiarize, accustom.
fluttered, agitated.
forfeited, sacrificed.
honourably, worthily.
internally, mentally.
interrupted, checked.
irresolutely, unsteadily.
lineage, descent.
notwithstanding, in spite of.
obsequies, funeral rites.
prejudices, predilections.
proclaim, denounce.
pronounced, proclaimed.
purvey, provide.
transported, conveyed.
unabsolved, unpardoned.
unanimously, with one accord.
undauntedly, valiantly.
unfortunate, luckless.
unscathed, uninjured.
unshriven, not confessed.
vanquished, defeated.
venture, hazard.
vigorous, powerful.
Where was the combat to take place? Where was the Grand Master’s position? What was at the opposite end of the lists? What was the general belief? Who at last appeared? Why did the Templar at first decline to fight with him? What fear did Rebecca express? What was the result of the encounter of the knights. What befell the Templar immediately afterwards? What had killed him? What verdict did the Grand Master now give regarding Rebecca? Who presently arrived on the scene? Why was the Black Knight disappointed? Who was this Black Knight? Who had embraced Rebecca? What did he ask her to do? What did she reply?