by Walter Scott
“So ho! Friar Tuck,” said the Minstrel, drawing him apart from the rustics; “we have started a new hare, I find.”
“I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale,” said the hermit, “I saw Athelstane of Coningsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He had his shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre. A butt of sack will not wash it out of my memory.”
“Pshaw!” answered the Minstrel; “thou dost but jest with me!”
“Never believe me,” said the friar, “an I fetched not a knock at him with my quarter-staff that would have felled an ox, and it glided through his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!”
“By St. Hubert,” said the Minstrel, “but it is a wondrous tale, and fit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, ‘Sorrow came to the Old Friar.”’
“Laugh, if ye list,” said Friar Tuck; “but an ye catch me singing on such a theme, may the next ghost or devil carry me off with him headlong! No, no—I instantly formed the purpose of assisting at some good work, such as the burning of a witch, a judicial combat, or the like matter of godly service, and therefore am I here.”
As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the church of St. Michael of Templestowe, a venerable building, situated in a hamlet at some distance from the preceptory, broke short their argument. One by one the sullen sounds fell successively on the ear, leaving but sufficient space for each to die away in distant echo, ere the air was again filled by repetition of the iron knell. These sounds, the signal of the approaching ceremony, chilled with awe the hearts of the assembled multitude, whose eyes were now turned to the preceptory, expecting the approach of the Grand Master, the champion, and the criminal.
At length the drawbridge fell, the gates opened, and a knight, bearing the great standard of the order, sallied from the castle, preceded by six trumpets, and followed by the knights preceptors, two and two, the Grand Master coming last, mounted on a stately horse, whose furniture was of the simplest kind. Behind him came Brian de Bois-Guilbert, armed cap-à-pie in bright armour, but without his lance, shield, and sword, which were borne by his two esquires behind him. His face, though partly hidden by a long plume which floated down from his barret-cap,gp bore a strong and mingled expression of passion, in which pride seemed to contendwith irresolution. He looked ghastly pale, as if he had not slept for several nights, yet reined his pawing war-horse with the habitual ease and grace proper to the best lance of the order of the Temple. His general appearance was grand and commanding; but, looking at him with attention, men read that in his dark features from which they willingly withdrew their eyes.
On either side rode Conrade of Mont-Fitchet and Albert de Malvoisin, who acted as godfathers to the champion. They were in their robes of peace, the white dress of the order. Behind them followed other companions of the Temple, with a long train of esquires and pages clad in black, aspirants to the honour of being one day knights of the order. After these neophytes came a guard of warders on foot, in the same sable livery, amidst whose partizans might been seen the pale form of the accused, moving with a slow but undismayed step towards the scene of her fate. She was stript of all her ornaments, lest perchance there should be among them some of those amulets which Satan was supposed to bestow upon his victims, to deprive them of the power of confession even when under the torture. A coarse white dress, of the simplest form, had been substituted for her Oriental garments; yet there was such an exquisite mixture of courage and resignation in her look that even in this garb, and with no other ornament than her long black tresses, each eye wept that looked upon her, and the most hardened bigot regretted the fate that had converted a creature so goodly into a vessel of wrath, and a waged slave of the devil.
A crowd of inferior personages belonging to the preceptory followed the victim, all moving with the utmost order, with arms folded and looks bent upon the ground.
This slow procession moved up the gentle eminence, on the summit of which was the tiltyard, and, entering the lists, marched once around them from right to left, and when they had completed the circle, made a halt. There was then a momentary bustle, while the Grand Master and all his attendants, excepting the champion and his godfathers, dismounted from their horses, which were immediately removed out of the lists by the esquires, who were in attendance for that purpose.
The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to the 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 familiarise her mind with the object, and then slowly and naturally turned away her head.
Meanwhile, the Grand Master had assumed his seat, and when the chivalry of his order was placed around and behind him, each in his due rank, a loud and long flourish of the trumpets announced that the court were seated for judgment. Malvoisin then, acting as godfather of the champion, stepped forward, and laid the glove of the Jewess, which was the pledge of battle, at the feet of the Grand Master.
“Valorous lord and reverend father,” said he, “here standeth the good knight, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, Knight Preceptor of the Order of the Temple, who, by accepting the pledge of battle which I now lay at your reverence’s feet, hath become bound to do his devoir in combat this day, to maintain that this Jewish maiden, by name Rebecca, hath justly deserved the doom passed upon her in a chapter of this most holy order of the Temple of Zion, condemning her to die as a sorceress—here, I say, he standeth, such battle to do, knightly and honourable, if such be your noble and sanctified pleasure.”
“Hath he made oath,” said the Grand Master, “that his quarrel is just and honourable? Bring forward the crucifix and the Te igitur.”gq
“Sir and most reverend father,” answered Malvoisin, readily, “our brother here present hath already sworn to the truth of his accusation in the hand of the good knight Conrade de Mont-Fitchet ; and otherwise he ought not to be sworn, seeing that his adversary is an unbeliever, and may take no oath.”
This explanation was satisfactory, to Albert’s great joy; for the wily knight had foreseen the great difficulty, or rather impossibility, of prevailing upon Brian de Bois-Guilbert to take such an oath before the assembly, and had invented this excuse to escape the necessity of his doing so.
The Grand Master, having allowed the apology of Albert Malvoisin, commanded the herald to stand forth and do his devoir. The trumpets then again flourished, and a herald, stepping forward, proclaimed aloud, “Oyez, oyez, oyez. Here standeth the good knight, Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, ready to do battle with any knight of free blood who will sustain the quarrel allowed and allotted to the Jewess Rebecca, to try by champion, in respect of lawful essoinegr of her own body; and to such champion the reverend and valorous Grand Master here present allows a fair field, and equal partition of sun and wind, and whatever else appertains to a fair combat.” The trumpets again sounded, and there was a dead pause of many minutes.
“No champion appears for the appellant,” said the Grand Master. “Go, herald, and ask her whether she expects any one to do battle for her in this her cause.”
The herald went to the chair in which Rebecca was seated; and Bois-Guilbert, suddenly turning his horse’s head toward that end of the lists, in spite of hints on either side from Malvoisin and Mont-Fitchet, was by the side of Rebecca’s chair as soon as the herald.
“Is this regular, and according to the law of combat?” said Malvoisin, looking to the Grand Master.
“Albert de Malvoisin, it is,” answered Beaumanoir; “for in this appeal to the judgment of God we may not prohibit parties from having that communication with each other which may best tend to bring forth the truth of the quarrel.”
In the meantime, the herald spoke to Rebecca in these terms: “Damsel, the honourable and reverend the Grand Master demands of thee, if thou art prepared wit
h a champion to do battle this day in thy behalf, or if thou dost yield thee as one justly condemned to a deserved doom?”
“Say to the Grand Master,” replied Rebecca, “that I maintain my innocence, and do not yield me as justly condemned, lest I become guilty of mine own blood. Say to him, that I challenge such delay as his forms will permit, to see if God, whose opportunity is in man’s extremity, will raise me up a deliverer; and when such uttermost space is passed, may His holy will be done!”
The herald retired to carry this answer to the Grand Master.
“God forbid,” said Lucas Beaumanoir, “that Jew or Pagan should impeach us of injustice! Until the shadows be cast from the west to the eastward, will we wait to see if a champion shall appear for this unfortunate woman. When the day is so far passed, let her prepare for death.”
The herald communicated the words of the Grand Master to Rebecca, who bowed her head submissively, folded her arms, and, looking up towards heaven, seemed to expect that aid from above which she could scarce promise herself from man. During this awful pause, the voice of Bois-Guilbert broke upon her ear; it was but a whisper, yet it startled her more than the summons of the herald had appeared to do.
“Rebecca,” said the Templar, “dost thou hear me?”
“I have no portion in thee, cruel, hard-hearted man,” said the unfortunate maiden.
“Ay, but dost thou understand my words?” said the Templar; “for the sound of my voice is frightful in mine own ears. I scarce know on what ground we stand, or for what purpose they have brought us hither. This listed space—that chair—these faggots—I know their purpose, and yet it appears to me like something unreal—the fearful picture of a vision, which appalls my sense with hideous fantasies, but convinces not my reason.”
“My mind and senses keep touch and time,” answered Rebecca, “and tell me alike that these faggots are destined to consume my earthly body, and open a painful but a brief passage to a better world.”
“Dreams, Rebecca—dreams,” answered the Templar—“idle visions, rejected by the wisdom of your own wiser Sadducees.3 Hear me, Rebecca,” he said, proceeding with animation; “a better chance hast thou for life and liberty than yonder knaves and dotard dream of. Mount thee behind me on my steed—on Zamor, the gallant horse that never failed his rider. I won him in single fight from the Soldan of Trebizond. Mount, I say, behind me; in one short hour is pursuit and inquiry far behind—a new world of pleasure opens to thee—to me a new career of fame. Let them speak the doom which I despise, and erase the name of Bois-Guilbert from their list of monastic slaves! I will wash out with blood whatever blot they may dare to cast on my scutcheon.”
“Tempter,” said Rebecca, “begone! Not in this last extremity canst thou move me one hair’s-breadth from my resting-place. Surrounded as I am by foes, I hold thee as my worst and most deadly enemy; avoid thee, in the name of God!”
Albert Malvoisin, alarmed and impatient at the duration of their conference, now advanced to interrupt it.
“Hath the maiden acknowledged her guilt?” he demanded of Bois-Guilbert; “or is she resolute in her denial?”
“She is indeed resolute,” said Bois-Guilbert.
“Then,” said Malvoisin, “must thou, noble brother, resume thy place to attend the issue. The shades are changing on the circle of the dial. Come, brave Bois-Guilbert—come, thou hope of our holy order, and soon to be its head.”
As he spoke in this soothing tone, he laid his hand on the knight’s bridle, as if to lead him back to his station.
“False villain! what meanest thou by thy hand on my rein?” said Sir Brian, angrily. And shaking off his companion’s grasp, he rode back to the upper end of the lists.
“There is yet spirit in him,” said Malvoisin apart to Mont-Fitchet, “were it well directed; but, like the Greek fire,4 it burns whatever approaches it.”
The judges had now been two hours in the lists, awaiting in vain the appearance of a champion.
“And reason good,” said Friar Tuck, “seeing she is a Jewess; and yet, by mine order, it is hard that so young and beautiful a creature should perish without one blow being struck in her behalf! Were she ten times a witch, provided she were but the least bit of a Christian, my quarter-staff should ring noon on the steel cap of yonder fierce Templar, ere he carried the matter off thus.”
It was, however, the general belief that no one could or would appear for a Jewess accused of sorcery; and the knights, instigated by Malvoisin, whispered to each 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, despite the prepossessions and prejudices of the multitude, they shouted unanimously as the knight rode into the tiltyard. 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, weariness, or both, 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 sustain with lance and sword the just and lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York; to uphold the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless, and to defy Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as a traitor, murderer, and liar; as I will prove in this field with my body against his, by the aid of God, of Our Lady, and of Monseigneur St. George, the good knight.”
“The stranger must first show,” said Malvoisin, “that he is 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, Malvoisin, 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 bravade.”
“Ha! proud Templar,” said Ivanhoe, “hast thou forgotten that twice didst thou fall before this lance? Remember the lists at Acre; remember the passage of arms at Ashby; remember thy proud vaunt in the halls of Rotherwood, 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—in every preceptory of thine order—unless thou do battle without farther delay.”
Bois-Guilbert 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 accepts 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 with.”
“Thus—thus as I am, and not otherwise,” said Ivanhoe; “it is the judgment of Cod—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, and had closed his visor, and assumed his lance. Bois-Guilbert 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 mor
ning of an ashy paleness, was now become suddenly very much flushed.
The herald then, seeing each champion in his place, uplifted his voice, repeating thrice—Faites vos devoirs, preux chevaliers!gs After the third cry, he withdrew to one side of the lists, and again proclaimed that none, on peril of instant death, should dare by word, cry, or action to interfere with or disturb this fair field of combat. The Grand Master, who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca’s glove, now threw it into the lists, and pronounced the fatal signal words, Laissez aller
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. This issue of the combat all had foreseen; but although the spear of Ivanhoe did but, in comparison, 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, 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. Bois-Guilbert returned no answer.
“Slay him not, Sir Knight,” cried the Grand Master, “unshriven and unabsolved; kill not body and soul! We allow him vanquished.”
He descended into the lists, and commanded them to un-helm 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!”gt
CHAPTER XLIV
So! now ’tis ended, like an old wife’s story.
