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 with 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
“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
