Ivanhoe

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 morning 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.

WEBSTER¹

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: he hath fought for Christendom. 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 a clattering 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 Bois-Guilbert 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. But we must waste no time. Bohun, do thine office!”

A knight stepped forward from the King’s attendants, and, laying his hand on the shoulder of Albert de Malvoisin, said, “I arrest thee of high treason.”

The Grand Master had hitherto stood astonished at the appearance of so many warriors. He now spoke.

“Who dares to arrest a knight of the Temple of Zion, within the girth of his own preceptory, and in the presence of the Grand Master? and by whose authority is this bold outrage offered?”

“I make the arrest,” replied the knight—“I, Henry Bohun, Earl of Essex, Lord High Constable of England.”

“And he arrests Malvoisin,” said the King, raising his visor, “by order of Richard Plantagenet, here present. Conrade Mont-Fitchet, it is well for thee thou art born no subject of mine. But for thee, Malvoisin, thou diest with thy brother Philip ere the world be a week older.”

“I will resist thy doom,” said the Grand Master.

“Proud Templar,” said the King, “thou canst not: look up, and behold the royal standard of England floats over thy towers instead of thy Temple banner! Be wise, Beaumanoir, and make no bootless opposition. Thy hand is in the lion’s mouth.”

“I will appeal to Rome against thee,” said the Grand Master, “for usurpation on the immunities and privileges of our order.”

“Be it so,” said the King; “but for thine own sake tax me not with usurpation now. Dissolve thy chapter, and depart with thy followers to thy next preceptory, if thou canst find one which has not been made the scene of treasonable conspiracy against the King of England. Or, if thou wilt, remain, to share our hospitality, and behold our justice.”

“To be a guest in the house where I should command?” said the Templar; “never! Chaplains, raise the Psalm, Quare fremuerunt gentes? ^gu Knights, squires, and followers of the Holy Temple, prepare to follow the banner of Beau-seant!”

The Grand Master spoke with a dignity which confronted even that of England’s king himself, and inspired courage into his surprised and dismayed followers. They gathered around him like the sheep around the watch- dog, when they hear the baying of the wolf. But they evinced not the timidity of the scared flock: there were dark brows of defiance, and looks which menaced the hostility they dared not to proffer in words. They drew together in a dark line of spears, from which the white cloaks of the knights were visible among the dusky garments of their retainers, like the lighter-coloured edges of a sable cloud. The multitude, who had raised a clamorous shout of reprobation, paused and gazed in silence on the formidable and experienced body to which they had unwarily bade defiance, and shrunk back from their front.

The Earl of Essex, when he beheld them pause in their assembled force, dashed the rowels into his charger’s sides, and galloped backwards and forwards to array his followers, in opposition to a band so formidable. Richard alone, as if he loved the danger his presence had provoked, rode slowly along the front of the Templars, calling aloud, “What, sirs! Among so many gallant knights, will none dare splinter a spear with Richard? Sirs of the Temple! your ladies are but sun-burned, if they are not worth the shiver of a broken lance!”