“Alas!” said Rebecca, “what advantages could compensate for such an absolute sacrifice?”
“The power of vengeance, Rebecca,” replied the Templar, “and the prospects of ambition.”
“An evil recompense,” said Rebecca, “for the surrender of the rights which are dearest to humanity.”
“Say not so, maiden,” answered the Templar; “revenge is a feast for the gods! And if they have reserved it, as priests tell us, to themselves, it is because they hold it an enjoyment too precious for the possession of mere mortals. And ambition! it is a temptation which could disturb even the bliss of Heaven itself.” He paused a moment, and then added, “Rebecca! she who could prefer death to dishonour must have a proud and a powerful soul. Mine thou must be! Nay, start not,” he added, “it must be with thine own consent, and on thine own terms. Thou must consent to share with me hopes more extended than can be viewed from the throne of a monarch! Hear me ere you answer, and judge ere you refuse. The Templar loses, as thou hast said, his social rights, his power of free agency, but he becomes a member and a limb of a mighty body, before which thrones already tremble—even as the single drop of rain which mixes with the sea becomes an individual part of that resistless ocean which undermines rocks and ingulphs royal armadas. Such a swelling flood is that powerful league. Of this mighty order I am no mean member, but already one of the chief commanders, and may well aspire one day to hold the batoon of Grand Master. The poor soldiers of the Temple will not alone place their foot upon the necks of kings; a hemp- sandall’d monk can do that. Our mailed step shall ascend their throne, our gauntlet shall wrench the sceptre from their gripe. Not the reign of your vainly-expected Messiah offers such power to your dispersed tribes as my ambition may aim at. I have sought but a kindred spirit to share it, and I have found such in thee.”
“Sayest thou this to one of my people?” answered Rebecca. “Bethink thee—”
“Answer me not,” said the Templar, “by urging the difference of our creeds; within our secret conclaves we hold these nursery tales in derision. Think not we long remained blind to the idiotical folly of our founders, who forswore every delight of life for the pleasure of dying martyrs by hunger, by thirst, and by pestilence, and by the swords of savages, while they vainly strove to defend a barren desert, valuable only in the eyes of superstition. Our order soon adopted bolder and wider views, and found out a better indemnification for our sacrifices. Our immense possessions in every kingdom of Europe, our high military fame, which brings within our circle the flower of chivalry from every Christian clime—these are dedicated to ends of which our pious founders little dreamed, and which are equally concealed from such weak spirits as embrace our order on the ancient principles, and whose superstition makes them our passive tools. But I will not further withdraw the veil of our mysteries. That bugle- sound announces something which may require my presence. Think on what I have said. Farewell! I do not say forgive me the violence I have threatened, for it was necessary to the display of thy character. Gold can be only known by the application of the touch-stone. I will soon return, and hold further conference with thee.”
He re-entered the turret-chamber, and descended the stair, leaving Rebecca scarcely more terrified at the prospect of the death to which she had been so lately exposed, than at the furious ambition of the bold bad man in whose power she found herself so unhappily placed. When she entered the turret-chamber, her first duty was to return thanks to the God of Jacob for the protection which He had afforded her, and to implore its continuance for her and for her father. Another name glided into her petition; it was that of the wounded Christian, whom fate had placed in the hands of bloodthirsty men, his avowed enemies. Her heart indeed checked her, as if, even in communing with the Deity in prayer, she mingled in her devotions the recollection of one with whose fate hers could have no alliance—a Nazarene, and an enemy to her faith. But the petition was already breathed, nor could all the narrow prejudices of her sect induce Rebecca to wish it recalled.
CHAPTER XXV
A damn’d cramp piece of penmanship as ever I saw in my life!
When the Templar reached the hall of the castle, he found De Bracy already there. “Your love-suit,” said De Bracy, “hath, I suppose, been disturbed, like mine, by this obstreperous summons. But you have come later and more reluctantly, and therefore I presume your interview has proved more agreeable than mine.”
“Has your suit, then, been unsuccessfully paid to the Saxon heiress?” said the Templar.
“By the bones of Thomas a Becket,” answered De Bracy, “the Lady Rowena must have heard that I cannot endure the sight of women’s tears.”
“Away!” said the Templar; “thou a leader of a Free Company, and regard a woman’s tears! A few drops sprinkled on the torch of love make the flame blaze the brighter.”
“Gramercy for the few drops of thy sprinkling,” replied De Bracy; “but this damsel hath wept enough to extinguish a beaconlight. Never was such wringing of hands and such overflowing of eyes, since the days of St. Niobe, of whom Prior Aymer told us.cu A water-fiend hath possessed the fair Saxon.”
“A legion of fiends have occupied the bosom of the Jewess,” replied the Templar; “for I think no single one, not even Apollyoncv himself, could have inspired such indomitable pride and resolution. But where is Front-de-B?uf? That horn is sounded more and more clamorously.”
“He is negotiating with the Jew, I suppose,” replied De Bracy, coolly; “probably the howls of Isaac have drowned the blast of the bugle. Thou mayst know, by experience, Sir Brian, that a Jew parting with his treasures on such terms as our friend Front-de-B?uf is like to offer will raise a clamour loud enough to be heard over twenty horns and trumpets to boot. But we will make the vassals call him.”
They were soon after joined by Front-de-B?uf, who had been disturbed in his tyrannic cruelty in the manner with which the reader is acquainted, and had only tarried to give some necessary directions.
“Let us see the cause of this cursed clamour,” said Front-de-B?uf; “here is a letter, and, if I mistake not, it is in Saxon.”
He looked at it, turning it round and round as if he had had really some hopes of coming at the meaning by inverting the position of the paper, and then handed it to De Bracy.
“It may be magic spells for aught I know,” said De Bracy, who possessed his full proportion of the ignorance which characterised the chivalry of the period. “Our chaplain attempted to teach me to write,” he said, ”but all my letters were formed like spear-heads and sword-blades, and so the old shaveling gave up the task.”
“Give it me,” said the Templar. “We have that of the priestly character, that we have some knowledge to enlighten our valour.”
“Let us profit by your most reverend knowledge, then,” said De Bracy; “what says the scroll?”
“It is a formal letter of defiance,” answered the Templar; “but, by our Lady of Bethlehem, if it be not a foolish jest, it is the most extraordinary cartel that ever was sent across the drawbridge of a baronial castle.”
“Jest!” said Front-de-B?uf, “I would gladly know who dares jest with me in such a matter! Read it, Sir Brian.”
The Templar accordingly read it as follows:
“I, Wamba, the son of Witless, jester to a noble and freeborn man, Cedric of Rotherwood, called the Saxon: and I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, the swineherd—”
“Thou are mad,” said Front-de-B?uf, interrupting the reader.
“By St. Luke, it is so set down,” answered the Templar. Then resuming his task, he went on—“I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, swineherd unto the said Cedric, with the assistance of our allies and confederates, who make common cause with us in this our feud, namely, the good knight, called for the present Le
