prompt:
Chapter: Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
     From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
     The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
     His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well
     Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days,
     Prayer all his business--all his pleasure praise.
     --Parnell

The reader cannot have forgotten that the event of the tournament was
decided by the exertions of an unknown knight, whom, on account of the
passive and indifferent conduct which he had manifested on the former
part of the day, the spectators had entitled, "Le Noir Faineant". This
knight had left the field abruptly when the victory was achieved; and
when he was called upon to receive the reward of his valour, he was
nowhere to be found. In the meantime, while summoned by heralds and
by trumpets, the knight was holding his course northward, avoiding all
frequented paths, and taking the shortest road through the woodlands.
He paused for the night at a small hostelry lying out of the ordinary
route, where, however, he obtained from a wandering minstrel news of the
event of the tourney.

On the next morning the knight departed early, with the intention
of making a long journey; the condition of his horse, which he had
carefully spared during the preceding morning, being such as enabled him
to travel far without the necessity of much repose. Yet his purpose was
baffled by the devious paths through which he rode, so that when evening
closed upon him, he only found himself on the frontiers of the
West Riding of Yorkshire. By this time both horse and man required
refreshment, and it became necessary, moreover, to look out for
some place in which they might spend the night, which was now fast
approaching.

The place where the traveller found himself seemed unpropitious for
obtaining either shelter or refreshment, and he was likely to be reduced
to the usual expedient of knights-errant, who, on such occasions, turned
their horses to graze, and laid themselves down to meditate on their
lady-mistress, with an oak-tree for a canopy. But the Black Knight
either had no mistress to meditate upon, or, being as indifferent
in love as he seemed to be in war, was not sufficiently occupied by
passionate reflections upon her beauty and cruelty, to be able to
parry the effects of fatigue and hunger, and suffer love to act as
a substitute for the solid comforts of a bed and supper. He felt
dissatisfied, therefore, when, looking around, he found himself deeply
involved in woods, through which indeed there were many open glades,
and some paths, but such as seemed only formed by the numerous herds of
cattle which grazed in the forest, or by the animals of chase, and the
hunters who made prey of them.

The sun, by which the knight had chiefly directed his course, had now
sunk behind the Derbyshire hills on his left, and every effort which he
might make to pursue his journey was as likely to lead him out of his
road as to advance him on his route. After having in vain endeavoured
to select the most beaten path, in hopes it might lead to the cottage of
some herdsman, or the silvan lodge of a forester, and having repeatedly
found himself totally unable to determine on a choice, the knight
resolved to trust to the sagacity of his horse; experience having,
on former occasions, made him acquainted with the wonderful talent
possessed by these animals for extricating themselves and their riders
on such emergencies.

The good steed, grievously fatigued with so long a day's journey under
a rider cased in mail, had no sooner found, by the slackened reins,
that he was abandoned to his own guidance, than he seemed to assume new
strength and spirit; and whereas, formerly he had scarce replied to the
spur, otherwise than by a groan, he now, as if proud of the confidence
reposed in him, pricked up his ears, and assumed, of his own accord, a
more lively motion. The path which the animal adopted rather turned off
from the course pursued by the knight during the day; but as the horse
seemed confident in his choice, the rider abandoned himself to his
discretion.

He was justified by the event; for the footpath soon after appeared
a little wider and more worn, and the tinkle of a small bell gave the
knight to understand that he was in the vicinity of some chapel or
hermitage.

Accordingly, he soon reached an open plat of turf, on the opposite side
of which, a rock, rising abruptly from a gently sloping plain, offered
its grey and weatherbeaten front to the traveller. Ivy mantled its sides
in some places, and in others oaks and holly bushes, whose roots found
nourishment in the cliffs of the crag, waved over the precipices below,
like the plumage of the warrior over his steel helmet, giving grace to
that whose chief expression was terror. At the bottom of the rock,
and leaning, as it were, against it, was constructed a rude hut, built
chiefly of the trunks of trees felled in the neighbouring forest, and
secured against the weather by having its crevices stuffed with moss
mingled with clay. The stem of a young fir-tree lopped of its branches,
with a piece of wood tied across near the top, was planted upright by
the door, as a rude emblem of the holy cross. At a little distance on
the right hand, a fountain of the purest water trickled out of the
rock, and was received in a hollow stone, which labour had formed into a
rustic basin. Escaping from thence, the stream murmured down the descent
by a channel which its course had long worn, and so wandered through the
little plain to lose itself in the neighbouring wood.

Beside this fountain were the ruins of a very small chapel, of which
the roof had partly fallen in. The building, when entire, had never been
above sixteen feet long by twelve feet in breadth, and the roof, low
in proportion, rested upon four concentric arches which sprung from
the four corners of the building, each supported upon a short and heavy
pillar. The ribs of two of these arches remained, though the roof
had fallen down betwixt them; over the others it remained entire. The
entrance to this ancient place of devotion was under a very low round
arch, ornamented by several courses of that zig-zag moulding, resembling
shark's teeth, which appears so often in the more ancient Saxon
architecture. A belfry rose above the porch on four small pillars,
within which hung the green and weatherbeaten bell, the feeble sounds of
which had been some time before heard by the Black Knight.

The whole peaceful and quiet scene lay glimmering in twilight before
the eyes of the traveller, giving him good assurance of lodging for the
night; since it was a special duty of those hermits who dwelt in
the woods, to exercise hospitality towards benighted or bewildered
passengers.

Accordingly, the knight took no time to consider minutely the
particulars which we have detailed, but thanking Saint Julian (the
patron of travellers) who had sent him good harbourage, he leaped from
his horse and assailed the door of the hermitage with the butt of his
lance, in order to arouse attention and gain admittance.

It was some time before he obtained any answer, and the reply, when
made, was unpropitious.

"Pass on, whosoever thou art," was the answer given by a deep hoarse
voice from within the hut, "and disturb not the servant of God and St
Dunstan in his evening devotions."

"Worthy father," answered the knight, "here is a poor wanderer
bewildered in these woods, who gives thee the opportunity of exercising
thy charity and hospitality."

"Good brother," replied the inhabitant of the hermitage, "it has pleased
Our Lady and St Dunstan to destine me for the object of those virtues,
instead of the exercise thereof. I have no provisions here which even a
dog would share with me, and a horse of any tenderness of nurture would
despise my couch--pass therefore on thy way, and God speed thee."

"But how," replied the knight, "is it possible for me to find my way
through such a wood as this, when darkness is coming on? I pray you,
reverend father as you are a Christian, to undo your door, and at least
point out to me my road."

"And I pray you, good Christian brother," replied the anchorite, "to
disturb me no more. You have already interrupted one 'pater', two
'aves', and a 'credo', which I, miserable sinner that I am, should,
according to my vow, have said before moonrise."

"The road--the road!" vociferated the knight, "give me directions for
the road, if I am to expect no more from thee."

"The road," replied the hermit, "is easy to hit. The path from the wood
leads to a morass, and from thence to a ford, which, as the rains have
abated, may now be passable. When thou hast crossed the ford, thou
wilt take care of thy footing up the left bank, as it is somewhat
precipitous; and the path, which hangs over the river, has lately, as I
learn, (for I seldom leave the duties of my chapel,) given way in sundry
places. Thou wilt then keep straight forward---"

"A broken path--a precipice--a ford, and a morass!" said the knight
interrupting him,--"Sir Hermit, if you were the holiest that ever wore
beard or told bead, you shall scarce prevail on me to hold this road
to-night. I tell thee, that thou, who livest by the charity of the
country--ill deserved, as I doubt it is--hast no right to refuse shelter
to the wayfarer when in distress. Either open the door quickly, or, by
the rood, I will beat it down and make entry for myself."

"Friend wayfarer," replied the hermit, "be not importunate; if thou
puttest me to use the carnal weapon in mine own defence, it will be e'en
the worse for you."

At this moment a distant noise of barking and growling, which the
traveller had for some time heard, became extremely loud and furious,
and made the knight suppose that the hermit, alarmed by his threat of
making forcible entry, had called the dogs who made this clamour to
aid him in his defence, out of some inner recess in which they had been
kennelled. Incensed at this preparation on the hermit's part for making
good his inhospitable purpose, the knight struck the door so furiously
with his foot, that posts as well as staples shook with violence.

The anchorite, not caring again to expose his door to a similar shock,
now called out aloud, "Patience, patience--spare thy strength, good
traveller, and I will presently undo the door, though, it may be, my
doing so will be little to thy pleasure."

The door accordingly was opened; and the hermit, a large, strong-built
man, in his sackcloth gown and hood, girt with a rope of rushes, stood
before the knight. He had in one hand a lighted torch, or link, and in
the other a baton of crab-tree, so thick and heavy, that it might well
be termed a club. Two large shaggy dogs, half greyhound half mastiff,
stood ready to rush upon the traveller as soon as the door should be
opened. But when the torch glanced upon the lofty crest and golden spurs
of the knight, who stood without, the hermit, altering probably his
original intentions, repressed the rage of his auxiliaries, and,
changing his tone to a sort of churlish courtesy, invited the knight
to enter his hut, making excuse for his unwillingness to open his lodge
after sunset, by alleging the multitude of robbers and outlaws who were
abroad, and who gave no honour to Our Lady or St Dunstan, nor to those
holy men who spent life in their service.

"The poverty of your cell, good father," said the knight, looking around
him, and seeing nothing but a bed of leaves, a crucifix rudely carved
in oak, a missal, with a rough-hewn table and two stools, and one or two
clumsy articles of furniture--"the poverty of your cell should seem a
sufficient defence against any risk of thieves, not to mention the aid
of two trusty dogs, large and strong enough, I think, to pull down a
stag, and of course, to match with most men."

"The good keeper of the forest," said the hermit, "hath allowed me
the use of these animals, to protect my solitude until the times shall
mend."

Having said this, he fixed his torch in a twisted branch of iron which
served for a candlestick; and, placing the oaken trivet before the
embers of the fire, which he refreshed with some dry wood, he placed a
stool upon one side of the table, and beckoned to the knight to do the
same upon the other.

They sat down, and gazed with great gravity at each other, each thinking
in his heart that he had seldom seen a stronger or more athletic figure
than was placed opposite to him.

"Reverend hermit," said the knight, after looking long and fixedly at
his host, "were it not to interrupt your devout meditations, I would
pray to know three things of your holiness; first, where I am to put my
horse?--secondly, what I can have for supper?--thirdly, where I am to
take up my couch for the night?"

"I will reply to you," said the hermit, "with my finger, it being
against my rule to speak by words where signs can answer the purpose."
So saying, he pointed successively to two corners of the hut. "Your
stable," said he, "is there--your bed there; and," reaching down a
platter with two handfuls of parched pease upon it from the neighbouring
shelf, and placing it upon the table, he added, "your supper is here."

The knight shrugged his shoulders, and leaving the hut, brought in his
horse, (which in the interim he had fastened to a tree,) unsaddled him
with much attention, and spread upon the steed's weary back his own
mantle.

The hermit was apparently somewhat moved to compassion by the anxiety as
well as address which the stranger displayed in tending his horse; for,
muttering something about provender left for the keeper's palfrey, he
dragged out of a recess a bundle of forage, which he spread before the
knight's charger, and immediately afterwards shook down a quantity of
dried fern in the corner which he had assigned for the rider's couch.
The knight returned him thanks for his courtesy; and, this duty done,
both resumed their seats by the table, whereon stood the trencher of
pease placed between them. The hermit, after a long grace, which had
once been Latin, but of which original language few traces remained,
excepting here and there the long rolling termination of some word or
phrase, set example to his guest, by modestly putting into a very large
mouth, furnished with teeth which might have ranked with those of a
boar both in sharpness and whiteness, some three or four dried pease, a
miserable grist as it seemed for so large and able a mill.

The knight, in order to follow so laudable an example, laid aside his
helmet, his corslet, and the greater part of his armour, and showed to
the hermit a head thick-curled with yellow hair, high features, blue
eyes, remarkably bright and sparkling, a mouth well formed, having an
upper lip clothed with mustachoes darker than his hair, and bearing
altogether the look of a bold, daring, and enterprising man, with which
his strong form well corresponded.

The hermit, as if wishing to answer to the confidence of his guest,
threw back his cowl, and showed a round bullet head belonging to a man
in the prime of life. His close-shaven crown, surrounded by a circle
of stiff curled black hair, had something the appearance of a parish
pinfold begirt by its high hedge. The features expressed nothing of
monastic austerity, or of ascetic privations; on the contrary, it was
a bold bluff countenance, with broad black eyebrows, a well-turned
forehead, and cheeks as round and vermilion as those of a trumpeter,
from which descended a long and curly black beard. Such a visage,
joined to the brawny form of the holy man, spoke rather of sirloins and
haunches, than of pease and pulse. This incongruity did not escape the
guest. After he had with great difficulty accomplished the mastication
of a mouthful of the dried pease, he found it absolutely necessary
to request his pious entertainer to furnish him with some liquor; who
replied to his request by placing before him a large can of the purest
water from the fountain.

"It is from the well of St Dunstan," said he, "in which, betwixt sun and
sun, he baptized five hundred heathen Danes and Britons--blessed be his
name!" And applying his black beard to the pitcher, he took a draught
much more moderate in quantity than his encomium seemed to warrant.

"It seems to me, reverend father," said the knight, "that the small
morsels which you eat, together with this holy, but somewhat thin
beverage, have thriven with you marvellously. You appear a man more
fit to win the ram at a wrestling match, or the ring at a bout at
quarter-staff, or the bucklers at a sword-play, than to linger out your
time in this desolate wilderness, saying masses, and living upon parched
pease and cold water."

"Sir Knight," answered the hermit, "your thoughts, like those of the
ignorant laity, are according to the flesh. It has pleased Our Lady and
my patron saint to bless the pittance to which I restrain myself, even
as the pulse and water was blessed to the children Shadrach, Meshech,
and Abednego, who drank the same rather than defile themselves with the
wine and meats which were appointed them by the King of the Saracens."

"Holy father," said the knight, "upon whose countenance it hath pleased
Heaven to work such a miracle, permit a sinful layman to crave thy
name?"

"Thou mayst call me," answered the hermit, "the Clerk of Copmanhurst,
for so I am termed in these parts--They add, it is true, the
epithet holy, but I stand not upon that, as being unworthy of such
addition.--And now, valiant knight, may I pray ye for the name of my
honourable guest?"

"Truly," said the knight, "Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst, men call me in
these parts the Black Knight,--many, sir, add to it the epithet of
Sluggard, whereby I am no way ambitious to be distinguished."

The hermit could scarcely forbear from smiling at his guest's reply.

"I see," said he, "Sir Sluggish Knight, that thou art a man of prudence
and of counsel; and moreover, I see that my poor monastic fare likes
thee not, accustomed, perhaps, as thou hast been, to the license of
courts and of camps, and the luxuries of cities; and now I bethink me,
Sir Sluggard, that when the charitable keeper of this forest-walk left
those dogs for my protection, and also those bundles of forage, he left
me also some food, which, being unfit for my use, the very recollection
of it had escaped me amid my more weighty meditations."

"I dare be sworn he did so," said the knight; "I was convinced that
there was better food in the cell, Holy Clerk, since you first doffed
your cowl.--Your keeper is ever a jovial fellow; and none who beheld thy
grinders contending with these pease, and thy throat flooded with this
ungenial element, could see thee doomed to such horse-provender and
horse-beverage," (pointing to the provisions upon the table,) "and
refrain from mending thy cheer. Let us see the keeper's bounty,
therefore, without delay."

The hermit cast a wistful look upon the knight, in which there was
a sort of comic expression of hesitation, as if uncertain how far he
should act prudently in trusting his guest. There was, however, as much
of bold frankness in the knight's countenance as was possible to be
expressed by features. His smile, too, had something in it irresistibly
comic, and gave an assurance of faith and loyalty, with which his host
could not refrain from sympathizing.

After exchanging a mute glance or two, the hermit went to the further
side of the hut, and opened a hutch, which was concealed with great care
and some ingenuity. Out of the recesses of a dark closet, into which
this aperture gave admittance, he brought a large pasty, baked in a
pewter platter of unusual dimensions. This mighty dish he placed before
his guest, who, using his poniard to cut it open, lost no time in making
himself acquainted with its contents.

"How long is it since the good keeper has been here?" said the knight
to his host, after having swallowed several hasty morsels of this
reinforcement to the hermit's good cheer.

"About two months," answered the father hastily.

"By the true Lord," answered the knight, "every thing in your hermitage
is miraculous, Holy Clerk! for I would have been sworn that the fat buck
which furnished this venison had been running on foot within the week."

The hermit was somewhat discountenanced by this observation; and,
moreover, he made but a poor figure while gazing on the diminution of
the pasty, on which his guest was making desperate inroads; a warfare
in which his previous profession of abstinence left him no pretext for
joining.

"I have been in Palestine, Sir Clerk," said the knight, stopping short
of a sudden, "and I bethink me it is a custom there that every host who
entertains a guest shall assure him of the wholesomeness of his food, by
partaking of it along with him. Far be it from me to suspect so holy a
man of aught inhospitable; nevertheless I will be highly bound to you
would you comply with this Eastern custom."

"To ease your unnecessary scruples, Sir Knight, I will for once depart
from my rule," replied the hermit. And as there were no forks in those
days, his clutches were instantly in the bowels of the pasty.

The ice of ceremony being once broken, it seemed matter of rivalry
between the guest and the entertainer which should display the best
appetite; and although the former had probably fasted longest, yet the
hermit fairly surpassed him.

"Holy Clerk," said the knight, when his hunger was appeased, "I would
gage my good horse yonder against a zecchin, that that same honest
keeper to whom we are obliged for the venison has left thee a stoup of
wine, or a runlet of canary, or some such trifle, by way of ally to this
noble pasty. This would be a circumstance, doubtless, totally unworthy
to dwell in the memory of so rigid an anchorite; yet, I think, were you
to search yonder crypt once more, you would find that I am right in my
conjecture."

The hermit only replied by a grin; and returning to the hutch, he
produced a leathern bottle, which might contain about four quarts. He
also brought forth two large drinking cups, made out of the horn of
the urus, and hooped with silver. Having made this goodly provision
for washing down the supper, he seemed to think no farther ceremonious
scruple necessary on his part; but filling both cups, and saying, in the
Saxon fashion, "'Waes hael', Sir Sluggish Knight!" he emptied his own at
a draught.

"'Drink hael', Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst!" answered the warrior, and did
his host reason in a similar brimmer.

"Holy Clerk," said the stranger, after the first cup was thus swallowed,
"I cannot but marvel that a man possessed of such thews and sinews as
thine, and who therewithal shows the talent of so goodly a trencher-man,
should think of abiding by himself in this wilderness. In my judgment,
you are fitter to keep a castle or a fort, eating of the fat and
drinking of the strong, than to live here upon pulse and water, or even
upon the charity of the keeper. At least, were I as thou, I should find
myself both disport and plenty out of the king's deer. There is many a
goodly herd in these forests, and a buck will never be missed that goes
to the use of Saint Dunstan's chaplain."

"Sir Sluggish Knight," replied the Clerk, "these are dangerous words,
and I pray you to forbear them. I am true hermit to the king and law,
and were I to spoil my liege's game, I should be sure of the prison,
and, an my gown saved me not, were in some peril of hanging."

"Nevertheless, were I as thou," said the knight, "I would take my walk
by moonlight, when foresters and keepers were warm in bed, and ever
and anon,--as I pattered my prayers,--I would let fly a shaft among the
herds of dun deer that feed in the glades--Resolve me, Holy Clerk, hast
thou never practised such a pastime?"

"Friend Sluggard," answered the hermit, "thou hast seen all that can
concern thee of my housekeeping, and something more than he deserves who
takes up his quarters by violence. Credit me, it is better to enjoy
the good which God sends thee, than to be impertinently curious how it
comes. Fill thy cup, and welcome; and do not, I pray thee, by further
impertinent enquiries, put me to show that thou couldst hardly have made
good thy lodging had I been earnest to oppose thee."

"By my faith," said the knight, "thou makest me more curious than ever!
Thou art the most mysterious hermit I ever met; and I will know more of
thee ere we part. As for thy threats, know, holy man, thou speakest to
one whose trade it is to find out danger wherever it is to be met with."

"Sir Sluggish Knight, I drink to thee," said the hermit; "respecting thy
valour much, but deeming wondrous slightly of thy discretion. If thou
wilt take equal arms with me, I will give thee, in all friendship and
brotherly love, such sufficing penance and complete absolution, that
thou shalt not for the next twelve months sin the sin of excess of
curiosity."

The knight pledged him, and desired him to name his weapons.

"There is none," replied the hermit, "from the scissors of Delilah, and
the tenpenny nail of Jael, to the scimitar of Goliath, at which I am not
a match for thee--But, if I am to make the election, what sayst thou,
good friend, to these trinkets?"

Thus speaking, he opened another hutch, and took out from it a couple
of broadswords and bucklers, such as were used by the yeomanry of the
period. The knight, who watched his motions, observed that this second
place of concealment was furnished with two or three good long-bows, a
cross-bow, a bundle of bolts for the latter, and half-a-dozen sheaves of
arrows for the former. A harp, and other matters of a very uncanonical
appearance, were also visible when this dark recess was opened.

"I promise thee, brother Clerk," said he, "I will ask thee no more
offensive questions. The contents of that cupboard are an answer to all
my enquiries; and I see a weapon there" (here he stooped and took out
the harp) "on which I would more gladly prove my skill with thee, than
at the sword and buckler."

"I hope, Sir Knight," said the hermit, "thou hast given no good reason
for thy surname of the Sluggard. I do promise thee I suspect thee
grievously. Nevertheless, thou art my guest, and I will not put thy
manhood to the proof without thine own free will. Sit thee down, then,
and fill thy cup; let us drink, sing, and be merry. If thou knowest ever
a good lay, thou shalt be welcome to a nook of pasty at Copmanhurst so
long as I serve the chapel of St Dunstan, which, please God, shall be
till I change my grey covering for one of green turf. But come, fill a
flagon, for it will crave some time to tune the harp; and nought pitches
the voice and sharpens the ear like a cup of wine. For my part, I
love to feel the grape at my very finger-ends before they make the
harp-strings tinkle." [22]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Scott opens this chapter with the first six lines of Thomas Parnell's poem "The Hermit." A hermit is a religious man who decides to leave the world behind and live alone, praying and meditating about God. The narrator reminds the reader about the Black Knight who had disappeared so suddenly at the end of the tournament. We rejoin the knight as he is trying to go north. He gets lost in the curving roads of Yorkshire and decides to let his horse choose the way. The horse finds a tiny path that leads to a small chapel. Inside is a hermit. The Black Knight asks for either shelter for the night or directions to the main road. The hermit is really, really reluctant to help. He just wants to be left alone with his prayers. But he finally allows the Black Knight to come inside and have dinner. The hermit, whose title is the Clerk of Copmanhurst, settles in to some porridge after saying a long grace. In this chapter, the hermit is called Friar, but for the rest of the book, he is "the Friar," so we're just going to call him that. When he pulls back his hood, the Black Knight sees that the hermit is youngish, healthy, and very strong looking. The Black Knight can't believe the Friar could stay so healthy looking on just a diet of porridge. The Friar admits that his sponsor leaves richer food, but he never eats it since he has taken a vow of self-denial. The Friar ducks back into his house and brings out a fine piece of deer meat baked into a pastry. It turns out that he hasn't really been denying himself, but he holds back from eating for a bit, since he doesn't want it to be too obvious. But the Black Knight insists, and finally the two men devour their rich meal. The Black Knight also guesses that the Friar has some wine hidden, which the two men split. They are getting quite drunk by now. The Black Knight hints that the Friar has been poaching - that is, killing animals that belong to someone else. For doubting the strength of his holy vows, the Friar challenges the Black Knight to a fight. It turns out that the Friar has some very fine weapons hidden away in his chapel. The Black Knight backs down at the sight of the Friar's swords and arrows. The two of them continue to drink happily together.


prompt:
Chapter: At eve, within yon studious nook,
     I ope my brass-embossed book,
     Portray'd with many a holy deed
     Of martyrs crown'd with heavenly meed;
     Then, as my taper waxes dim,
     Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.
     * * * * *
     Who but would cast his pomp away,
     To take my staff and amice grey,
     And to the world's tumultuous stage,
     Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?
     --Warton

Notwithstanding the prescription of the genial hermit, with which his
guest willingly complied, he found it no easy matter to bring the harp
to harmony.

"Methinks, holy father," said he, "the instrument wants one string, and
the rest have been somewhat misused."

"Ay, mark'st thou that?" replied the hermit; "that shows thee a master
of the craft. Wine and wassail," he added, gravely casting up his
eyes--"all the fault of wine and wassail!--I told Allan-a-Dale, the
northern minstrel, that he would damage the harp if he touched it after
the seventh cup, but he would not be controlled--Friend, I drink to thy
successful performance."

So saying, he took off his cup with much gravity, at the same time
shaking his head at the intemperance of the Scottish harper.

The knight in the meantime, had brought the strings into some order,
and after a short prelude, asked his host whether he would choose a
"sirvente" in the language of "oc", or a "lai" in the language of "oui",
or a "virelai", or a ballad in the vulgar English. [23]

"A ballad, a ballad," said the hermit, "against all the 'ocs' and 'ouis'
of France. Downright English am I, Sir Knight, and downright English
was my patron St Dunstan, and scorned 'oc' and 'oui', as he would have
scorned the parings of the devil's hoof--downright English alone shall
be sung in this cell."

"I will assay, then," said the knight, "a ballad composed by a Saxon
glee-man, whom I knew in Holy Land."

It speedily appeared, that if the knight was not a complete master of
the minstrel art, his taste for it had at least been cultivated under
the best instructors. Art had taught him to soften the faults of a voice
which had little compass, and was naturally rough rather than mellow,
and, in short, had done all that culture can do in supplying natural
deficiencies. His performance, therefore, might have been termed very
respectable by abler judges than the hermit, especially as the knight
threw into the notes now a degree of spirit, and now of plaintive
enthusiasm, which gave force and energy to the verses which he sung.

     THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.

     1.

     High deeds achieved of knightly fame,
     From Palestine the champion came;
     The cross upon his shoulders borne,
     Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn.
     Each dint upon his batter'd shield
     Was token of a foughten field;
     And thus, beneath his lady's bower,
     He sung as fell the twilight hour:--

     2.

     "Joy to the fair!--thy knight behold,
     Return'd from yonder land of gold;
     No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need,
     Save his good arms and battle-steed
     His spurs, to dash against a foe,
     His lance and sword to lay him low;
     Such all the trophies of his toil,
     Such--and the hope of Tekla's smile!

     3.

     "Joy to the fair! whose constant knight
     Her favour fired to feats of might;
     Unnoted shall she not remain,
     Where meet the bright and noble train;
     Minstrel shall sing and herald tell--
     'Mark yonder maid of beauty well,
     'Tis she for whose bright eyes were won
     The listed field at Askalon!

     4.

     "'Note well her smile!--it edged the blade
     Which fifty wives to widows made,
     When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell,
     Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell.
     Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow
     Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?
     Twines not of them one golden thread,
     But for its sake a Paynim bled.'

     5.

     "Joy to the fair!--my name unknown,
     Each deed, and all its praise thine own
     Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate,
     The night dew falls, the hour is late.
     Inured to Syria's glowing breath,
     I feel the north breeze chill as death;
     Let grateful love quell maiden shame,
     And grant him bliss who brings thee fame."

During this performance, the hermit demeaned himself much like a
first-rate critic of the present day at a new opera. He reclined back
upon his seat, with his eyes half shut; now, folding his hands and
twisting his thumbs, he seemed absorbed in attention, and anon,
balancing his expanded palms, he gently flourished them in time to the
music. At one or two favourite cadences, he threw in a little assistance
of his own, where the knight's voice seemed unable to carry the air
so high as his worshipful taste approved. When the song was ended, the
anchorite emphatically declared it a good one, and well sung.

"And yet," said he, "I think my Saxon countrymen had herded long enough
with the Normans, to fall into the tone of their melancholy ditties.
What took the honest knight from home? or what could he expect but to
find his mistress agreeably engaged with a rival on his return, and his
serenade, as they call it, as little regarded as the caterwauling of a
cat in the gutter? Nevertheless, Sir Knight, I drink this cup to thee,
to the success of all true lovers--I fear you are none," he added, on
observing that the knight (whose brain began to be heated with these
repeated draughts) qualified his flagon from the water pitcher.

"Why," said the knight, "did you not tell me that this water was from
the well of your blessed patron, St Dunstan?"

"Ay, truly," said the hermit, "and many a hundred of pagans did he
baptize there, but I never heard that he drank any of it. Every thing
should be put to its proper use in this world. St Dunstan knew, as well
as any one, the prerogatives of a jovial friar."

And so saying, he reached the harp, and entertained his guest with
the following characteristic song, to a sort of derry-down chorus,
appropriate to an old English ditty. [24]

     THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.

     1.

     I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
     To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;
     But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
     So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.

     2.

     Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,
     And is brought home at even-song prick'd through with a spear;
     I confess him in haste--for his lady desires
     No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.

     3.

     Your monarch?--Pshaw! many a prince has been known
     To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
     But which of us e'er felt the idle desire
     To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!

     4.

     The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
     The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own;
     He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
     For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.

     5.

     He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes
     May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums
     For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
     Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.

     6.

     He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
     They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
     And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
     Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.

     7.

     Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
     The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;
     For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,
     Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.

"By my troth," said the knight, "thou hast sung well and lustily, and in
high praise of thine order. And, talking of the devil, Holy Clerk,
are you not afraid that he may pay you a visit during some of your
uncanonical pastimes?"

"I uncanonical!" answered the hermit; "I scorn the charge--I scorn it
with my heels!--I serve the duty of my chapel duly and truly--Two masses
daily, morning and evening, primes, noons, and vespers, 'aves, credos,
paters'---"

"Excepting moonlight nights, when the venison is in season," said his
guest.

"'Exceptis excipiendis'" replied the hermit, "as our old abbot taught me
to say, when impertinent laymen should ask me if I kept every punctilio
of mine order."

"True, holy father," said the knight; "but the devil is apt to keep
an eye on such exceptions; he goes about, thou knowest, like a roaring
lion."

"Let him roar here if he dares," said the friar; "a touch of my cord
will make him roar as loud as the tongs of St Dunstan himself did. I
never feared man, and I as little fear the devil and his imps. Saint
Dunstan, Saint Dubric, Saint Winibald, Saint Winifred, Saint Swibert,
Saint Willick, not forgetting Saint Thomas a Kent, and my own poor
merits to speed, I defy every devil of them, come cut and long
tail.--But to let you into a secret, I never speak upon such subjects,
my friend, until after morning vespers."

He changed the conversation; fast and furious grew the mirth of the
parties, and many a song was exchanged betwixt them, when their revels
were interrupted by a loud knocking at the door of the hermitage.

The occasion of this interruption we can only explain by resuming the
adventures of another set of our characters; for, like old Ariosto, we
do not pique ourselves upon continuing uniformly to keep company with
any one personage of our drama.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The epigraph to this chapter is from Part IV of Thomas Warton's "Inscription in a Hermitage." The poem describes the pleasures of being a hermit and living far from society. The Friar wants to hear a song from the Black Knight. He wants a real English song - none of this new French stuff. The Black Knight launches into a song called "The Crusader's Return," about a knight fighting in the Crusades and dreaming of his ladylove. All of the knight's victories in the song are thanks to his love. The Friar applauds, though he thinks the song is a bit gloomy. Then the Friar sings his own song: "The Barefooted Friar." It is a funny song about what a good, lazy life a churchman can have. The Black Knight applauds happily, but then he teases the Friar about the unholy life he leads. The Friar shouts that he's not afraid of the devil in any case. He names a whole bunch of saints to protect him, all English saints from the days before the Norman invasion of Britain. The Friar and the Black Knight continue to make merry until a loud knocking at the door interrupts them.


prompt:
Chapter: Away! our journey lies through dell and dingle,
     Where the blithe fawn trips by its timid mother,
     Where the broad oak, with intercepting boughs,
     Chequers the sunbeam in the green-sward alley--
     Up and away!--for lovely paths are these
     To tread, when the glad Sun is on his throne
     Less pleasant, and less safe, when Cynthia's lamp
     With doubtful glimmer lights the dreary forest.
     --Ettrick Forest

When Cedric the Saxon saw his son drop down senseless in the lists at
Ashby, his first impulse was to order him into the custody and care of
his own attendants, but the words choked in his throat. He could not
bring himself to acknowledge, in presence of such an assembly, the son
whom he had renounced and disinherited. He ordered, however, Oswald to
keep an eye upon him; and directed that officer, with two of his serfs,
to convey Ivanhoe to Ashby as soon as the crowd had dispersed. Oswald,
however, was anticipated in this good office. The crowd dispersed,
indeed, but the knight was nowhere to be seen.

It was in vain that Cedric's cupbearer looked around for his young
master--he saw the bloody spot on which he had lately sunk down, but
himself he saw no longer; it seemed as if the fairies had conveyed him
from the spot. Perhaps Oswald (for the Saxons were very superstitious)
might have adopted some such hypothesis, to account for Ivanhoe's
disappearance, had he not suddenly cast his eye upon a person attired
like a squire, in whom he recognised the features of his fellow-servant
Gurth. Anxious concerning his master's fate, and in despair at his
sudden disappearance, the translated swineherd was searching for him
everywhere, and had neglected, in doing so, the concealment on which
his own safety depended. Oswald deemed it his duty to secure Gurth, as a
fugitive of whose fate his master was to judge.

Renewing his enquiries concerning the fate of Ivanhoe, the only
information which the cupbearer could collect from the bystanders
was, that the knight had been raised with care by certain well-attired
grooms, and placed in a litter belonging to a lady among the spectators,
which had immediately transported him out of the press. Oswald, on
receiving this intelligence, resolved to return to his master for
farther instructions, carrying along with him Gurth, whom he considered
in some sort as a deserter from the service of Cedric.

The Saxon had been under very intense and agonizing apprehensions
concerning his son; for Nature had asserted her rights, in spite of the
patriotic stoicism which laboured to disown her. But no sooner was he
informed that Ivanhoe was in careful, and probably in friendly hands,
than the paternal anxiety which had been excited by the dubiety of his
fate, gave way anew to the feeling of injured pride and resentment, at
what he termed Wilfred's filial disobedience.

"Let him wander his way," said he--"let those leech his wounds for whose
sake he encountered them. He is fitter to do the juggling tricks of
the Norman chivalry than to maintain the fame and honour of his English
ancestry with the glaive and brown-bill, the good old weapons of his
country."

"If to maintain the honour of ancestry," said Rowena, who was present,
"it is sufficient to be wise in council and brave in execution--to be
boldest among the bold, and gentlest among the gentle, I know no voice,
save his father's---"

"Be silent, Lady Rowena!--on this subject only I hear you not. Prepare
yourself for the Prince's festival: we have been summoned thither with
unwonted circumstance of honour and of courtesy, such as the haughty
Normans have rarely used to our race since the fatal day of Hastings.
Thither will I go, were it only to show these proud Normans how little
the fate of a son, who could defeat their bravest, can affect a Saxon."

"Thither," said Rowena, "do I NOT go; and I pray you to beware, lest
what you mean for courage and constancy, shall be accounted hardness of
heart."

"Remain at home, then, ungrateful lady," answered Cedric; "thine is the
hard heart, which can sacrifice the weal of an oppressed people to an
idle and unauthorized attachment. I seek the noble Athelstane, and with
him attend the banquet of John of Anjou."

He went accordingly to the banquet, of which we have already mentioned
the principal events. Immediately upon retiring from the castle, the
Saxon thanes, with their attendants, took horse; and it was during the
bustle which attended their doing so, that Cedric, for the first time,
cast his eyes upon the deserter Gurth. The noble Saxon had returned from
the banquet, as we have seen, in no very placid humour, and wanted but a
pretext for wreaking his anger upon some one.

"The gyves!" he said, "the gyves!--Oswald--Hundibert!--Dogs and
villains!--why leave ye the knave unfettered?"

Without daring to remonstrate, the companions of Gurth bound him with
a halter, as the readiest cord which occurred. He submitted to the
operation without remonstrance, except that, darting a reproachful
look at his master, he said, "This comes of loving your flesh and blood
better than mine own."

"To horse, and forward!" said Cedric.

"It is indeed full time," said the noble Athelstane; "for, if we
ride not the faster, the worthy Abbot Waltheoff's preparations for a
rere-supper [25] will be altogether spoiled."

The travellers, however, used such speed as to reach the convent of St
Withold's before the apprehended evil took place. The Abbot, himself of
ancient Saxon descent, received the noble Saxons with the profuse and
exuberant hospitality of their nation, wherein they indulged to a late,
or rather an early hour; nor did they take leave of their reverend host
the next morning until they had shared with him a sumptuous refection.

As the cavalcade left the court of the monastery, an incident happened
somewhat alarming to the Saxons, who, of all people of Europe, were most
addicted to a superstitious observance of omens, and to whose opinions
can be traced most of those notions upon such subjects, still to be
found among our popular antiquities. For the Normans being a mixed race,
and better informed according to the information of the times, had lost
most of the superstitious prejudices which their ancestors had brought
from Scandinavia, and piqued themselves upon thinking freely on such
topics.

In the present instance, the apprehension of impending evil was inspired
by no less respectable a prophet than a large lean black dog, which,
sitting upright, howled most piteously as the foremost riders left the
gate, and presently afterwards, barking wildly, and jumping to and fro,
seemed bent upon attaching itself to the party.

"I like not that music, father Cedric," said Athelstane; for by this
title of respect he was accustomed to address him.

"Nor I either, uncle," said Wamba; "I greatly fear we shall have to pay
the piper."

"In my mind," said Athelstane, upon whose memory the Abbot's good
ale (for Burton was already famous for that genial liquor) had made a
favourable impression,--"in my mind we had better turn back, and abide
with the Abbot until the afternoon. It is unlucky to travel where your
path is crossed by a monk, a hare, or a howling dog, until you have
eaten your next meal."

"Away!" said Cedric, impatiently; "the day is already too short for
our journey. For the dog, I know it to be the cur of the runaway slave
Gurth, a useless fugitive like its master."

So saying, and rising at the same time in his stirrups, impatient at the
interruption of his journey, he launched his javelin at poor Fangs--for
Fangs it was, who, having traced his master thus far upon his stolen
expedition, had here lost him, and was now, in his uncouth way,
rejoicing at his reappearance. The javelin inflicted a wound upon the
animal's shoulder, and narrowly missed pinning him to the earth; and
Fangs fled howling from the presence of the enraged thane. Gurth's heart
swelled within him; for he felt this meditated slaughter of his faithful
adherent in a degree much deeper than the harsh treatment he had himself
received. Having in vain attempted to raise his hand to his eyes,
he said to Wamba, who, seeing his master's ill humour had prudently
retreated to the rear, "I pray thee, do me the kindness to wipe my eyes
with the skirt of thy mantle; the dust offends me, and these bonds will
not let me help myself one way or another."

Wamba did him the service he required, and they rode side by side for
some time, during which Gurth maintained a moody silence. At length he
could repress his feelings no longer.

"Friend Wamba," said he, "of all those who are fools enough to serve
Cedric, thou alone hast dexterity enough to make thy folly acceptable to
him. Go to him, therefore, and tell him that neither for love nor fear
will Gurth serve him longer. He may strike the head from me--he may
scourge me--he may load me with irons--but henceforth he shall never
compel me either to love or to obey him. Go to him, then, and tell him
that Gurth the son of Beowulph renounces his service."

"Assuredly," said Wamba, "fool as I am, I shall not do your fool's
errand. Cedric hath another javelin stuck into his girdle, and thou
knowest he does not always miss his mark."

"I care not," replied Gurth, "how soon he makes a mark of me. Yesterday
he left Wilfred, my young master, in his blood. To-day he has striven to
kill before my face the only other living creature that ever showed me
kindness. By St Edmund, St Dunstan, St Withold, St Edward the Confessor,
and every other Saxon saint in the calendar," (for Cedric never swore
by any that was not of Saxon lineage, and all his household had the same
limited devotion,) "I will never forgive him!"

"To my thinking now," said the Jester, who was frequently wont to act
as peace-maker in the family, "our master did not propose to hurt Fangs,
but only to affright him. For, if you observed, he rose in his stirrups,
as thereby meaning to overcast the mark; and so he would have done,
but Fangs happening to bound up at the very moment, received a scratch,
which I will be bound to heal with a penny's breadth of tar."

"If I thought so," said Gurth--"if I could but think so--but no--I saw
the javelin was well aimed--I heard it whizz through the air with all
the wrathful malevolence of him who cast it, and it quivered after it
had pitched in the ground, as if with regret for having missed its mark.
By the hog dear to St Anthony, I renounce him!"

And the indignant swineherd resumed his sullen silence, which no efforts
of the Jester could again induce him to break.

Meanwhile Cedric and Athelstane, the leaders of the troop, conversed
together on the state of the land, on the dissensions of the royal
family, on the feuds and quarrels among the Norman nobles, and on the
chance which there was that the oppressed Saxons might be able to
free themselves from the yoke of the Normans, or at least to elevate
themselves into national consequence and independence, during the civil
convulsions which were likely to ensue. On this subject Cedric was all
animation. The restoration of the independence of his race was the idol
of his heart, to which he had willingly sacrificed domestic happiness
and the interests of his own son. But, in order to achieve this great
revolution in favour of the native English, it was necessary that they
should be united among themselves, and act under an acknowledged head.
The necessity of choosing their chief from the Saxon blood-royal was not
only evident in itself, but had been made a solemn condition by those
whom Cedric had intrusted with his secret plans and hopes. Athelstane
had this quality at least; and though he had few mental accomplishments
or talents to recommend him as a leader, he had still a goodly person,
was no coward, had been accustomed to martial exercises, and seemed
willing to defer to the advice of counsellors more wise than himself.
Above all, he was known to be liberal and hospitable, and believed to be
good-natured. But whatever pretensions Athelstane had to be considered
as head of the Saxon confederacy, many of that nation were disposed
to prefer to the title of the Lady Rowena, who drew her descent from
Alfred, and whose father having been a chief renowned for wisdom,
courage, and generosity, his memory was highly honoured by his oppressed
countrymen.

It would have been no difficult thing for Cedric, had he been so
disposed, to have placed himself at the head of a third party, as
formidable at least as any of the others. To counterbalance their royal
descent, he had courage, activity, energy, and, above all, that devoted
attachment to the cause which had procured him the epithet of The Saxon,
and his birth was inferior to none, excepting only that of Athelstane
and his ward. These qualities, however, were unalloyed by the slightest
shade of selfishness; and, instead of dividing yet farther his weakened
nation by forming a faction of his own, it was a leading part of
Cedric's plan to extinguish that which already existed, by promoting a
marriage betwixt Rowena and Athelstane. An obstacle occurred to this his
favourite project, in the mutual attachment of his ward and his son and
hence the original cause of the banishment of Wilfred from the house of
his father.

This stern measure Cedric had adopted, in hopes that, during Wilfred's
absence, Rowena might relinquish her preference, but in this hope he was
disappointed; a disappointment which might be attributed in part to the
mode in which his ward had been educated. Cedric, to whom the name of
Alfred was as that of a deity, had treated the sole remaining scion of
that great monarch with a degree of observance, such as, perhaps, was
in those days scarce paid to an acknowledged princess. Rowena's will had
been in almost all cases a law to his household; and Cedric himself, as
if determined that her sovereignty should be fully acknowledged within
that little circle at least, seemed to take a pride in acting as the
first of her subjects. Thus trained in the exercise not only of free
will, but despotic authority, Rowena was, by her previous education,
disposed both to resist and to resent any attempt to control her
affections, or dispose of her hand contrary to her inclinations, and to
assert her independence in a case in which even those females who have
been trained up to obedience and subjection, are not infrequently apt to
dispute the authority of guardians and parents. The opinions which she
felt strongly, she avowed boldly; and Cedric, who could not free himself
from his habitual deference to her opinions, felt totally at a loss how
to enforce his authority of guardian.

It was in vain that he attempted to dazzle her with the prospect of a
visionary throne. Rowena, who possessed strong sense, neither considered
his plan as practicable, nor as desirable, so far as she was concerned,
could it have been achieved. Without attempting to conceal her avowed
preference of Wilfred of Ivanhoe, she declared that, were that favoured
knight out of question, she would rather take refuge in a convent, than
share a throne with Athelstane, whom, having always despised, she now
began, on account of the trouble she received on his account, thoroughly
to detest.

Nevertheless, Cedric, whose opinions of women's constancy was far from
strong, persisted in using every means in his power to bring about the
proposed match, in which he conceived he was rendering an important
service to the Saxon cause. The sudden and romantic appearance of his
son in the lists at Ashby, he had justly regarded as almost a death's
blow to his hopes. His paternal affection, it is true, had for an
instant gained the victory over pride and patriotism; but both had
returned in full force, and under their joint operation, he was now bent
upon making a determined effort for the union of Athelstane and Rowena,
together with expediting those other measures which seemed necessary to
forward the restoration of Saxon independence.

On this last subject, he was now labouring with Athelstane, not without
having reason, every now and then, to lament, like Hotspur, that he
should have moved such a dish of skimmed milk to so honourable an
action. Athelstane, it is true, was vain enough, and loved to have
his ears tickled with tales of his high descent, and of his right
by inheritance to homage and sovereignty. But his petty vanity was
sufficiently gratified by receiving this homage at the hands of his
immediate attendants, and of the Saxons who approached him. If he had
the courage to encounter danger, he at least hated the trouble of going
to seek it; and while he agreed in the general principles laid down by
Cedric concerning the claim of the Saxons to independence, and was still
more easily convinced of his own title to reign over them when that
independence should be attained, yet when the means of asserting these
rights came to be discussed, he was still "Athelstane the Unready,"
slow, irresolute, procrastinating, and unenterprising. The warm and
impassioned exhortations of Cedric had as little effect upon his
impassive temper, as red-hot balls alighting in the water, which produce
a little sound and smoke, and are instantly extinguished.

If, leaving this task, which might be compared to spurring a tired jade,
or to hammering upon cold iron, Cedric fell back to his ward Rowena, he
received little more satisfaction from conferring with her. For, as his
presence interrupted the discourse between the lady and her favourite
attendant upon the gallantry and fate of Wilfred, Elgitha failed not to
revenge both her mistress and herself, by recurring to the overthrow of
Athelstane in the lists, the most disagreeable subject which could greet
the ears of Cedric. To this sturdy Saxon, therefore, the day's journey
was fraught with all manner of displeasure and discomfort; so that
he more than once internally cursed the tournament, and him who had
proclaimed it, together with his own folly in ever thinking of going
thither.

At noon, upon the motion of Athelstane, the travellers paused in a
woodland shade by a fountain, to repose their horses and partake of some
provisions, with which the hospitable Abbot had loaded a sumpter mule.
Their repast was a pretty long one; and these several interruptions
rendered it impossible for them to hope to reach Rotherwood without
travelling all night, a conviction which induced them to proceed on
their way at a more hasty pace than they had hitherto used.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: This chapter's opening poem comes from our main man himself, Sir Walter Scott. The poem describes the Ettrick Forest in Scotland. When Cedric sees Ivanhoe fall down at the end of the tournament, he almost picks him up to take care of him. But Cedric is too proud to acknowledge the son he disinherited so long ago in front of so many people. Once the crowds clear a bit, Ivanhoe has already disappeared, and Cedric has no idea where he's gone. Oswald, Cedric's attendant, recognizes Ivanhoe's servant as none other than Gurth, the pig-herder. Cedric continues to be angry. Rowena tries to soothe him, but Cedric goes on thinking that Ivanhoe is disobedient and ungrateful. Rowena also refuses to go to Prince John's banquet with Cedric and Athelstane. The banquet leaves Cedric in a really bad mood. When Cedric returns from the banquet, he spots Gurth. He immediately orders his men to put Gurth in chains to punish him for running away. Cedric, Rowena, and Athelstane set out for a late supper with Abbot Waltheoff at the convent of Saint Withold. As they leave the convent after having eaten, they see a bad omen: a large black dog. Cedric recognizes the dog as Gurth's and throws a spear at it. The dog is injured and runs away. Gurth swears he will never have anything to do with Cedric again. At the front of the group, Cedric and Athelstane talk about the future. Cedric has decided that it will be necessary for Athelstane and Rowena to marry to restart the kingdom of the Saxons. But Cedric also knows that Rowena is totally in love with Ivanhoe. Cedric encourages Athelstane to woo Rowena, but Athelstane is too lazy. Cedric hopes to influence Rowena, but she won't listen. Cedric's temper is not improving with this trip into the forest.


prompt:
Chapter: A train of armed men, some noble dame
     Escorting, (so their scatter'd words discover'd,
     As unperceived I hung upon their rear,)
     Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night
     Within the castle.
     --Orra, a Tragedy

The travellers had now reached the verge of the wooded country, and were
about to plunge into its recesses, held dangerous at that time from the
number of outlaws whom oppression and poverty had driven to despair,
and who occupied the forests in such large bands as could easily bid
defiance to the feeble police of the period. From these rovers, however,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour Cedric and Athelstane accounted
themselves secure, as they had in attendance ten servants, besides Wamba
and Gurth, whose aid could not be counted upon, the one being a jester
and the other a captive. It may be added, that in travelling thus late
through the forest, Cedric and Athelstane relied on their descent and
character, as well as their courage. The outlaws, whom the severity of
the forest laws had reduced to this roving and desperate mode of life,
were chiefly peasants and yeomen of Saxon descent, and were generally
supposed to respect the persons and property of their countrymen.

As the travellers journeyed on their way, they were alarmed by repeated
cries for assistance; and when they rode up to the place from whence
they came, they were surprised to find a horse-litter placed upon the
ground, beside which sat a young woman, richly dressed in the Jewish
fashion, while an old man, whose yellow cap proclaimed him to belong
to the same nation, walked up and down with gestures expressive of the
deepest despair, and wrung his hands, as if affected by some strange
disaster.

To the enquiries of Athelstane and Cedric, the old Jew could for some
time only answer by invoking the protection of all the patriarchs of the
Old Testament successively against the sons of Ishmael, who were coming
to smite them, hip and thigh, with the edge of the sword. When he began
to come to himself out of this agony of terror, Isaac of York (for it
was our old friend) was at length able to explain, that he had hired
a body-guard of six men at Ashby, together with mules for carrying the
litter of a sick friend. This party had undertaken to escort him as
far as Doncaster. They had come thus far in safety; but having received
information from a wood-cutter that there was a strong band of outlaws
lying in wait in the woods before them, Isaac's mercenaries had not only
taken flight, but had carried off with them the horses which bore the
litter and left the Jew and his daughter without the means either of
defence or of retreat, to be plundered, and probably murdered, by the
banditti, who they expected every moment would bring down upon them.
"Would it but please your valours," added Isaac, in a tone of deep
humiliation, "to permit the poor Jews to travel under your safeguard,
I swear by the tables of our law, that never has favour been conferred
upon a child of Israel since the days of our captivity, which shall be
more gratefully acknowledged."

"Dog of a Jew!" said Athelstane, whose memory was of that petty
kind which stores up trifles of all kinds, but particularly trifling
offences, "dost not remember how thou didst beard us in the gallery at
the tilt-yard? Fight or flee, or compound with the outlaws as thou dost
list, ask neither aid nor company from us; and if they rob only such
as thee, who rob all the world, I, for mine own share, shall hold them
right honest folk."

Cedric did not assent to the severe proposal of his companion. "We shall
do better," said he, "to leave them two of our attendants and two horses
to convey them back to the next village. It will diminish our strength
but little; and with your good sword, noble Athelstane, and the aid of
those who remain, it will be light work for us to face twenty of those
runagates."

Rowena, somewhat alarmed by the mention of outlaws in force, and so
near them, strongly seconded the proposal of her guardian. But Rebecca
suddenly quitting her dejected posture, and making her way through the
attendants to the palfrey of the Saxon lady, knelt down, and, after the
Oriental fashion in addressing superiors, kissed the hem of Rowena's
garment. Then rising, and throwing back her veil, she implored her
in the great name of the God whom they both worshipped, and by that
revelation of the Law upon Mount Sinai, in which they both believed,
that she would have compassion upon them, and suffer them to go forward
under their safeguard. "It is not for myself that I pray this favour,"
said Rebecca; "nor is it even for that poor old man. I know that to
wrong and to spoil our nation is a light fault, if not a merit, with the
Christians; and what is it to us whether it be done in the city, in the
desert, or in the field? But it is in the name of one dear to many,
and dear even to you, that I beseech you to let this sick person be
transported with care and tenderness under your protection. For, if evil
chance him, the last moment of your life would be embittered with regret
for denying that which I ask of you."

The noble and solemn air with which Rebecca made this appeal, gave it
double weight with the fair Saxon.

"The man is old and feeble," she said to her guardian, "the maiden young
and beautiful, their friend sick and in peril of his life--Jews though
they be, we cannot as Christians leave them in this extremity. Let them
unload two of the sumpter-mules, and put the baggage behind two of the
serfs. The mules may transport the litter, and we have led horses for
the old man and his daughter."

Cedric readily assented to what she proposed, and Athelstane only added
the condition, "that they should travel in the rear of the whole party,
where Wamba," he said, "might attend them with his shield of boar's
brawn."

"I have left my shield in the tilt-yard," answered the Jester, "as has
been the fate of many a better knight than myself."

Athelstane coloured deeply, for such had been his own fate on the
last day of the tournament; while Rowena, who was pleased in the same
proportion, as if to make amends for the brutal jest of her unfeeling
suitor, requested Rebecca to ride by her side.

"It were not fit I should do so," answered Rebecca, with proud humility,
"where my society might be held a disgrace to my protectress."

By this time the change of baggage was hastily achieved; for the single
word "outlaws" rendered every one sufficiently alert, and the approach
of twilight made the sound yet more impressive. Amid the bustle, Gurth
was taken from horseback, in the course of which removal he prevailed
upon the Jester to slack the cord with which his arms were bound. It was
so negligently refastened, perhaps intentionally, on the part of Wamba,
that Gurth found no difficulty in freeing his arms altogether from
bondage, and then, gliding into the thicket, he made his escape from the
party.

The bustle had been considerable, and it was some time before Gurth was
missed; for, as he was to be placed for the rest of the journey behind
a servant, every one supposed that some other of his companions had him
under his custody, and when it began to be whispered among them
that Gurth had actually disappeared, they were under such immediate
expectation of an attack from the outlaws, that it was not held
convenient to pay much attention to the circumstance.

The path upon which the party travelled was now so narrow, as not to
admit, with any sort of convenience, above two riders abreast, and began
to descend into a dingle, traversed by a brook whose banks were broken,
swampy, and overgrown with dwarf willows. Cedric and Athelstane, who
were at the head of their retinue, saw the risk of being attacked at
this pass; but neither of them having had much practice in war, no
better mode of preventing the danger occurred to them than that they
should hasten through the defile as fast as possible. Advancing,
therefore, without much order, they had just crossed the brook with a
part of their followers, when they were assailed in front, flank,
and rear at once, with an impetuosity to which, in their confused and
ill-prepared condition, it was impossible to offer effectual resistance.
The shout of "A white dragon!--a white dragon!--Saint George for merry
England!" war-cries adopted by the assailants, as belonging to their
assumed character of Saxon outlaws, was heard on every side, and on
every side enemies appeared with a rapidity of advance and attack which
seemed to multiply their numbers.

Both the Saxon chiefs were made prisoners at the same moment, and each
under circumstances expressive of his character. Cedric, the instant
that an enemy appeared, launched at him his remaining javelin, which,
taking better effect than that which he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the
man against an oak-tree that happened to be close behind him. Thus far
successful, Cedric spurred his horse against a second, drawing his sword
at the same time, and striking with such inconsiderate fury, that
his weapon encountered a thick branch which hung over him, and he
was disarmed by the violence of his own blow. He was instantly made
prisoner, and pulled from his horse by two or three of the banditti who
crowded around him. Athelstane shared his captivity, his bridle having
been seized, and he himself forcibly dismounted, long before he could
draw his weapon, or assume any posture of effectual defence.

The attendants, embarrassed with baggage, surprised and terrified at the
fate of their masters, fell an easy prey to the assailants; while
the Lady Rowena, in the centre of the cavalcade, and the Jew and his
daughter in the rear, experienced the same misfortune.

Of all the train none escaped except Wamba, who showed upon the
occasion much more courage than those who pretended to greater sense. He
possessed himself of a sword belonging to one of the domestics, who was
just drawing it with a tardy and irresolute hand, laid it about him like
a lion, drove back several who approached him, and made a brave though
ineffectual attempt to succour his master. Finding himself overpowered,
the Jester at length threw himself from his horse, plunged into the
thicket, and, favoured by the general confusion, escaped from the scene
of action. Yet the valiant Jester, as soon as he found himself safe,
hesitated more than once whether he should not turn back and share the
captivity of a master to whom he was sincerely attached.

"I have heard men talk of the blessings of freedom," he said to himself,
"but I wish any wise man would teach me what use to make of it now that
I have it."

As he pronounced these words aloud, a voice very near him called out in
a low and cautious tone, "Wamba!" and, at the same time, a dog, which he
recognised to be Fangs, jumped up and fawned upon him. "Gurth!" answered
Wamba, with the same caution, and the swineherd immediately stood before
him.

"What is the matter?" said he eagerly; "what mean these cries, and that
clashing of swords?"

"Only a trick of the times," said Wamba; "they are all prisoners."

"Who are prisoners?" exclaimed Gurth, impatiently.

"My lord, and my lady, and Athelstane, and Hundibert, and Oswald."

"In the name of God!" said Gurth, "how came they prisoners?--and to
whom?"

"Our master was too ready to fight," said the Jester; "and Athelstane
was not ready enough, and no other person was ready at all. And they are
prisoners to green cassocks, and black visors. And they lie all tumbled
about on the green, like the crab-apples that you shake down to your
swine. And I would laugh at it," said the honest Jester, "if I could for
weeping." And he shed tears of unfeigned sorrow.

Gurth's countenance kindled--"Wamba," he said, "thou hast a weapon,
and thy heart was ever stronger than thy brain,--we are only two--but a
sudden attack from men of resolution will do much--follow me!"

"Whither?--and for what purpose?" said the Jester.

"To rescue Cedric."

"But you have renounced his service but now," said Wamba.

"That," said Gurth, "was but while he was fortunate--follow me!"

As the Jester was about to obey, a third person suddenly made his
appearance, and commanded them both to halt. From his dress and arms,
Wamba would have conjectured him to be one of those outlaws who had just
assailed his master; but, besides that he wore no mask, the glittering
baldric across his shoulder, with the rich bugle-horn which it
supported, as well as the calm and commanding expression of his voice
and manner, made him, notwithstanding the twilight, recognise Locksley
the yeoman, who had been victorious, under such disadvantageous
circumstances, in the contest for the prize of archery.

"What is the meaning of all this," said he, "or who is it that rifle,
and ransom, and make prisoners, in these forests?"

"You may look at their cassocks close by," said Wamba, "and see whether
they be thy children's coats or no--for they are as like thine own, as
one green pea-cod is to another."

"I will learn that presently," answered Locksley; "and I charge ye, on
peril of your lives, not to stir from the place where ye stand, until
I have returned. Obey me, and it shall be the better for you and your
masters.--Yet stay, I must render myself as like these men as possible."

So saying he unbuckled his baldric with the bugle, took a feather from
his cap, and gave them to Wamba; then drew a vizard from his pouch,
and, repeating his charges to them to stand fast, went to execute his
purposes of reconnoitring.

"Shall we stand fast, Gurth?" said Wamba; "or shall we e'en give him
leg-bail? In my foolish mind, he had all the equipage of a thief too
much in readiness, to be himself a true man."

"Let him be the devil," said Gurth, "an he will. We can be no worse of
waiting his return. If he belong to that party, he must already have
given them the alarm, and it will avail nothing either to fight or fly.
Besides, I have late experience, that errant thieves are not the worst
men in the world to have to deal with."

The yeoman returned in the course of a few minutes.

"Friend Gurth," he said, "I have mingled among yon men, and have learnt
to whom they belong, and whither they are bound. There is, I think,
no chance that they will proceed to any actual violence against their
prisoners. For three men to attempt them at this moment, were little
else than madness; for they are good men of war, and have, as such,
placed sentinels to give the alarm when any one approaches. But I
trust soon to gather such a force, as may act in defiance of all their
precautions; you are both servants, and, as I think, faithful servants,
of Cedric the Saxon, the friend of the rights of Englishmen. He shall
not want English hands to help him in this extremity. Come then with me,
until I gather more aid."

So saying, he walked through the wood at a great pace, followed by the
jester and the swineherd. It was not consistent with Wamba's humour to
travel long in silence.

"I think," said he, looking at the baldric and bugle which he still
carried, "that I saw the arrow shot which won this gay prize, and that
not so long since as Christmas."

"And I," said Gurth, "could take it on my halidome, that I have heard
the voice of the good yeoman who won it, by night as well as by day, and
that the moon is not three days older since I did so."

"Mine honest friends," replied the yeoman, "who, or what I am, is little
to the present purpose; should I free your master, you will have reason
to think me the best friend you have ever had in your lives. And whether
I am known by one name or another--or whether I can draw a bow as well
or better than a cow-keeper, or whether it is my pleasure to walk in
sunshine or by moonlight, are matters, which, as they do not concern
you, so neither need ye busy yourselves respecting them."

"Our heads are in the lion's mouth," said Wamba, in a whisper to Gurth,
"get them out how we can."

"Hush--be silent," said Gurth. "Offend him not by thy folly, and I trust
sincerely that all will go well."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: This chapter's quote comes from Act III, Scene 1 of Orra: A Tragedy , by Joanna Baillie . In this passage, an outlaw warns his friends that a group of armed men and a lady are about to pass their way. Ooh, it must be time for an ambush! It's now late at night and Cedric, Athelstane, Rowena, and Co. enter the forest on their way home. They come across Isaac and Rebecca in trouble. Isaac hired six guards to accompany him to Doncaster, but his guards have all run away, taking their horses. The guards heard news that a large party of outlaws was waiting for Isaac, and they didn't want to have to fight for him. Isaac asks if they can travel with Cedric and Athelstane. Athelstane is reluctant, but Rebecca begs Rowena to let them come along. Rowena agrees, and Isaac and Rebecca join the Saxons. In the hustle and bustle, Wamba leaves Gurth's ropes loose, and he slips away. The outlaws soon attack, and the whole group is taken captive, except Wamba. Wamba finds Gurth and explains what has happened. Gurth and Wamba resolve to rescue Cedric. Before they rush in, Locksley suddenly appears and asks what's going on. Wamba explains that they've been attacked by people dressed like Locksley. Locksley goes to spy on the outlaws who have taken Cedric & Co. He finds out whom the outlaws are working for and returns to Wamba and Gurth with a promise to help rescue Cedric. Locksley is eager to help because he is English, like Cedric. But he tells Wamba and Gurth not to ask him too many questions.


prompt:
Chapter: When autumn nights were long and drear,
     And forest walks were dark and dim,
     How sweetly on the pilgrim's ear
     Was wont to steal the hermit's hymn

     Devotion borrows Music's tone,
     And Music took Devotion's wing;
     And, like the bird that hails the sun,
     They soar to heaven, and soaring sing.
     The Hermit of St Clement's Well

It was after three hours' good walking that the servants of Cedric, with
their mysterious guide, arrived at a small opening in the forest, in
the centre of which grew an oak-tree of enormous magnitude, throwing
its twisted branches in every direction. Beneath this tree four or five
yeomen lay stretched on the ground, while another, as sentinel, walked
to and fro in the moonlight shade.

Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching, the watch instantly gave the
alarm, and the sleepers as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six
arrows placed on the string were pointed towards the quarter from which
the travellers approached, when their guide, being recognised, was
welcomed with every token of respect and attachment, and all signs and
fears of a rough reception at once subsided.

"Where is the Miller?" was his first question.

"On the road towards Rotherham."

"With how many?" demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be.

"With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please St Nicholas."

"Devoutly spoken," said Locksley; "and where is Allan-a-Dale?"

"Walked up towards the Watling-street, to watch for the Prior of
Jorvaulx."

"That is well thought on also," replied the Captain;--"and where is the
Friar?"

"In his cell."

"Thither will I go," said Locksley. "Disperse and seek your companions.
Collect what force you can, for there's game afoot that must be hunted
hard, and will turn to bay. Meet me here by daybreak.--And stay," he
added, "I have forgotten what is most necessary of the whole--Two of
you take the road quickly towards Torquilstone, the Castle of
Front-de-Boeuf. A set of gallants, who have been masquerading in such
guise as our own, are carrying a band of prisoners thither--Watch them
closely, for even if they reach the castle before we collect our force,
our honour is concerned to punish them, and we will find means to do so.
Keep a close watch on them therefore; and dispatch one of your comrades,
the lightest of foot, to bring the news of the yeomen thereabout."

They promised implicit obedience, and departed with alacrity on
their different errands. In the meanwhile, their leader and his two
companions, who now looked upon him with great respect, as well as some
fear, pursued their way to the Chapel of Copmanhurst.

When they had reached the little moonlight glade, having in front the
reverend, though ruinous chapel, and the rude hermitage, so well
suited to ascetic devotion, Wamba whispered to Gurth, "If this be the
habitation of a thief, it makes good the old proverb, The nearer the
church the farther from God.--And by my coxcomb," he added, "I think it
be even so--Hearken but to the black sanctus which they are singing in
the hermitage!"

In fact the anchorite and his guest were performing, at the full extent
of their very powerful lungs, an old drinking song, of which this was
the burden:--

     "Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,
     Bully boy, bully boy,
     Come, trowl the brown bowl to me:
     Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking,
     Come, trowl the brown bowl to me."

"Now, that is not ill sung," said Wamba, who had thrown in a few of his
own flourishes to help out the chorus. "But who, in the saint's name,
ever expected to have heard such a jolly chant come from out a hermit's
cell at midnight!"

"Marry, that should I," said Gurth, "for the jolly Clerk of Copmanhurst
is a known man, and kills half the deer that are stolen in this walk.
Men say that the keeper has complained to his official, and that he
will be stripped of his cowl and cope altogether, if he keeps not better
order."

While they were thus speaking, Locksley's loud and repeated knocks had
at length disturbed the anchorite and his guest. "By my beads," said the
hermit, stopping short in a grand flourish, "here come more benighted
guests. I would not for my cowl that they found us in this goodly
exercise. All men have their enemies, good Sir Sluggard; and there be
those malignant enough to construe the hospitable refreshment which I
have been offering to you, a weary traveller, for the matter of three
short hours, into sheer drunkenness and debauchery, vices alike alien to
my profession and my disposition."

"Base calumniators!" replied the knight; "I would I had the chastising
of them. Nevertheless, Holy Clerk, it is true that all have their
enemies; and there be those in this very land whom I would rather speak
to through the bars of my helmet than barefaced."

"Get thine iron pot on thy head then, friend Sluggard, as quickly as
thy nature will permit," said the hermit, "while I remove these pewter
flagons, whose late contents run strangely in mine own pate; and to
drown the clatter--for, in faith, I feel somewhat unsteady--strike into
the tune which thou hearest me sing; it is no matter for the words--I
scarce know them myself."

So saying, he struck up a thundering "De profundis clamavi", under cover
of which he removed the apparatus of their banquet: while the knight,
laughing heartily, and arming himself all the while, assisted his host
with his voice from time to time as his mirth permitted.

"What devil's matins are you after at this hour?" said a voice from
without.

"Heaven forgive you, Sir Traveller!" said the hermit, whose own noise,
and perhaps his nocturnal potations, prevented from recognising accents
which were tolerably familiar to him--"Wend on your way, in the name of
God and Saint Dunstan, and disturb not the devotions of me and my holy
brother."

"Mad priest," answered the voice from without, "open to Locksley!"

"All's safe--all's right," said the hermit to his companion.

"But who is he?" said the Black Knight; "it imports me much to know."

"Who is he?" answered the hermit; "I tell thee he is a friend."

"But what friend?" answered the knight; "for he may be friend to thee
and none of mine?"

"What friend?" replied the hermit; "that, now, is one of the questions
that is more easily asked than answered. What friend?--why, he is, now
that I bethink me a little, the very same honest keeper I told thee of a
while since."

"Ay, as honest a keeper as thou art a pious hermit," replied the knight,
"I doubt it not. But undo the door to him before he beat it from its
hinges."

The dogs, in the meantime, which had made a dreadful baying at the
commencement of the disturbance, seemed now to recognise the voice
of him who stood without; for, totally changing their manner, they
scratched and whined at the door, as if interceding for his admission.
The hermit speedily unbolted his portal, and admitted Locksley, with his
two companions.

"Why, hermit," was the yeoman's first question as soon as he beheld the
knight, "what boon companion hast thou here?"

"A brother of our order," replied the friar, shaking his head; "we have
been at our orisons all night."

"He is a monk of the church militant, I think," answered Locksley; "and
there be more of them abroad. I tell thee, friar, thou must lay down
the rosary and take up the quarter-staff; we shall need every one of our
merry men, whether clerk or layman.--But," he added, taking him a step
aside, "art thou mad? to give admittance to a knight thou dost not know?
Hast thou forgot our articles?"

"Not know him!" replied the friar, boldly, "I know him as well as the
beggar knows his dish."

"And what is his name, then?" demanded Locksley.

"His name," said the hermit--"his name is Sir Anthony of
Scrabelstone--as if I would drink with a man, and did not know his
name!"

"Thou hast been drinking more than enough, friar," said the woodsman,
"and, I fear, prating more than enough too."

"Good yeoman," said the knight, coming forward, "be not wroth with my
merry host. He did but afford me the hospitality which I would have
compelled from him if he had refused it."

"Thou compel!" said the friar; "wait but till have changed this grey
gown for a green cassock, and if I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve
upon thy pate, I am neither true clerk nor good woodsman."

While he spoke thus, he stript off his gown, and appeared in a close
black buckram doublet and drawers, over which he speedily did on a
cassock of green, and hose of the same colour. "I pray thee truss my
points," said he to Wamba, "and thou shalt have a cup of sack for thy
labour."

"Gramercy for thy sack," said Wamba; "but think'st thou it is lawful
for me to aid you to transmew thyself from a holy hermit into a sinful
forester?"

"Never fear," said the hermit; "I will but confess the sins of my green
cloak to my greyfriar's frock, and all shall be well again."

"Amen!" answered the Jester; "a broadcloth penitent should have a
sackcloth confessor, and your frock may absolve my motley doublet into
the bargain."

So saying, he accommodated the friar with his assistance in tying the
endless number of points, as the laces which attached the hose to the
doublet were then termed.

While they were thus employed, Locksley led the knight a little apart,
and addressed him thus:--"Deny it not, Sir Knight--you are he who
decided the victory to the advantage of the English against the
strangers on the second day of the tournament at Ashby."

"And what follows if you guess truly, good yeoman?" replied the knight.

"I should in that case hold you," replied the yeoman, "a friend to the
weaker party."

"Such is the duty of a true knight at least," replied the Black
Champion; "and I would not willingly that there were reason to think
otherwise of me."

"But for my purpose," said the yeoman, "thou shouldst be as well a
good Englishman as a good knight; for that, which I have to speak of,
concerns, indeed, the duty of every honest man, but is more especially
that of a true-born native of England."

"You can speak to no one," replied the knight, "to whom England, and the
life of every Englishman, can be dearer than to me."

"I would willingly believe so," said the woodsman, "for never had this
country such need to be supported by those who love her. Hear me, and
I will tell thee of an enterprise, in which, if thou be'st really
that which thou seemest, thou mayst take an honourable part. A band
of villains, in the disguise of better men than themselves, have made
themselves master of the person of a noble Englishman, called Cedric
the Saxon, together with his ward, and his friend Athelstane of
Coningsburgh, and have transported them to a castle in this forest,
called Torquilstone. I ask of thee, as a good knight and a good
Englishman, wilt thou aid in their rescue?"

"I am bound by my vow to do so," replied the knight; "but I would
willingly know who you are, who request my assistance in their behalf?"

"I am," said the forester, "a nameless man; but I am the friend of my
country, and of my country's friends--With this account of me you must
for the present remain satisfied, the more especially since you yourself
desire to continue unknown. Believe, however, that my word, when
pledged, is as inviolate as if I wore golden spurs."

"I willingly believe it," said the knight; "I have been accustomed
to study men's countenances, and I can read in thine honesty and
resolution. I will, therefore, ask thee no further questions, but aid
thee in setting at freedom these oppressed captives; which done, I trust
we shall part better acquainted, and well satisfied with each other."

"So," said Wamba to Gurth,--for the friar being now fully equipped, the
Jester, having approached to the other side of the hut, had heard the
conclusion of the conversation,--"So we have got a new ally?--l trust
the valour of the knight will be truer metal than the religion of the
hermit, or the honesty of the yeoman; for this Locksley looks like a
born deer-stealer, and the priest like a lusty hypocrite."

"Hold thy peace, Wamba," said Gurth; "it may all be as thou dost guess;
but were the horned devil to rise and proffer me his assistance to
set at liberty Cedric and the Lady Rowena, I fear I should hardly have
religion enough to refuse the foul fiend's offer, and bid him get behind
me."

The friar was now completely accoutred as a yeoman, with sword and
buckler, bow, and quiver, and a strong partisan over his shoulder. He
left his cell at the head of the party, and, having carefully locked the
door, deposited the key under the threshold.

"Art thou in condition to do good service, friar," said Locksley, "or
does the brown bowl still run in thy head?"

"Not more than a drought of St Dunstan's fountain will allay," answered
the priest; "something there is of a whizzing in my brain, and of
instability in my legs, but you shall presently see both pass away."

So saying, he stepped to the stone basin, in which the waters of
the fountain as they fell formed bubbles which danced in the white
moonlight, and took so long a drought as if he had meant to exhaust the
spring.

"When didst thou drink as deep a drought of water before, Holy Clerk of
Copmanhurst?" said the Black Knight.

"Never since my wine-butt leaked, and let out its liquor by an illegal
vent," replied the friar, "and so left me nothing to drink but my
patron's bounty here."

Then plunging his hands and head into the fountain, he washed from them
all marks of the midnight revel.

Thus refreshed and sobered, the jolly priest twirled his heavy partisan
round his head with three fingers, as if he had been balancing a reed,
exclaiming at the same time, "Where be those false ravishers, who carry
off wenches against their will? May the foul fiend fly off with me, if I
am not man enough for a dozen of them."

"Swearest thou, Holy Clerk?" said the Black Knight.

"Clerk me no Clerks," replied the transformed priest; "by Saint George
and the Dragon, I am no longer a shaveling than while my frock is on my
back--When I am cased in my green cassock, I will drink, swear, and woo
a lass, with any blithe forester in the West Riding."

"Come on, Jack Priest," said Locksley, "and be silent; thou art as noisy
as a whole convent on a holy eve, when the Father Abbot has gone to
bed.--Come on you, too, my masters, tarry not to talk of it--I say, come
on, we must collect all our forces, and few enough we shall have, if we
are to storm the Castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf."

"What! is it Front-de-Boeuf," said the Black Knight, "who has stopt on
the king's highway the king's liege subjects?--Is he turned thief and
oppressor?"

"Oppressor he ever was," said Locksley.

"And for thief," said the priest, "I doubt if ever he were even half so
honest a man as many a thief of my acquaintance."

"Move on, priest, and be silent," said the yeoman; "it were better you
led the way to the place of rendezvous, than say what should be left
unsaid, both in decency and prudence."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Like "Ettrick Forest" in Chapter 18, this chapter's epigraph is one of Scott's own poems: "The Hermit of St. Clement's Well." The poem describes a hermit singing hymns of devotion. This is clearly a joke, since the only song we see the Friar singing in this chapter is a drinking song. After three hours' walking, Wamba, Gurth, and Locksley arrive at an armed camp deep in the forest. These are outlaws under Locksley's command. Locksley tells his men: a band of guys disguised in our clothing are taking prisoners past the chapel at Copmanhurst. Locksley, Wamba, and Gurth head off to see the Friar. As they approach the chapel, they hear the sound of drunken singing: it's the Black Knight and the Friar. Gurth confirms that the Friar is well-known for being drunk and disorderly; he's also a poacher. At the knock at the door, the Friar quickly hides the wine that he and the Black Knight have been drinking. The Friar tries to make his visitors go away by pretending that he and the Black Knight are in the middle of a prayer. Locksley demands that the Friar let them in. As soon as the Friar sees it's Locksley, he relaxes. Locksley reminds the Friar that it's completely forbidden among their group of outlaws to welcome strange knights. The Friar claims that he and the Black Knight are old friends . The Friar quickly changes into the same green clothing that Locksley and his band wear. Locksley pulls the Black Knight aside to ask if he's the same guy who helped defeat the Normans at the tournament. The Black Knight confirms that he is. As a fellow lover of England, Locksley wants the Black Knight to help them rescue Rowena and Cedric from the Normans. The Black Knight happily agrees. The Friar is now completely dressed and armed as an outlaw. He drinks some water and washes his face to sober up. They're now ready to raid Reginald Front-de-Boeuf's castle, Torquilstone.