Chapter: Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom,
     That they may break his foaming courser's back,
     And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
     A caitiff recreant!
     --Richard II

Our scene now returns to the exterior of the Castle, or Preceptory, of
Templestowe, about the hour when the bloody die was to be cast for the
life or death of Rebecca. It was a scene of bustle and life, as if the
whole vicinity had poured forth its inhabitants to a village wake, or
rural feast. But the earnest desire to look on blood and death, is not
peculiar to those dark ages; though in the gladiatorial exercise of
single combat and general tourney, they were habituated to the bloody
spectacle of brave men falling by each other's hands. Even in our own
days, when morals are better understood, an execution, a bruising match,
a riot, or a meeting of radical reformers, collects, at considerable
hazard to themselves, immense crowds of spectators, otherwise little
interested, except to see how matters are to be conducted, or whether
the heroes of the day are, in the heroic language of insurgent tailors,
flints or dunghills.

The eyes, therefore, of a very considerable multitude, were bent on the
gate of the Preceptory of Templestowe, with the purpose of witnessing
the procession; while still greater numbers had already surrounded the
tiltyard belonging to that establishment. This enclosure was formed on
a piece of level ground adjoining to the Preceptory, which had been
levelled with care, for the exercise of military and chivalrous sports.
It occupied the brow of a soft and gentle eminence, was carefully
palisaded around, and, as the Templars willingly invited spectators to
be witnesses of their skill in feats of chivalry, was amply supplied
with galleries and benches for their use.

On the present occasion, a throne was erected for the Grand Master at
the east end, surrounded with seats of distinction for the Preceptors
and Knights of the Order. Over these floated the sacred standard, called
"Le Beau-seant", which was the ensign, as its name was the battle-cry,
of the Templars.

At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of faggots, so arranged
around a stake, deeply fixed in the ground, as to leave a space for the
victim whom they were destined to consume, to enter within the fatal
circle, in order to be chained to the stake by the fetters which hung
ready for that purpose. Beside this deadly apparatus stood four black
slaves, whose colour and African features, then so little known in
England, appalled the multitude, who gazed on them as on demons employed
about their own diabolical exercises. These men stirred not, excepting
now and then, under the direction of one who seemed their chief, to
shift and replace the ready fuel. They looked not on the multitude. In
fact, they seemed insensible of their presence, and of every thing save
the discharge of their own horrible duty.

And when, in speech with each other, they expanded their blubber lips,
and showed their white fangs, as if they grinned at the thoughts of the
expected tragedy, the startled commons could scarcely help believing
that they were actually the familiar spirits with whom the witch had
communed, and who, her time being out, stood ready to assist in her
dreadful punishment. They whispered to each other, and communicated all
the feats which Satan had performed during that busy and unhappy period,
not failing, of course, to give the devil rather more than his due.

"Have you not heard, Father Dennet," quoth one boor to another advanced
in years, "that the devil has carried away bodily the great Saxon Thane,
Athelstane of Coningsburgh?"

"Ay, but he brought him back though, by the blessing of God and Saint
Dunstan."

"How's that?" said a brisk young fellow, dressed in a green cassock
embroidered with gold, and having at his heels a stout lad bearing a
harp upon his back, which betrayed his vocation. The Minstrel seemed
of no vulgar rank; for, besides the splendour of his gaily braidered
doublet, he wore around his neck a silver chain, by which hung the
"wrest", or key, with which he tuned his harp. On his right arm was a
silver plate, which, instead of bearing, as usual, the cognizance or
badge of the baron to whose family he belonged, had barely the word
SHERWOOD engraved upon it.--"How mean you by that?" said the gay
Minstrel, mingling in the conversation of the peasants; "I came to seek
one subject for my rhyme, and, by'r Lady, I were glad to find two."

"It is well avouched," said the elder peasant, "that after Athelstane of
Coningsburgh had been dead four weeks--"

"That is impossible," said the Minstrel; "I saw him in life at the
Passage of Arms at Ashby-de-la-Zouche."

"Dead, however, he was, or else translated," said the younger peasant;
"for I heard the Monks of Saint Edmund's singing the death's hymn for
him; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal and dole at the Castle
of Coningsburgh, as right was; and thither had I gone, but for Mabel
Parkins, who--"

"Ay, dead was Athelstane," said the old man, shaking his head, "and the
more pity it was, for the old Saxon blood--"

"But, your story, my masters--your story," said the Minstrel, somewhat
impatiently.

"Ay, ay--construe us the story," said a burly Friar, who stood beside
them, leaning on a pole that exhibited an appearance between a pilgrim's
staff and a quarter-staff, and probably acted as either when occasion
served,--"Your story," said the stalwart churchman; "burn not daylight
about it--we have short time to spare."

"An please your reverence," said Dennet, "a drunken priest came to visit
the Sacristan at Saint Edmund's---"

"It does not please my reverence," answered the churchman, "that there
should be such an animal as a drunken priest, or, if there were, that
a layman should so speak him. Be mannerly, my friend, and conclude the
holy man only wrapt in meditation, which makes the head dizzy and foot
unsteady, as if the stomach were filled with new wine--I have felt it
myself."

"Well, then," answered Father Dennet, "a holy brother came to visit the
Sacristan at Saint Edmund's--a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor,
and kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest, who loves the
tinkling of a pint-pot better than the sacring-bell, and deems a flitch
of bacon worth ten of his breviary; for the rest, a good fellow and
a merry, who will flourish a quarter-staff, draw a bow, and dance a
Cheshire round, with e'er a man in Yorkshire."

"That last part of thy speech, Dennet," said the Minstrel, "has saved
thee a rib or twain."

"Tush, man, I fear him not," said Dennet; "I am somewhat old and stiff,
but when I fought for the bell and ram at Doncaster--"

"But the story--the story, my friend," again said the Minstrel.

"Why, the tale is but this--Athelstane of Coningsburgh was buried at
Saint Edmund's."

"That's a lie, and a loud one," said the Friar, "for I saw him borne to
his own Castle of Coningsburgh."

"Nay, then, e'en tell the story yourself, my masters," said Dennet,
turning sulky at these repeated contradictions; and it was with some
difficulty that the boor could be prevailed on, by the request of
his comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.--"These two 'sober'
friars," said he at length, "since this reverend man will needs have
them such, had continued drinking good ale, and wine, and what not,
for the best part for a summer's day, when they were aroused by a
deep groan, and a clanking of chains, and the figure of the deceased
Athelstane entered the apartment, saying, 'Ye evil shep-herds!--'"

"It is false," said the Friar, hastily, "he never spoke a word."

"So ho! Friar Tuck," said the Minstrel, drawing him apart from the
rustics; "we have started a new hare, I find."

"I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale," said the Hermit, "I saw Athelstane of
Coningsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He had his
shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre--A butt of sack will
not wash it out of my memory."

"Pshaw!" answered the Minstrel; "thou dost but jest with me!"

"Never believe me," said the Friar, "an I fetched not a knock at him
with my quarter-staff that would have felled an ox, and it glided
through his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!"

"By Saint Hubert," said the Minstrel, "but it is a wondrous tale, and
fit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, 'Sorrow came to the old
Friar.'"

"Laugh, if ye list," said Friar Tuck; "but an ye catch me singing
on such a theme, may the next ghost or devil carry me off with him
headlong! No, no--I instantly formed the purpose of assisting at some
good work, such as the burning of a witch, a judicial combat, or the
like matter of godly service, and therefore am I here."

As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the church of Saint Michael of
Templestowe, a venerable building, situated in a hamlet at some distance
from the Preceptory, broke short their argument. One by one the sullen
sounds fell successively on the ear, leaving but sufficient space
for each to die away in distant echo, ere the air was again filled
by repetition of the iron knell. These sounds, the signal of the
approaching ceremony, chilled with awe the hearts of the assembled
multitude, whose eyes were now turned to the Preceptory, expecting the
approach of the Grand Master, the champion, and the criminal.

At length the drawbridge fell, the gates opened, and a knight, bearing
the great standard of the Order, sallied from the castle, preceded by
six trumpets, and followed by the Knights Preceptors, two and two, the
Grand Master coming last, mounted on a stately horse, whose furniture
was of the simplest kind. Behind him came Brian de Bois-Guilbert, armed
cap-a-pie in bright armour, but without his lance, shield, and sword,
which were borne by his two esquires behind him. His face, though partly
hidden by a long plume which floated down from his barrel-cap, bore
a strong and mingled expression of passion, in which pride seemed to
contend with irresolution. He looked ghastly pale, as if he had not
slept for several nights, yet reined his pawing war-horse with the
habitual ease and grace proper to the best lance of the Order of the
Temple. His general appearance was grand and commanding; but, looking at
him with attention, men read that in his dark features, from which they
willingly withdrew their eyes.

On either side rode Conrade of Mont-Fitchet, and Albert de Malvoisin,
who acted as godfathers to the champion. They were in their robes
of peace, the white dress of the Order. Behind them followed other
Companions of the Temple, with a long train of esquires and pages clad
in black, aspirants to the honour of being one day Knights of the Order.
After these neophytes came a guard of warders on foot, in the same
sable livery, amidst whose partisans might be seen the pale form of the
accused, moving with a slow but undismayed step towards the scene of her
fate. She was stript of all her ornaments, lest perchance there should
be among them some of those amulets which Satan was supposed to bestow
upon his victims, to deprive them of the power of confession even when
under the torture. A coarse white dress, of the simplest form, had been
substituted for her Oriental garments; yet there was such an exquisite
mixture of courage and resignation in her look, that even in this garb,
and with no other ornament than her long black tresses, each eye wept
that looked upon her, and the most hardened bigot regretted the fate
that had converted a creature so goodly into a vessel of wrath, and a
waged slave of the devil.

A crowd of inferior personages belonging to the Preceptory followed the
victim, all moving with the utmost order, with arms folded, and looks
bent upon the ground.

This slow procession moved up the gentle eminence, on the summit of
which was the tiltyard, and, entering the lists, marched once around
them from right to left, and when they had completed the circle, made a
halt. There was then a momentary bustle, while the Grand Master and all
his attendants, excepting the champion and his godfathers, dismounted
from their horses, which were immediately removed out of the lists by
the esquires, who were in attendance for that purpose.

The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to the black chair placed near the
pile. On her first glance at the terrible spot where preparations were
making for a death alike dismaying to the mind and painful to the
body, she was observed to shudder and shut her eyes, praying internally
doubtless, for her lips moved though no speech was heard. In the space
of a minute she opened her eyes, looked fixedly on the pile as if to
familiarize her mind with the object, and then slowly and naturally
turned away her head.

Meanwhile, the Grand Master had assumed his seat; and when the chivalry
of his order was placed around and behind him, each in his due rank,
a loud and long flourish of the trumpets announced that the Court
were seated for judgment. Malvoisin, then, acting as godfather of the
champion, stepped forward, and laid the glove of the Jewess, which was
the pledge of battle, at the feet of the Grand Master.

"Valorous Lord, and reverend Father," said he, "here standeth the good
Knight, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, Knight Preceptor of the Order of the
Temple, who, by accepting the pledge of battle which I now lay at your
reverence's feet, hath become bound to do his devoir in combat this
day, to maintain that this Jewish maiden, by name Rebecca, hath justly
deserved the doom passed upon her in a Chapter of this most Holy Order
of the Temple of Zion, condemning her to die as a sorceress;--here, I
say, he standeth, such battle to do, knightly and honourable, if such be
your noble and sanctified pleasure."

"Hath he made oath," said the Grand Master, "that his quarrel is just
and honourable? Bring forward the Crucifix and the 'Te igitur'."

"Sir, and most reverend father," answered Malvoisin, readily, "our
brother here present hath already sworn to the truth of his accusation
in the hand of the good Knight Conrade de Mont-Fitchet; and otherwise he
ought not to be sworn, seeing that his adversary is an unbeliever, and
may take no oath."

This explanation was satisfactory, to Albert's great joy; for the wily
knight had foreseen the great difficulty, or rather impossibility, of
prevailing upon Brian de Bois-Guilbert to take such an oath before the
assembly, and had invented this excuse to escape the necessity of his
doing so.

The Grand Master, having allowed the apology of Albert Malvoisin,
commanded the herald to stand forth and do his devoir. The trumpets
then again flourished, and a herald, stepping forward, proclaimed
aloud,--"Oyez, oyez, oyez.--Here standeth the good Knight, Sir Brian
de Bois-Guilbert, ready to do battle with any knight of free blood, who
will sustain the quarrel allowed and allotted to the Jewess Rebecca, to
try by champion, in respect of lawful essoine of her own body; and to
such champion the reverend and valorous Grand Master here present allows
a fair field, and equal partition of sun and wind, and whatever else
appertains to a fair combat." The trumpets again sounded, and there was
a dead pause of many minutes.

"No champion appears for the appellant," said the Grand Master. "Go,
herald, and ask her whether she expects any one to do battle for her
in this her cause." The herald went to the chair in which Rebecca was
seated, and Bois-Guilbert suddenly turning his horse's head toward that
end of the lists, in spite of hints on either side from Malvoisin and
Mont-Fitchet, was by the side of Rebecca's chair as soon as the herald.

"Is this regular, and according to the law of combat?" said Malvoisin,
looking to the Grand Master.

"Albert de Malvoisin, it is," answered Beaumanoir; "for in this appeal
to the judgment of God, we may not prohibit parties from having that
communication with each other, which may best tend to bring forth the
truth of the quarrel."

In the meantime, the herald spoke to Rebecca in these terms:--"Damsel,
the Honourable and Reverend the Grand Master demands of thee, if thou
art prepared with a champion to do battle this day in thy behalf, or if
thou dost yield thee as one justly condemned to a deserved doom?"

"Say to the Grand Master," replied Rebecca, "that I maintain my
innocence, and do not yield me as justly condemned, lest I become guilty
of mine own blood. Say to him, that I challenge such delay as his forms
will permit, to see if God, whose opportunity is in man's extremity,
will raise me up a deliverer; and when such uttermost space is passed,
may His holy will be done!" The herald retired to carry this answer to
the Grand Master.

"God forbid," said Lucas Beaumanoir, "that Jew or Pagan should impeach
us of injustice!--Until the shadows be cast from the west to the
eastward, will we wait to see if a champion shall appear for this
unfortunate woman. When the day is so far passed, let her prepare for
death."

The herald communicated the words of the Grand Master to Rebecca, who
bowed her head submissively, folded her arms, and, looking up towards
heaven, seemed to expect that aid from above which she could scarce
promise herself from man. During this awful pause, the voice of
Bois-Guilbert broke upon her ear--it was but a whisper, yet it startled
her more than the summons of the herald had appeared to do.

"Rebecca," said the Templar, "dost thou hear me?"

"I have no portion in thee, cruel, hard-hearted man," said the
unfortunate maiden.

"Ay, but dost thou understand my words?" said the Templar; "for the
sound of my voice is frightful in mine own ears. I scarce know on what
ground we stand, or for what purpose they have brought us hither.--This
listed space--that chair--these faggots--I know their purpose, and yet
it appears to me like something unreal--the fearful picture of a vision,
which appals my sense with hideous fantasies, but convinces not my
reason."

"My mind and senses keep touch and time," answered Rebecca, "and tell
me alike that these faggots are destined to consume my earthly body, and
open a painful but a brief passage to a better world."

"Dreams, Rebecca,--dreams," answered the Templar; "idle visions,
rejected by the wisdom of your own wiser Sadducees. Hear me, Rebecca,"
he said, proceeding with animation; "a better chance hast thou for life
and liberty than yonder knaves and dotard dream of. Mount thee behind me
on my steed--on Zamor, the gallant horse that never failed his rider.
I won him in single fight from the Soldan of Trebizond--mount, I say,
behind me--in one short hour is pursuit and enquiry far behind--a new
world of pleasure opens to thee--to me a new career of fame. Let them
speak the doom which I despise, and erase the name of Bois-Guilbert from
their list of monastic slaves! I will wash out with blood whatever blot
they may dare to cast on my scutcheon."

"Tempter," said Rebecca, "begone!--Not in this last extremity canst thou
move me one hair's-breadth from my resting place--surrounded as I am by
foes, I hold thee as my worst and most deadly enemy--avoid thee, in the
name of God!"

Albert Malvoisin, alarmed and impatient at the duration of their
conference, now advanced to interrupt it.

"Hath the maiden acknowledged her guilt?" he demanded of Bois-Guilbert;
"or is she resolute in her denial?"

"She is indeed resolute," said Bois-Guilbert.

"Then," said Malvoisin, "must thou, noble brother, resume thy place
to attend the issue--The shades are changing on the circle of the
dial--Come, brave Bois-Guilbert--come, thou hope of our holy Order, and
soon to be its head."

As he spoke in this soothing tone, he laid his hand on the knight's
bridle, as if to lead him back to his station.

"False villain! what meanest thou by thy hand on my rein?" said Sir
Brian, angrily. And shaking off his companion's grasp, he rode back to
the upper end of the lists.

"There is yet spirit in him," said Malvoisin apart to Mont-Fitchet,
"were it well directed--but, like the Greek fire, it burns whatever
approaches it."

The Judges had now been two hours in the lists, awaiting in vain the
appearance of a champion.

"And reason good," said Friar Tuck, "seeing she is a Jewess--and yet,
by mine Order, it is hard that so young and beautiful a creature should
perish without one blow being struck in her behalf! Were she ten times
a witch, provided she were but the least bit of a Christian, my
quarter-staff should ring noon on the steel cap of yonder fierce
Templar, ere he carried the matter off thus."

It was, however, the general belief that no one could or would appear
for a Jewess, accused of sorcery; and the knights, instigated by
Malvoisin, whispered to each other, that it was time to declare the
pledge of Rebecca forfeited. At this instant a knight, urging his horse
to speed, appeared on the plain advancing towards the lists. A
hundred voices exclaimed, "A champion! a champion!" And despite the
prepossessions and prejudices of the multitude, they shouted unanimously
as the knight rode into the tiltyard. The second glance, however, served
to destroy the hope that his timely arrival had excited. His horse,
urged for many miles to its utmost speed, appeared to reel from fatigue,
and the rider, however undauntedly he presented himself in the lists,
either from weakness, weariness, or both, seemed scarce able to support
himself in the saddle.

To the summons of the herald, who demanded his rank, his name, and
purpose, the stranger knight answered readily and boldly, "I am a good
knight and noble, come hither to sustain with lance and sword the just
and lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York;
to uphold the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless, and
to defy Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as a traitor, murderer, and liar; as
I will prove in this field with my body against his, by the aid of God,
of Our Lady, and of Monseigneur Saint George, the good knight."

"The stranger must first show," said Malvoisin, "that he is good knight,
and of honourable lineage. The Temple sendeth not forth her champions
against nameless men."

"My name," said the Knight, raising his helmet, "is better known, my
lineage more pure, Malvoisin, than thine own. I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe."

"I will not fight with thee at present," said the Templar, in a changed
and hollow voice. "Get thy wounds healed, purvey thee a better horse,
and it may be I will hold it worth my while to scourge out of thee this
boyish spirit of bravado."

"Ha! proud Templar," said Ivanhoe, "hast thou forgotten that twice didst
thou fall before this lance? Remember the lists at Acre--remember the
Passage of Arms at Ashby--remember thy proud vaunt in the halls of
Rotherwood, and the gage of your gold chain against my reliquary, that
thou wouldst do battle with Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and recover the honour
thou hadst lost! By that reliquary and the holy relic it contains, I
will proclaim thee, Templar, a coward in every court in Europe--in every
Preceptory of thine Order--unless thou do battle without farther delay."

Bois-Guilbert turned his countenance irresolutely towards Rebecca, and
then exclaimed, looking fiercely at Ivanhoe, "Dog of a Saxon! take thy
lance, and prepare for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!"

"Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?" said Ivanhoe.

"I may not deny what thou hast challenged," said the Grand Master,
"provided the maiden accepts thee as her champion. Yet I would thou
wert in better plight to do battle. An enemy of our Order hast thou ever
been, yet would I have thee honourably met with."

"Thus--thus as I am, and not otherwise," said Ivanhoe; "it is the
judgment of God--to his keeping I commend myself.--Rebecca," said he,
riding up to the fatal chair, "dost thou accept of me for thy champion?"

"I do," she said--"I do," fluttered by an emotion which the fear of
death had been unable to produce, "I do accept thee as the champion whom
Heaven hath sent me. Yet, no--no--thy wounds are uncured--Meet not that
proud man--why shouldst thou perish also?"

But Ivanhoe was already at his post, and had closed his visor, and
assumed his lance. Bois-Guilbert did the same; and his esquire remarked,
as he clasped his visor, that his face, which had, notwithstanding the
variety of emotions by which he had been agitated, continued during the
whole morning of an ashy paleness, was now become suddenly very much
flushed.

The herald, then, seeing each champion in his place, uplifted his voice,
repeating thrice--"Faites vos devoirs, preux chevaliers!" After the
third cry, he withdrew to one side of the lists, and again proclaimed,
that none, on peril of instant death, should dare, by word, cry, or
action, to interfere with or disturb this fair field of combat. The
Grand Master, who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca's glove,
now threw it into the lists, and pronounced the fatal signal words,
"Laissez aller".

The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full career.
The wearied horse of Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, went
down, as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and vigorous
steed of the Templar. This issue of the combat all had foreseen; but
although the spear of Ivanhoe did but, in comparison, touch the shield
of Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment of all who beheld
it reeled in his saddle, lost his stirrups, and fell in the lists.

Ivanhoe, extricating himself from his fallen horse, was soon on foot,
hastening to mend his fortune with his sword; but his antagonist arose
not. Wilfred, placing his foot on his breast, and the sword's point
to his throat, commanded him to yield him, or die on the spot.
Bois-Guilbert returned no answer.

"Slay him not, Sir Knight," cried the Grand Master, "unshriven and
unabsolved--kill not body and soul! We allow him vanquished."

He descended into the lists, and commanded them to unhelm the conquered
champion. His eyes were closed--the dark red flush was still on his
brow. As they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes opened--but they
were fixed and glazed. The flush passed from his brow, and gave way to
the pallid hue of death. Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had
died a victim to the violence of his own contending passions.

"This is indeed the judgment of God," said the Grand Master, looking
upwards--"'Fiat voluntas tua!'"




     So! now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story.
     Webster

When the first moments of surprise were over, Wilfred of Ivanhoe
demanded of the Grand Master, as judge of the field, if he had manfully
and rightfully done his duty in the combat? "Manfully and rightfully hath
it been done," said the Grand Master. "I pronounce the maiden free and
guiltless--The arms and the body of the deceased knight are at the will
of the victor."

"I will not despoil him of his weapons," said the Knight of Ivanhoe,
"nor condemn his corpse to shame--he hath fought for Christendom--God's
arm, no human hand, hath this day struck him down. But let his
obsequies be private, as becomes those of a man who died in an unjust
quarrel.--And for the maiden--"

He was interrupted by a clattering of horses' feet, advancing in such
numbers, and so rapidly, as to shake the ground before them; and the
Black Knight galloped into the lists. He was followed by a numerous band
of men-at-arms, and several knights in complete armour.

"I am too late," he said, looking around him. "I had doomed
Bois-Guilbert for mine own property.--Ivanhoe, was this well, to take on
thee such a venture, and thou scarce able to keep thy saddle?"

"Heaven, my Liege," answered Ivanhoe, "hath taken this proud man for its
victim. He was not to be honoured in dying as your will had designed."

"Peace be with him," said Richard, looking steadfastly on the corpse,
"if it may be so--he was a gallant knight, and has died in his steel
harness full knightly. But we must waste no time--Bohun, do thine
office!"

A Knight stepped forward from the King's attendants, and, laying his
hand on the shoulder of Albert de Malvoisin, said, "I arrest thee of
High Treason."

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

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

"I make the arrest," replied the Knight--"I, Henry Bohun, Earl of Essex,
Lord High Constable of England."

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

"I will resist thy doom," said the Grand Master.

"Proud Templar," said the King, "thou canst not--look up, and behold the
Royal Standard of England floats over thy towers instead of thy Temple
banner!--Be wise, Beaumanoir, and make no bootless opposition--Thy hand
is in the lion's mouth."

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

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

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

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

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

"The Brethren of the Temple," said the Grand Master, riding forward in
advance of their body, "fight not on such idle and profane quarrel--and
not with thee, Richard of England, shall a Templar cross lance in my
presence. The Pope and Princes of Europe shall judge our quarrel, and
whether a Christian prince has done well in bucklering the cause which
thou hast to-day adopted. If unassailed, we depart assailing no one. To
thine honour we refer the armour and household goods of the Order which
we leave behind us, and on thy conscience we lay the scandal and offence
thou hast this day given to Christendom."

With these words, and without waiting a reply, the Grand Master gave the
signal of departure. Their trumpets sounded a wild march, of an Oriental
character, which formed the usual signal for the Templars to advance.
They changed their array from a line to a column of march, and moved off
as slowly as their horses could step, as if to show it was only the will
of their Grand Master, and no fear of the opposing and superior force,
which compelled them to withdraw.

"By the splendour of Our Lady's brow!" said King Richard, "it is pity
of their lives that these Templars are not so trusty as they are
disciplined and valiant."

The multitude, like a timid cur which waits to bark till the object of
its challenge has turned his back, raised a feeble shout as the rear of
the squadron left the ground.

During the tumult which attended the retreat of the Templars, Rebecca
saw and heard nothing--she was locked in the arms of her aged father,
giddy, and almost senseless, with the rapid change of circumstances
around her. But one word from Isaac at length recalled her scattered
feelings.

"Let us go," he said, "my dear daughter, my recovered treasure--let us
go to throw ourselves at the feet of the good youth."

"Not so," said Rebecca, "O no--no--no--I must not at this moment dare
to speak to him--Alas! I should say more than--No, my father, let us
instantly leave this evil place."

"But, my daughter," said Isaac, "to leave him who hath come forth like a
strong man with his spear and shield, holding his life as nothing, so
he might redeem thy captivity; and thou, too, the daughter of a
people strange unto him and his--this is service to be thankfully
acknowledged."

"It is--it is--most thankfully--most devoutly acknowledged," said
Rebecca--"it shall be still more so--but not now--for the sake of thy
beloved Rachel, father, grant my request--not now!"

"Nay, but," said Isaac, insisting, "they will deem us more thankless
than mere dogs!"

"But thou seest, my dear father, that King Richard is in presence, and
that---"

"True, my best--my wisest Rebecca!--Let us hence--let us hence!--Money
he will lack, for he has just returned from Palestine, and, as they say,
from prison--and pretext for exacting it, should he need any, may arise
out of my simple traffic with his brother John. Away, away, let us
hence!"

And hurrying his daughter in his turn, he conducted her from the lists,
and by means of conveyance which he had provided, transported her safely
to the house of the Rabbi Nathan.

The Jewess, whose fortunes had formed the principal interest of the
day, having now retired unobserved, the attention of the populace was
transferred to the Black Knight. They now filled the air with "Long life
to Richard with the Lion's Heart, and down with the usurping Templars!"

"Notwithstanding all this lip-loyalty," said Ivanhoe to the Earl of
Essex, "it was well the King took the precaution to bring thee with him,
noble Earl, and so many of thy trusty followers."

The Earl smiled and shook his head.

"Gallant Ivanhoe," said Essex, "dost thou know our Master so well, and
yet suspect him of taking so wise a precaution! I was drawing towards
York having heard that Prince John was making head there, when I met
King Richard, like a true knight-errant, galloping hither to achieve in
his own person this adventure of the Templar and the Jewess, with
his own single arm. I accompanied him with my band, almost maugre his
consent."

"And what news from York, brave Earl?" said Ivanhoe; "will the rebels
bide us there?"

"No more than December's snow will bide July's sun," said the Earl;
"they are dispersing; and who should come posting to bring us the news,
but John himself!"

"The traitor! the ungrateful insolent traitor!" said Ivanhoe; "did not
Richard order him into confinement?"

"O! he received him," answered the Earl, "as if they had met after a
hunting party; and, pointing to me and our men-at-arms, said, 'Thou
seest, brother, I have some angry men with me--thou wert best go to our
mother, carry her my duteous affection, and abide with her until men's
minds are pacified.'"

"And this was all he said?" enquired Ivanhoe; "would not any one say
that this Prince invites men to treason by his clemency?"

"Just," replied the Earl, "as the man may be said to invite death, who
undertakes to fight a combat, having a dangerous wound unhealed."

"I forgive thee the jest, Lord Earl," said Ivanhoe; "but, remember, I
hazarded but my own life--Richard, the welfare of his kingdom."

"Those," replied Essex, "who are specially careless of their own
welfare, are seldom remarkably attentive to that of others--But let
us haste to the castle, for Richard meditates punishing some of the
subordinate members of the conspiracy, though he has pardoned their
principal."

From the judicial investigations which followed on this occasion, and
which are given at length in the Wardour Manuscript, it appears that
Maurice de Bracy escaped beyond seas, and went into the service of
Philip of France; while Philip de Malvoisin, and his brother Albert, the
Preceptor of Templestowe, were executed, although Waldemar Fitzurse, the
soul of the conspiracy, escaped with banishment; and Prince John,
for whose behoof it was undertaken, was not even censured by his
good-natured brother. No one, however, pitied the fate of the two
Malvoisins, who only suffered the death which they had both well
deserved, by many acts of falsehood, cruelty, and oppression.

Briefly after the judicial combat, Cedric the Saxon was summoned to the
court of Richard, which, for the purpose of quieting the counties that
had been disturbed by the ambition of his brother, was then held at
York. Cedric tushed and pshawed more than once at the message--but he
refused not obedience. In fact, the return of Richard had quenched every
hope that he had entertained of restoring a Saxon dynasty in England;
for, whatever head the Saxons might have made in the event of a civil
war, it was plain that nothing could be done under the undisputed
dominion of Richard, popular as he was by his personal good qualities
and military fame, although his administration was wilfully careless,
now too indulgent, and now allied to despotism.

But, moreover, it could not escape even Cedric's reluctant observation,
that his project for an absolute union among the Saxons, by the marriage
of Rowena and Athelstane, was now completely at an end, by the mutual
dissent of both parties concerned. This was, indeed, an event which, in
his ardour for the Saxon cause, he could not have anticipated, and even
when the disinclination of both was broadly and plainly manifested, he
could scarce bring himself to believe that two Saxons of royal descent
should scruple, on personal grounds, at an alliance so necessary for the
public weal of the nation. But it was not the less certain: Rowena had
always expressed her repugnance to Athelstane, and now Athelstane was
no less plain and positive in proclaiming his resolution never to pursue
his addresses to the Lady Rowena. Even the natural obstinacy of Cedric
sunk beneath these obstacles, where he, remaining on the point of
junction, had the task of dragging a reluctant pair up to it, one with
each hand. He made, however, a last vigorous attack on Athelstane, and
he found that resuscitated sprout of Saxon royalty engaged, like country
squires of our own day, in a furious war with the clergy.

It seems that, after all his deadly menaces against the Abbot of Saint
Edmund's, Athelstane's spirit of revenge, what between the natural
indolent kindness of his own disposition, what through the prayers of
his mother Edith, attached, like most ladies, (of the period,) to the
clerical order, had terminated in his keeping the Abbot and his monks in
the dungeons of Coningsburgh for three days on a meagre diet. For this
atrocity the Abbot menaced him with excommunication, and made out a
dreadful list of complaints in the bowels and stomach, suffered by
himself and his monks, in consequence of the tyrannical and unjust
imprisonment they had sustained. With this controversy, and with the
means he had adopted to counteract this clerical persecution, Cedric
found the mind of his friend Athelstane so fully occupied, that it had
no room for another idea. And when Rowena's name was mentioned the noble
Athelstane prayed leave to quaff a full goblet to her health, and that
she might soon be the bride of his kinsman Wilfred. It was a desperate
case therefore. There was obviously no more to be made of Athelstane;
or, as Wamba expressed it, in a phrase which has descended from Saxon
times to ours, he was a cock that would not fight.

There remained betwixt Cedric and the determination which the lovers
desired to come to, only two obstacles--his own obstinacy, and his
dislike of the Norman dynasty. The former feeling gradually gave way
before the endearments of his ward, and the pride which he could not
help nourishing in the fame of his son. Besides, he was not insensible
to the honour of allying his own line to that of Alfred, when the
superior claims of the descendant of Edward the Confessor were abandoned
for ever. Cedric's aversion to the Norman race of kings was also much
undermined,--first, by consideration of the impossibility of ridding
England of the new dynasty, a feeling which goes far to create loyalty
in the subject to the king "de facto"; and, secondly, by the personal
attention of King Richard, who delighted in the blunt humour of Cedric,
and, to use the language of the Wardour Manuscript, so dealt with the
noble Saxon, that, ere he had been a guest at court for seven days, he
had given his consent to the marriage of his ward Rowena and his son
Wilfred of Ivanhoe.

The nuptials of our hero, thus formally approved by his father, were
celebrated in the most august of temples, the noble Minster of York.
The King himself attended, and from the countenance which he afforded on
this and other occasions to the distressed and hitherto degraded Saxons,
gave them a safer and more certain prospect of attaining their just
rights, than they could reasonably hope from the precarious chance of
a civil war. The Church gave her full solemnities, graced with all
the splendour which she of Rome knows how to apply with such brilliant
effect.

Gurth, gallantly apparelled, attended as esquire upon his young master
whom he had served so faithfully, and the magnanimous Wamba, decorated
with a new cap and a most gorgeous set of silver bells. Sharers of
Wilfred's dangers and adversity, they remained, as they had a right to
expect, the partakers of his more prosperous career.

But besides this domestic retinue, these distinguished nuptials were
celebrated by the attendance of the high-born Normans, as well as
Saxons, joined with the universal jubilee of the lower orders, that
marked the marriage of two individuals as a pledge of the future peace
and harmony betwixt two races, which, since that period, have been so
completely mingled, that the distinction has become wholly invisible.
Cedric lived to see this union approximate towards its completion; for
as the two nations mixed in society and formed intermarriages with each
other, the Normans abated their scorn, and the Saxons were refined from
their rusticity. But it was not until the reign of Edward the Third
that the mixed language, now termed English, was spoken at the court
of London, and that the hostile distinction of Norman and Saxon seems
entirely to have disappeared.

It was upon the second morning after this happy bridal, that the Lady
Rowena was made acquainted by her handmaid Elgitha, that a damsel
desired admission to her presence, and solicited that their parley might
be without witness. Rowena wondered, hesitated, became curious, and
ended by commanding the damsel to be admitted, and her attendants to
withdraw.

She entered--a noble and commanding figure, the long white veil,
in which she was shrouded, overshadowing rather than concealing the
elegance and majesty of her shape. Her demeanour was that of respect,
unmingled by the least shade either of fear, or of a wish to propitiate
favour. Rowena was ever ready to acknowledge the claims, and attend to
the feelings, of others. She arose, and would have conducted her
lovely visitor to a seat; but the stranger looked at Elgitha, and again
intimated a wish to discourse with the Lady Rowena alone. Elgitha had no
sooner retired with unwilling steps, than, to the surprise of the Lady
of Ivanhoe, her fair visitant kneeled on one knee, pressed her hands to
her forehead, and bending her head to the ground, in spite of Rowena's
resistance, kissed the embroidered hem of her tunic.

"What means this, lady?" said the surprised bride; "or why do you offer
to me a deference so unusual?"

"Because to you, Lady of Ivanhoe," said Rebecca, rising up and resuming
the usual quiet dignity of her manner, "I may lawfully, and without
rebuke, pay the debt of gratitude which I owe to Wilfred of Ivanhoe.
I am--forgive the boldness which has offered to you the homage of my
country--I am the unhappy Jewess, for whom your husband hazarded his
life against such fearful odds in the tiltyard of Templestowe."

"Damsel," said Rowena, "Wilfred of Ivanhoe on that day rendered back but
in slight measure your unceasing charity towards him in his wounds and
misfortunes. Speak, is there aught remains in which he or I can serve
thee?"

"Nothing," said Rebecca, calmly, "unless you will transmit to him my
grateful farewell."

"You leave England then?" said Rowena, scarce recovering the surprise of
this extraordinary visit.

"I leave it, lady, ere this moon again changes. My father had a brother
high in favour with Mohammed Boabdil, King of Grenada--thither we go,
secure of peace and protection, for the payment of such ransom as the
Moslem exact from our people."

"And are you not then as well protected in England?" said Rowena.
"My husband has favour with the King--the King himself is just and
generous."

"Lady," said Rebecca, "I doubt it not--but the people of England are a
fierce race, quarrelling ever with their neighbours or among themselves,
and ready to plunge the sword into the bowels of each other. Such is
no safe abode for the children of my people. Ephraim is an heartless
dove--Issachar an over-laboured drudge, which stoops between two
burdens. Not in a land of war and blood, surrounded by hostile
neighbours, and distracted by internal factions, can Israel hope to rest
during her wanderings."

"But you, maiden," said Rowena--"you surely can have nothing to fear.
She who nursed the sick-bed of Ivanhoe," she continued, rising with
enthusiasm--"she can have nothing to fear in England, where Saxon and
Norman will contend who shall most do her honour."

"Thy speech is fair, lady," said Rebecca, "and thy purpose fairer; but
it may not be--there is a gulf betwixt us. Our breeding, our faith,
alike forbid either to pass over it. Farewell--yet, ere I go indulge me
one request. The bridal-veil hangs over thy face; deign to raise it, and
let me see the features of which fame speaks so highly."

"They are scarce worthy of being looked upon," said Rowena; "but,
expecting the same from my visitant, I remove the veil."

She took it off accordingly; and, partly from the consciousness of
beauty, partly from bashfulness, she blushed so intensely, that cheek,
brow, neck, and bosom, were suffused with crimson. Rebecca blushed also,
but it was a momentary feeling; and, mastered by higher emotions, past
slowly from her features like the crimson cloud, which changes colour
when the sun sinks beneath the horizon.

"Lady," she said, "the countenance you have deigned to show me will long
dwell in my remembrance. There reigns in it gentleness and goodness; and
if a tinge of the world's pride or vanities may mix with an expression
so lovely, how should we chide that which is of earth for bearing some
colour of its original? Long, long will I remember your features, and
bless God that I leave my noble deliverer united with--"

She stopped short--her eyes filled with tears. She hastily wiped them,
and answered to the anxious enquiries of Rowena--"I am well, lady--well.
But my heart swells when I think of Torquilstone and the lists of
Templestowe.--Farewell. One, the most trifling part of my duty, remains
undischarged. Accept this casket--startle not at its contents."

Rowena opened the small silver-chased casket, and perceived a carcanet,
or neck lace, with ear-jewels, of diamonds, which were obviously of
immense value.

"It is impossible," she said, tendering back the casket. "I dare not
accept a gift of such consequence."

"Yet keep it, lady," returned Rebecca.--"You have power, rank, command,
influence; we have wealth, the source both of our strength and weakness;
the value of these toys, ten times multiplied, would not influence half
so much as your slightest wish. To you, therefore, the gift is of little
value,--and to me, what I part with is of much less. Let me not think
you deem so wretchedly ill of my nation as your commons believe. Think
ye that I prize these sparkling fragments of stone above my liberty?
or that my father values them in comparison to the honour of his only
child? Accept them, lady--to me they are valueless. I will never wear
jewels more."

"You are then unhappy!" said Rowena, struck with the manner in which
Rebecca uttered the last words. "O, remain with us--the counsel of holy
men will wean you from your erring law, and I will be a sister to you."

"No, lady," answered Rebecca, the same calm melancholy reigning in her
soft voice and beautiful features--"that--may not be. I may not change
the faith of my fathers like a garment unsuited to the climate in
which I seek to dwell, and unhappy, lady, I will not be. He, to whom I
dedicate my future life, will be my comforter, if I do His will."

"Have you then convents, to one of which you mean to retire?" asked
Rowena.

"No, lady," said the Jewess; "but among our people, since the time of
Abraham downwards, have been women who have devoted their thoughts to
Heaven, and their actions to works of kindness to men, tending the
sick, feeding the hungry, and relieving the distressed. Among these will
Rebecca be numbered. Say this to thy lord, should he chance to enquire
after the fate of her whose life he saved."

There was an involuntary tremour on Rebecca's voice, and a tenderness
of accent, which perhaps betrayed more than she would willingly have
expressed. She hastened to bid Rowena adieu.

"Farewell," she said. "May He, who made both Jew and Christian, shower
down on you his choicest blessings! The bark that waits us hence will be
under weigh ere we can reach the port."

She glided from the apartment, leaving Rowena surprised as if a vision
had passed before her. The fair Saxon related the singular conference to
her husband, on whose mind it made a deep impression. He lived long and
happily with Rowena, for they were attached to each other by the
bonds of early affection, and they loved each other the more, from the
recollection of the obstacles which had impeded their union. Yet it
would be enquiring too curiously to ask, whether the recollection
of Rebecca's beauty and magnanimity did not recur to his mind more
frequently than the fair descendant of Alfred might altogether have
approved.

Ivanhoe distinguished himself in the service of Richard, and was graced
with farther marks of the royal favour. He might have risen still
higher, but for the premature death of the heroic Coeur-de-Lion, before
the Castle of Chaluz, near Limoges. With the life of a generous, but
rash and romantic monarch, perished all the projects which his ambition
and his generosity had formed; to whom may be applied, with a slight
alteration, the lines composed by Johnson for Charles of Sweden--

     His fate was destined to a foreign strand,
     A petty fortress and an "humble" hand;
     He left the name at which the world grew pale,
     To point a moral, or adorn a TALE.






NOTE TO CHAPTER I.

Note A.--The Ranger or the Forest, that cuts the foreclaws off our dogs.

A most sensible grievance of those aggrieved times were the Forest Laws.
These oppressive enactments were the produce of the Norman Conquest,
for the Saxon laws of the chase were mild and humane; while those of
William, enthusiastically attached to the exercise and its rights, were
to the last degree tyrannical. The formation of the New Forest, bears
evidence to his passion for hunting, where he reduced many a happy
village to the condition of that one commemorated by my friend, Mr
William Stewart Rose:

     "Amongst the ruins of the church
     The midnight raven found a perch,
     A melancholy place;
     The ruthless Conqueror cast down,
     Woe worth the deed, that little town,
     To lengthen out his chase."

The disabling dogs, which might be necessary for keeping flocks and
herds, from running at the deer, was called "lawing", and was in general
use. The Charter of the Forest designed to lessen those evils, declares
that inquisition, or view, for lawing dogs, shall be made every third
year, and shall be then done by the view and testimony of lawful men,
not otherwise; and they whose dogs shall be then found unlawed, shall
give three shillings for mercy, and for the future no man's ox shall be
taken for lawing. Such lawing also shall be done by the assize commonly
used, and which is, that three claws shall be cut off without the ball
of the right foot. See on this subject the Historical Essay on the Magna
Charta of King John, (a most beautiful volume), by Richard Thomson.




NOTE TO CHAPTER II.

Note B.--Negro Slaves.

The severe accuracy of some critics has objected to the complexion of
the slaves of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as being totally out of costume
and propriety. I remember the same objection being made to a set of
sable functionaries, whom my friend, Mat Lewis, introduced as the
guards and mischief-doing satellites of the wicked Baron, in his Castle
Spectre. Mat treated the objection with great contempt, and averred
in reply, that he made the slaves black in order to obtain a striking
effect of contrast, and that, could he have derived a similar advantage
from making his heroine blue, blue she should have been.

I do not pretend to plead the immunities of my order so highly as this;
but neither will I allow that the author of a modern antique romance
is obliged to confine himself to the introduction of those manners
only which can be proved to have absolutely existed in the times he
is depicting, so that he restrain himself to such as are plausible and
natural, and contain no obvious anachronism. In this point of view,
what can be more natural, than that the Templars, who, we know, copied
closely the luxuries of the Asiatic warriors with whom they fought,
should use the service of the enslaved Africans, whom the fate of war
transferred to new masters? I am sure, if there are no precise proofs
of their having done so, there is nothing, on the other hand, that can
entitle us positively to conclude that they never did. Besides, there is
an instance in romance.

John of Rampayne, an excellent juggler and minstrel, undertook to effect
the escape of one Audulf de Bracy, by presenting himself in disguise
at the court of the king, where he was confined. For this purpose, "he
stained his hair and his whole body entirely as black as jet, so that
nothing was white but his teeth," and succeeded in imposing himself
on the king, as an Ethiopian minstrel. He effected, by stratagem, the
escape of the prisoner. Negroes, therefore, must have been known in
England in the dark ages. [60]




NOTE TO CHAPTER XVII.

Note C.--Minstrelsy.

The realm of France, it is well known, was divided betwixt the Norman
and Teutonic race, who spoke the language in which the word Yes is
pronounced as "oui", and the inhabitants of the southern regions, whose
speech bearing some affinity to the Italian, pronounced the same word
"oc". The poets of the former race were called "Minstrels", and their
poems "Lays": those of the latter were termed "Troubadours", and their
compositions called "sirventes", and other names. Richard, a professed
admirer of the joyous science in all its branches, could imitate either
the minstrel or troubadour. It is less likely that he should have been
able to compose or sing an English ballad; yet so much do we wish to
assimilate Him of the Lion Heart to the band of warriors whom he led,
that the anachronism, if there be one may readily be forgiven.




NOTE TO CHAPTER XXI.

Note D.--Battle of Stamford.

A great topographical blunder occurred here in former editions. The
bloody battle alluded to in the text, fought and won by King Harold,
over his brother the rebellious Tosti, and an auxiliary force of Danes
or Norsemen, was said, in the text, and a corresponding note, to have
taken place at Stamford, in Leicestershire, and upon the river Welland.
This is a mistake, into which the author has been led by trusting to his
memory, and so confounding two places of the same name. The Stamford,
Strangford, or Staneford, at which the battle really was fought, is a
ford upon the river Derwent, at the distance of about seven miles from
York, and situated in that large and opulent county. A long wooden
bridge over the Derwent, the site of which, with one remaining buttress,
is still shown to the curious traveller, was furiously contested. One
Norwegian long defended it by his single arm, and was at length pierced
with a spear thrust through the planks of the bridge from a boat
beneath.

The neighbourhood of Stamford, on the Derwent, contains some memorials
of the battle. Horseshoes, swords, and the heads of halberds, or bills,
are often found there; one place is called the "Danes' well," another
the "Battle flats." From a tradition that the weapon with which the
Norwegian champion was slain, resembled a pear, or, as others say, that
the trough or boat in which the soldier floated under the bridge to
strike the blow, had such a shape, the country people usually begin a
great market, which is held at Stamford, with an entertainment called
the Pear-pie feast, which after all may be a corruption of the Spear-pie
feast. For more particulars, Drake's History of York may be referred
to. The author's mistake was pointed out to him, in the most obliging
manner, by Robert Belt, Esq. of Bossal House. The battle was fought in

 Many people assemble at Templestowe for the combat which is to decide the fate of Rebecca. Among them are Allan-a-Dale and Friar Tuck, who discuss the legend which is rapidly arising around Athelstane. Brian de Bois-Guilbert, the unwilling champion of the order against Rebecca, appeals once more to her to ride away with him. With her customary disdain, she refuses. Just as it appears that no champion will appear to defend Rebecca, Ivanhoe rides into the lists. He and his horse are exhausted from the hard ride and, at the first skirmish, Ivanhoe is unseated. However, the Templar also falls to the ground, having died, "a victim to the violence of his own contending passions." Rowena and Wilfred of Ivanhoe are married and it is to Rowena that Rebecca pays a final visit to tender her thanks for deliverance. She and her father leave England to live in Granada.

