Ivanhoe by Walter Scott (world best books to read .TXT) 📖

take thought instead to pay me the ransom thou hast

promised, or woe betide thy Jewish throat!”

“Robber and villain!” said the Jew, retorting the insults of his

oppressor with passion, which, however impotent, he now found it

impossible to bridle, “I will pay thee nothing---not one silver

penny will I pay thee, unless my daughter is delivered to me in

safety and honour!”

“Art thou in thy senses, Israelite?” said the Norman, sternly

---“has thy flesh and blood a charm against heated iron and

scalding oil?”

“I care not!” said the Jew, rendered desperate by paternal

affection; “do thy worst. My daughter is my flesh and blood,

dearer to me a thousand times than those limbs which thy cruelty

threatens. No silver will I give thee, unless I were to pour it

molten down thy avaricious throat---no, not a silver penny will I

give thee, Nazarene, were it to save thee from the deep damnation

thy whole life has merited! Take my life if thou wilt, and say,

the Jew, amidst his tortures, knew how to disappoint the

Christian.”

“We shall see that,” said Front-de-Boeuf; “for by the blessed

rood, which is the abomination of thy accursed tribe, thou shalt

feel the extremities of fire and steel!---Strip him, slaves, and

chain him down upon the bars.”

In spite of the feeble struggles of the old man, the Saracens had

already torn from him his upper garment, and were proceeding

totally to disrobe him, when the sound of a bugle, twice winded

without the castle, penetrated even to the recesses of the

dungeon, and immediately after loud voices were heard calling for

Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf. Unwilling to be found engaged in

his hellish occupation, the savage Baron gave the slaves a signal

to restore Isaac’s garment, and, quitting the dungeon with his

attendants, he left the Jew to thank God for his own deliverance,

or to lament over his daughter’s captivity, and probable fate, as

his personal or parental feelings might prove strongest.

CHAPTER XXIII

Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words

Can no way change you to a milder form,

I’ll woo you, like a soldier, at arms’ end,

And love you ‘gainst the nature of love, force you.

Two Gentlemen of Verona

The apartment to which the Lady Rowena had been introduced was

fitted up with some rude attempts at ornament and magnificence,

and her being placed there might be considered as a peculiar mark

of respect not offered to the other prisoners. But the wife of

Front-de-Boeuf, for whom it had been originally furnished, was

long dead, and decay and neglect had impaired the few ornaments

with which her taste had adorned it. The tapestry hung down from

the walls in many places, and in others was tarnished and faded

under the effects of the sun, or tattered and decayed by age.

Desolate, however, as it was, this was the apartment of the

castle which had been judged most fitting for the accommodation

of the Saxon heiress; and here she was left to meditate upon her

fate, until the actors in this nefarious drama had arranged the

several parts which each of them was to perform. This had been

settled in a council held by Front-de-Boeuf, De Bracy, and the

Templar, in which, after a long and warm debate concerning the

several advantages which each insisted upon deriving from his

peculiar share in this audacious enterprise, they had at length

determined the fate of their unhappy prisoners.

It was about the hour of noon, therefore, when De Bracy, for

whose advantage the expedition had been first planned, appeared

to prosecute his views upon the hand and possessions of the Lady

Rowena.

The interval had not entirely been bestowed in holding council

with his confederates, for De Bracy had found leisure to decorate

his person with all the foppery of the times. His green cassock

and vizard were now flung aside. His long luxuriant hair was

trained to flow in quaint tresses down his richly furred cloak.

His beard was closely shaved, his doublet reached to the middle

of his leg, and the girdle which secured it, and at the same time

supported his ponderous sword, was embroidered and embossed with

gold work. We have already noticed the extravagant fashion of

the shoes at this period, and the points of Maurice de Bracy’s

might have challenged the prize of extravagance with the gayest,

being turned up and twisted like the horns of a ram. Such was

the dress of a gallant of the period; and, in the present

instance, that effect was aided by the handsome person and good

demeanour of the wearer, whose manners partook alike of the grace

of a courtier, and the frankness of a soldier.

He saluted Rowena by doffing his velvet bonnet, garnished with a

golden broach, representing St Michael trampling down the Prince

of Evil. With this, he gently motioned the lady to a seat; and,

as she still retained her standing posture, the knight ungloved

his right hand, and motioned to conduct her thither. But Rowena

declined, by her gesture, the proffered compliment, and replied,

“If I be in the presence of my jailor, Sir Knight---nor will

circumstances allow me to think otherwise---it best becomes his

prisoner to remain standing till she learns her doom.”

“Alas! fair Rowena,” returned De Bracy, “you are in presence of

your captive, not your jailor; and it is from your fair eyes that

De Bracy must receive that doom which you fondly expect from

him.”

“I know you not, sir,” said the lady, drawing herself up with all

the pride of offended rank and beauty; “I know you not---and the

insolent familiarity with which you apply to me the jargon of a

troubadour, forms no apology for the violence of a robber.”

“To thyself, fair maid,” answered De Bracy, in his former tone

---“to thine own charms be ascribed whate’er I have done which

passed the respect due to her, whom I have chosen queen of my

heart, and lodestar of my eyes.”

“I repeat to you, Sir Knight, that I know you not, and that no

man wearing chain and spurs ought thus to intrude himself upon

the presence of an unprotected lady.”

“That I am unknown to you,” said De Bracy, “is indeed my

misfortune; yet let me hope that De Bracy’s name has not been

always unspoken, when minstrels or heralds have praised deeds of

chivalry, whether in the lists or in the battle-field.”

“To heralds and to minstrels, then, leave thy praise, Sir

Knight,” replied Rowena, “more suiting for their mouths than for

thine own; and tell me which of them shall record in song, or in

book of tourney, the memorable conquest of this night, a conquest

obtained over an old man, followed by a few timid hinds; and its

booty, an unfortunate maiden, transported against her will to the

castle of a robber?”

“You are unjust, Lady Rowena,” said the knight, biting his lips

in some confusion, and speaking in a tone more natural to him

than that of affected gallantry, which he had at first adopted;

“yourself free from passion, you can allow no excuse for the

frenzy of another, although caused by your own beauty.”

“I pray you, Sir Knight,” said Rowena, “to cease a language so

commonly used by strolling minstrels, that it becomes not the

mouth of knights or nobles. Certes, you constrain me to sit

down, since you enter upon such commonplace terms, of which each

vile crowder hath a stock that might last from hence to

Christmas.”

“Proud damsel,” said De Bracy, incensed at finding his gallant

style procured him nothing but contempt---“proud damsel, thou

shalt be as proudly encountered. Know then, that I have

supported my pretensions to your hand in the way that best suited

thy character. It is meeter for thy humour to be wooed with bow

and bill, than in set terms, and in courtly language.”

“Courtesy of tongue,” said Rowena, “when it is used to veil

churlishness of deed, is but a knight’s girdle around the breast

of a base clown. I wonder not that the restraint appears to gall

you---more it were for your honour to have retained the dress and

language of an outlaw, than to veil the deeds of one under an

affectation of gentle language and demeanour.”

“You counsel well, lady,” said the Norman; “and in the bold

language which best justifies bold action I tell thee, thou shalt

never leave this castle, or thou shalt leave it as Maurice de

Bracy’s wife. I am not wont to be baffled in my enterprises, nor

needs a Norman noble scrupulously to vindicate his conduct to the

Saxon maiden whom he distinguishes by the offer of his hand.

Thou art proud, Rowena, and thou art the fitter to be my wife.

By what other means couldst thou be raised to high honour and to

princely place, saving by my alliance? How else wouldst thou

escape from the mean precincts of a country grange, where Saxons

herd with the swine which form their wealth, to take thy seat,

honoured as thou shouldst be, and shalt be, amid all in England

that is distinguished by beauty, or dignified by power?”

“Sir Knight,” replied Rowena, “the grange which you contemn hath

been my shelter from infancy; and, trust me, when I leave it

---should that day ever arrive---it shall be with one who has not

learnt to despise the dwelling and manners in which I have been

brought up.”

“I guess your meaning, lady,” said De Bracy, “though you may

think it lies too obscure for my apprehension. But dream not,

that Richard Coeur de Lion will ever resume his throne, far less

that Wilfred of Ivanhoe, his minion, will ever lead thee to his

footstool, to be there welcomed as the bride of a favourite.

Another suitor might feel jealousy while he touched this string;

but my firm purpose cannot be changed by a passion so childish

and so hopeless. Know, lady, that this rival is in my power, and

that it rests but with me to betray the secret of his being

within the castle to Front-de-Boeuf, whose jealousy will be more

fatal than mine.”

“Wilfred here?” said Rowena, in disdain; “that is as true as that

Front-de-Boeuf is his rival.”

De Bracy looked at her steadily for an instant.

“Wert thou really ignorant of this?” said he; “didst thou not

know that Wilfred of Ivanhoe travelled in the litter of the Jew?

---a meet conveyance for the crusader, whose doughty arm was to

reconquer the Holy Sepulchre!” And he laughed scornfully.

“And if he is here,” said Rowena, compelling herself to a tone of

indifference, though trembling with an agony of apprehension

which she could not suppress, “in what is he the rival of

Front-de-Boeuf? or what has he to fear beyond a short

imprisonment, and an honourable ransom, according to the use of

chivalry?”

“Rowena,” said De Bracy, “art thou, too, deceived by the common

error of thy sex, who think there can be no rivalry but that

respecting their own charms? Knowest thou not there is a jealousy

of ambition and of wealth, as well as of love; and that this our

host, Front-de-Boeuf, will push from his road him who opposes his

claim to the fair barony of Ivanhoe, as readily, eagerly, and

unscrupulously, as if he were preferred to him by some blue-eyed

damsel? But smile on my suit, lady, and the wounded champion

shall have nothing to fear from Front-de-Boeuf, whom else thou

mayst mourn for, as in the hands of one who has never shown

compassion.”

“Save him, for the love of Heaven!” said Rowena, her firmness

giving way under terror for her lover’s impending fate.

“I can---I will---it is my purpose,” said De Bracy; “for, when