Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott

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``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-Buf; ``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-Buf.
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-Buf, 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-Buf,
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 loadstar 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 be 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 Cur
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-Buf,
whose jealousy will be more fatal than mine.''

``Wilfred here?'' said Rowena, in disdain; ``that
is as true as that Front-de-Buf 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-Buf?
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-Buf, 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-Buf, 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 Rowena consents to be the
bride of De Bracy, who is it shall dare to put forth
a violent hand upon her kinsman---the son of her
guardian---the companion of her youth? But it is
thy love must buy his protection. I am not romantic
fool enough to further the fortune, or avert
the fate, of one who is likely to be a successful obstacle
between me and my wishes. Use thine influence
with me in his behalf, and he is safe,---refuse
to employ it, Wilfred dies, and thou thyself
art not the nearer to freedom.''

``Thy language,'' answered Rowena, ``hath in
its indifferent bluntness something which cannot be
reconciled with the horrors it seems to express. I
believe not that thy purpose is so wicked, or thy
power so great.''

``Flatter thyself, then, with that belief,'' said De
Bracy, ``until time shall prove it false. Thy lover
lies wounded in this castle---thy preferred lover. He
is a bar betwixt Front-de-Buf and that which
Front-de-Buf loves better than either ambition
or beauty. What will it cost beyond the blow of a
poniard, or the thrust of a javelin, to silence his
opposition for ever? Nay, were Front-de-Buf
afraid to justify a deed so open, let the leech but
give his patient a wrong draught---let the chamberlain,
or the nurse who tends him, but pluck the
pillow from his head, and Wilfred in his present
condition, is sped without the effusion of blood.
Cedric also---''

``And Cedric also,'' said Rowena, repeating his
words; ``my noble---my generous guardian! I deserved
the evil I have encountered, for forgetting
his fate even in that of his son!''

``Cedric's fate also depends upon thy determination,''
said De Bracy; ``and I leave thee to
form it.''

Hitherto, Rowena had sustained her part in this
trying scene with undismayed courage, but it was
because she had not considered the danger as serious
and imminent. Her disposition was naturally
that which physiognomists consider as proper to
fair complexions, mild, timid, and gentle; but it
had been tempered, and, as it were, hardened, by
the circumstances of her education. Accustomed
to see the will of all, even of Cedric himself, (sufficiently
arbitrary with others,) give way before her
wishes, she had acquired that sort of courage and
self-confidence which arises from the habitual and
constant deference of the circle in which we move.
She could scarce conceive the possibility of her
will being opposed, far less that of its being treated
with total disregard.

Her haughtiness and habit of domination was,
therefore, a fictitious character, induced over that
which was natural to her, and it deserted her when
her eyes were opened to the extent of her own danger,
as well as that of her lover and her guardian;
and when she found her will, the slightest expression
of which was wont to command respect and
attention, now placed in opposition to that of a
man of a strong, fierce, and determined mind, who
possessed the advantage over her, and was resolved
to use it, she quailed before him.

After casting her eyes around, as if to look for
the aid which was nowhere to be found, and after
a few broken interjections, she raised her hands to
heaven, and burst into a passion of uncontrolled
vexation and sorrow. It was impossible to see so
beautiful a creature in such extremity without feeling
for her, and De Bracy was not unmoved, though
he was yet more embarrassed than touched. He
had, in truth, gone too far to recede; and yet, in
Rowena's present condition, she could not be acted
on either by argument or threats. He paced the
apartment to and fro, now vainly exhorting the
terrified maiden to compose herself, now hesitating
concerning his own line of conduct.

If, thought he, I should be moved by the tears
and sorrow of this disconsolate damsel, what should
I reap but the loss of these fair hopes for which I
have encountered so much risk, and the ridicule of
Prince John and his jovial comrades? ``And yet,''
he said to himself, ``I feel myself ill framed for
the part which I am playing. I cannot look on so
fair a face while it is disturbed with agony, or on
those eyes when they are drowned in tears. I would
she had retained her original haughtiness of disposition,
or that I had a larger share of Front-de-Buf's
thrice-tempered hardness of heart!''

Agitated by these thoughts, he could only bid
the unfortunate Rowena be comforted, and assure
her, that as yet she had no reason for the excess of
despair to which she was now giving way. But in
this task of consolation De Bracy was interrupted
by the horn, ``hoarse-winded blowing far and keen,''
which had at the same time alarmed the other inmates
of the castle, and interrupted their several
plans of avarice and of license. Of them all, perhaps,
De Bracy least regretted the interruption;
for his conference with the Lady Rowena had arrived
at a point, where he found it equally difficult
to prosecute or to resign his enterprise.

And here we cannot but think it necessary to
offer some better proof than the incidents of an idle
tale, to vindicate the melancholy representation of
manners which has been just laid before the reader.
It is grievous to think that those valiant barons, to
whose stand against the crown the liberties of England
were indebted for their existence, should themselves
have been such dreadful oppressors, and capable
of excesses contrary not only to the laws of
England, but to those of nature and humanity.
But, alas! we have only to extract from the industrious
Henry one of those numerous passages which
he has collected from contemporary historians, to
prove that fiction itself can hardly reach the dark
reality of the horrors of the period.

The description given by the author of the Saxon
Chronicle of the cruelties exercised in the reign of
King Stephen by the great barons and lords of castles,
who were all Normans, affords a strong proof
of the excesses of which they were capable when
their passions were inflamed. ``They grievously
oppressed the poor people by building castles; and
when they were built, they filled them with wicked
men, or rather devils, who seized both men and
women who they imagined had any money, threw
them into prison, and put them to more cruel tortures
than the martyrs ever endured. They suffocated
some in mud, and suspended others by the
feet, or the head, or the thumbs, kindling fires below
them. They squeezed the heads of some with
knotted cords till they pierced their brains, while
they threw others into dungeons swarming with
serpents, snakes, and toads.'' But it would be cruel
to put the reader to the pain of perusing the remainder
of this description.*

* Henry's Hist. edit. 1805, vol. vii. p. .146.

As another instance of these bitter fruits of conquest,
and perhaps the strongest that can be quoted,
we may mention, that the Princess Matilda, though
a daughter of the King of Scotland, and afterwards
both Queen of England, niece to Edgar Atheling,
and mother to the Empress of Germany, the daughter,
the wife, and the mother of monarchs, was obliged,
during her early residence for education in England,
to assume the veil of a nun, as the only means
of escaping the licentious pursuit of the Norman
nobles. This excuse she stated before a great council
of the clergy of England, as the sole reason for her
having taken the religious habit. The assembled
clergy admitted the validity of the plea, and the notoriety
of the circumstances upon which it was founded;
giving thus an indubitable and most remarkable
testimony to the existence of that disgraceful license
by which that age was stained. It was a matter of
public knowledge, they said, that after the conquest
of King William, his Norman followers, elated by
so great a victory, acknowledged no law but their
own wicked pleasure, and not only despoiled the
conquered Saxons of their lands and their goods,
but invaded the honour of their wives and of their
daughters with the most unbridled license; and
hence it was then common for matrons and maidens
of noble families to assume the veil, and take shelter
in convents, not as called thither by the vocation of
God, but solely to preserve their honour from the
unbridled wickedness of man.

Such and so licentious were the times, as announced
by the public declaration of the assembled
clergy, recorded by Eadmer; and we need add nothing
more to vindicate the probability of the scenes
which we have detailed, and are about to detail,
upon the more apocryphal authority of the Wardour MS.

CHAPTER XXIV

I'll woo her as the lion woos his bride.
_Douglas._

While the scenes we have described were passing
in other parts of the castle, the Jewess Rebecca
awaited her fate in a distant and sequestered turret.
Hither she had been led by two of her disguised
ravishers, and on being thrust into the little
cell, she found herself in the presence of an old
sibyl, who kept murmuring to herself a Saxon
rhyme, as if to beat time to the revolving dance
which her spindle was performing upon the floor.
The hag raised her head as Rebecca entered, and
scowled at the fair Jewess with the malignant
envy with which old age and ugliness, when united
with evil conditions, are apt to look upon youth
and beauty.

``Thou must up and away, old house-cricket,''
said one of the men; ``our noble master commands
it---Thou must e'en leave this chamber to a fairer
guest.''

``Ay,'' grumbled the hag, ``even thus is service
requited. I have known when my bare word
would have cast the best man-at-arms among ye
out of saddle and out of service; and now must I
up and away at the command of every groom such
as thou.''

``Good Dame Urfried,'' said the other man,
``stand not to reason on it, but up and away.
Lords' hests must be listened to with a quick ear.
Thou hast had thy day, old dame, but thy sun has
long been set. Thou art now the very emblem of
an old war-horse turned out on the barren heath---
thou hast had thy paces in thy time, but now a
broken amble is the best of them---Come, amble off
with thee.''

``Ill omens dog ye both!'' said the old woman;
``and a kennel be your burying-place! May the
evil demon Zernebock tear me limb from limb, if I
leave my own cell ere I have spun out the hemp
on my distaff!''

``Answer it to our lord, then, old housefiend,''
said the man, and retired; leaving Rebecca in company
with the old woman, upon whose presence
she had been thus unwillingly forced.

``What devil's deed have they now in the wind?''
said the old hag, murmuring to herself, yet from
time to time casting a sidelong and malignant
glance at Rebecca; ``but it is easy to guess---
Bright eyes, black locks, and a skin like paper, ere
the priest stains it with his black unguent---Ay, it
is easy to guess why they send her to this lone
turret, whence a shriek could no more be heard
than at the depth of five hundred fathoms beneath
the earth.---Thou wilt have owls for thy neighbours,
fair one; and their screams will be heard as far,
and as much regarded, as thine own. Outlandish,
too,'' she said, marking the dress and turban of
Rebecca---``What country art thou of?---a Saracen?
or an Egyptian?---Why dost not answer?---
thou canst weep, canst thou not speak?''

``Be not angry, good mother,'' said Rebecca.

``Thou needst say no more,'' replied Urfried
``men know a fox by the train, and a Jewess by
her tongue.''

``For the sake of mercy,'' said Rebecca, ``tell
me what I am to expect as the conclusion of the
violence which hath dragged me hither! Is it my
life they seek, to atone for my religion? I will lay
it down cheerfully.''

``Thy life, minion?'' answered the sibyl; ``what
would taking thy life pleasure them?---Trust me,
thy life is in no peril. Such usage shalt thou have
as was once thought good enough for a noble Saxon
maiden. And shall a Jewess, like thee, repine because
she hath no better? Look at me---I was as
young and twice as fair as thou, when Front-de-Buf,
father of this Reginald, and his Normans,
stormed this castle. My father and his seven sons
defended their inheritance from story to story, from
chamber to chamber---There was not a room, not
a step of the stair, that was not slippery with their
blood. They died---they died every man; and ere
their bodies were cold, and ere their blood was
dried, I had become the prey and the scorn of the
conqueror!''

``Is there no help?---Are there no means of
escape?'' said Rebecca---``Richly, richly would I
requite thine aid.''

``Think not of it,'' said the hag; ``from hence
there is no escape but through the gates of death;
and it is late, late,'' she added, shaking her grey
head, ``ere these open to us---Yet it is comfort to
think that we leave behind us on earth those who
shall be wretched as ourselves. Fare thee well,
Jewess!---Jew or Gentile, thy fate would be the
same; for thou hast to do with them that have
neither scruple nor pity. Fare thee well, I say.
My thread is spun out---thy task is yet to begin.''

``Stay! stay! for Heaven's sake!'' said Rebecca;
``stay, though it be to curse and to revile me
---thy presence is yet some protection.''

``The presence of the mother of God were no
protection,'' answered the old woman. ``There
she stands,'' pointing to a rude image of the Virgin
Mary, ``see if she can avert the fate that awaits
thee.''

She left the room as she spoke, her features
writhed into a sort of sneering laugh, which made
them seem even more hideous than their habitual
frown. She locked the door behind her, and Rebecca
might hear her curse every step for its steepness,
as slowly and with difficulty she descended
the turret-stair.

Rebecca was now to expect a fate even more
dreadful than that of Rowena; for what probability
was there that either softness or ceremony
would be used towards one of her oppressed race,
whatever shadow of these might be preserved towards
a Saxon heiress? Yet had the Jewess this
advantage, that she was better prepared by habits
of thought, and by natural strength of mind, to
encounter the dangers to which she was exposed.
Of a strong and observing character, even from her
earliest years, the pomp and wealth which her father
displayed within his walls, or which she witnessed in
the houses of other wealthy Hebrews, had not been
able to blind her to the precarious circumstances under
which they were enjoyed. Like Damocles at
his celebrated banquet, Rebecca perpetually beheld,
amid that gorgeous display, the sword which was
suspended over the heads of her people by a single
hair. These reflections had tamed and brought down
to a pitch of sounder judgment a temper, which, under
other circumstances, might have waxed haughty,
supercilious, and obstinate.