Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott

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It seemed as if Cedric's words had raised a
spectre; for, scarce had he uttered them ere the
door flew open, and Athelstane, arrayed in the garments
of the grave, stood before them, pale, haggard,
and like something arisen from the dead! *

* The resuscitation of Athelstane has been much criticised,
* as too violent a breach of probability, even for a work of such
* fantastic character. It was a _tour-de-force_, to which the author
* was compelled to have recourse, by the vehement entreaties of his
* friend and printer, who was inconsolable on the Saxon being
* conveyed to the tomb.

The effect of this apparition on the persons present
was utterly appalling. Cedric started back as
far as the wall of the apartment would permit, and,
leaning against it as one unable to support himself,
gazed on the figure of his friend with eyes that
seemed fixed, and a mouth which he appeared incapable
of shutting. Ivanhoe crossed himself, repeating
prayers in Saxon, Latin, or Norman-French,
as they occurred to his memory, while Richard alternately
said, _Benedicite_, and swore, _Mort de ma
vie!_

In the meantime, a horrible noise was heard below
stairs, some crying, ``Secure the treacherous
monks!''---others, ``Down with them into the dungeon!''
---others, ``Pitch them from the highest
battlements!''

``In the name of God!'' said Cedric, addressing
what seemed the spectre of his departed friend, ``if
thou art mortal, speak!---if a departed spirit, say
for what cause thou dost revisit us, or if I can do
aught that can set thy spirit at repose.---Living or
dead, noble Athelstane, speak to Cedric!''

``I will,'' said the spectre, very composedly,
``when I have collected breath, and when you give
me time---Alive, saidst thou?---I am as much alive
as he can be who has fed on bread and water for
three days, which seem three ages---Yes, bread and
water, Father Cedric! By Heaven, and all saints in
it, better food hath not passed my weasand for three
livelong days, and by God's providence it is that I
am now here to tell it.''

``Why, noble Athelstane,'' said the Black Knight,
``I myself saw you struck down by the fierce Templar
towards the end of the storm at Torquilstone,
and as I thought, and Wamba reported, your skull
was cloven through the teeth.''

``You thought amiss, Sir Knight,'' said Athelstane,
``and Wamba lied. My teeth are in good
order, and that my supper shall presently find---No
thanks to the Templar though, whose sword turned
in his hand, so that the blade struck me flatlings,
being averted by the handle of the good mace with
which I warded the blow; had my steel-cap been
on, I had not valued it a rush, and had dealt him
such a counter-buff as would have spoilt his retreat.
But as it was, down I went, stunned, indeed, but
unwounded. Others, of both sides, were beaten
down and slaughtered above me, so that I never
recovered my senses until I found myself in a coffin
---(an open one, by good luck)---placed before the
altar of the church of Saint Edmund's. I sneezed
repeatedly---groaned---awakened and would have
arisen, when the Sacristan and Abbot, full of terror,
came running at the noise, surprised, doubtless,
and no way pleased to find the man alive, whose
heirs they had proposed themselves to be. I asked
for wine---they gave me some, but it must have
been highly medicated, for I slept yet more deeply
than before, and wakened not for many hours. I
found my arms swathed down---my feet tied so fast
that mine ankles ache at the very remembrance---
the place was utterly dark---the oubliette, as I suppose,
of their accursed convent, and from the close,
stifled, damp smell, I conceive it is also used for a
place of sepulture. I had strange thoughts of what
had befallen me, when the door of my dungeon
creaked, and two villain monks entered. They
would have persuaded me I was in purgatory, but
I knew too well the pursy short-breathed voice of
the Father Abbot.---Saint Jeremy! how different
from that tone with which he used to ask me for
another slice of the haunch!---the dog has feasted
with me from Christmas to Twelfth-night.''

``Have patience, noble Athelstane,'' said the
King, ``take breath---tell your story at leisure---
beshrew me but such a tale is as well worth listening
to as a romance.''

``Ay but, by the rood of Bromeholm, there was
no romance in the matter!'' said Athelstane.---``A
barley loaf and a pitcher of water---that _they_ gave
me, the niggardly traitors, whom my father, and I
myself, had enriched, when their best resources
were the flitches of bacon and measures of corn, out
of which they wheedled poor serfs and bondsmen,
in exchange for their prayers---the nest of foul ungrateful
vipers---barley bread and ditch water to,
such a patron as I had been! I will smoke them
out of their nest, though I be excommunicated!''

``But, in the name of Our Lady, noble Athelstane,''
said Cedric, grasping the hand of his friend,
``how didst thou escape this imminent danger---
did their hearts relent?''

``Did their hearts relent!'' echoed Athelstane.
---``Do rocks melt with the sun? I should have
been there still, had not some stir in the Convent,
which I find was their procession hitherward to eat
my funeral feast, when they well knew how and
where I had been buried alive, summoned the
swarm out of their hive. I heard them droning out
their death-psalms, little judging they were sung
in respect for my soul by those who were thus
famishing my body. They went, however, and I
waited long for food---no wonder---the gouty Sacristan
was even too busy with his own provender
to mind mine. At length down he came, with an
unstable step and a strong flavour of wine and
spices about his person. Good cheer had opened
his heart, for he left me a nook of pasty and a flask
of wine, instead of my former fare. I ate, drank,
and was invigorated; when, to add to my good
luck, the Sacristan, too totty to discharge his duty
of turnkey fitly, locked the door beside the staple,
so that it fell ajar. The light, the food, the wine,
set my invention to work. The staple to which my
chains were fixed, was more rusted than I or the
villain Abbot had supposed. Even iron could not
remain without consuming in the damps of that
infernal dungeon.''

``Take breath, noble Athelstane,' said Richard,
``and partake of some refreshment, ere you proceed
with a tale so dreadful.''

``Partake!'' quoth Athelstane; ``I have been
partaking five times to-day---and yet a morsel of
that savoury ham were not altogether foreign to
the matter; and I pray you, fair sir, to do me reason
in a cup of wine.''

The guests, though still agape with astonishment,
pledged their resuscitated landlord, who thus
proceeded in his story:---He had indeed now many
more auditors than those to whom it was commenced,
for Edith, having given certain necessary
orders for arranging matters within the Castle, had
followed the dead-alive up to the stranger's apartment
attended by as many of the guests, male and
female, as could squeeze into the small room, while
others, crowding the staircase, caught up an erroneous
edition of the story, and transmitted it still
more inaccurately to those beneath, who again sent
it forth to the vulgar without, in a fashion totally
irreconcilable to the real fact. Athelstane, however,
went on as follows, with the history of his
escape:---

``Finding myself freed from the staple, I dragged
myself up stairs as well as a man loaded with
shackles, and emaciated with fasting, might; and
after much groping about, I was at length directed,
by the sound of a jolly roundelay, to the apartment
where the worthy Sacristan, an it so please
ye, was holding a devil's mass with a huge beetle-browed,
broad-shouldered brother of the grey-frock
and cowl, who looked much more like a thief than
a clergyman. I burst in upon them, and the fashion
of my grave-clothes, as well as the clanking of my
chains, made me more resemble an inhabitant of
the other world than of this. Both stood aghast;
but when I knocked down the Sacristan with my
fist, the other fellow, his pot-companion, fetched a
blow at me with a huge quarter-staff.''

``This must be our Friar Tuck, for a count's ransom,''
said Richard, looking at Ivanhoe.

``He may be the devil, an he will,'' said Athelstane.
``Fortunately be missed the aim; and on
my approaching to grapple with him, took to his
heels and ran for it. I failed not to set my own
heels at liberty by means of the fetter-key, which
hung amongst others at the sexton's belt; and I
had thoughts of beating out the knaves brains with
the bunch of keys, but gratitude for the nook of
pasty and the flask of wine which the rascal had
imparted to my captivity, came over my heart; so,
with a brace of hearty kicks, I left him on the floor,
pouched some baked meat, and a leathern bottle of
wine, with which the two venerable brethren had
been regaling, went to the stable, and found in a
private stall mine own best palfrey, which, doubtless,
had been set apart for the holy Father Abbot's
particular use. Hither I came with all the speed
the beast could compass---man and mother's son
flying before me wherever I came, taking me for a
spectre, the more especially as, to prevent my being
recognised, I drew the corpse-hood over my face.
I had not gained admittance into my own castle, had
I not been supposed to be the attendant of a juggler
who is making the people in the castle-yard
very merry, considering they are assembled to celebrate
their lord's funeral---I say the sewer thought
I was dressed to bear a part in the tregetour's mummery,
and so I got admission, and did but disclose
myself to my mother, and eat a hasty morsel, ere I
came in quest of you, my noble friend.''

``And you have found me,'' said Cedric, ``ready
to resume our brave projects of honour and liberty.
I tell thee, never will dawn a morrow so auspicious
as the next, for the deliverance of the noble Saxon
race.''

``Talk not to me of delivering any one,'' said
Athelstane; ``it is well I am delivered myself. I
am more intent on punishing that villain Abbot.
He shall hang on the top of this Castle of Coningsburgh,
in his cope and stole; and if the stairs
be too strait to admit his fat carcass, I will have
him craned up from without.''

``But, my son,'' said Edith, ``consider his sacred
office.''

``Consider my three days' fast,'' replied Athelstane;
``I will have their blood every one of them.
Front-de-Buf was burnt alive for a less matter,
for he kept a good table for his prisoners, only put
too much garlic in his last dish of pottage. But
these hypocritical, ungrateful slaves, so often the
self-invited flatterers at my board, who gave me
neither pottage nor garlic, more or less, they die,
by the soul of Hengist!''

``But the Pope, my noble friend,''---said Cedric---

``But the devil, my noble friend,''---answered
Athelstane; ``they die, and no more of them.
Were they the best monks upon earth, the world
would go on without them.''

``For shame, noble Athelstane,'' said Cedric;
``forget such wretches in the career of glory which
lies open before thee. Tell this Norman prince,
Richard of Anjou, that, lion-hearted as he is, he
shall not hold undisputed the throne of Alfred,
while a male descendant of the Holy Confessor
lives to dispute it.''

``How!'' said Athelstane, ``is this the noble
King Richard?''

``It is Richard Plantagenet himself,'' said Cedric;
``yet I need not remind thee that, coming hither a
guest of free-will, he may neither be injured nor
detained prisoner---thou well knowest thy duty to
him as his host.''

``Ay, by my faith!'' said Athelstane; ``and my
duty as a subject besides, for I here tender him my
allegiance, heart and hand.''

``My son,'' said Edith, ``think on thy royal
rights!''

``Think on the freedom of England, degenerate
Prince!'' said Cedric.

``Mother and friend,'' said Athelstane, ``a truce
to your upbraidings---bread and water and a dungeon
are marvellous mortifiers of ambition, and I
rise from the tomb a wiser man than I descended
into it. One half of those vain follies were puffed
into mine ear by that perfidious Abbot Wolfram,
and you may now judge if he is a counsellor to be
trusted. Since these plots were set in agitation, I
have had nothing but hurried journeys, indigestions,
blows and bruises, imprisonments and starvation;
besides that they can only end in the murder
of some thousands of quiet folk. I tell you, I
will be king in my own domains, and nowhere else;
and my first act of dominion shall be to hang the
Abbot.''

``And my ward Rowena,'' said Cedric---``I trust
you intend not to desert her?''

``Father Cedric,'' said Athelstane, ``be reasonable.
The Lady Rowena cares not for me---she
loves the little finger of my kinsman Wilfred's glove
better than my whole person. There she stands
to avouch it---Nay, blush not, kinswoman, there is
no shame in loving a courtly knight better than a
country franklin---and do not laugh neither, Rowena,
for grave-clothes and a thin visage are, God
knows, no matter of merriment---Nay, an thou wilt
needs laugh, I will find thee a better jest---Give me
thy hand, or rather lend it me, for I but ask it in
the way of friendship.---Here, cousin Wilfred of
Ivanhoe, in thy favour I renounce and abjure------
Hey! by Saint Dunstan, our cousin Wilfred hath
vanished!---Yet, unless my eyes are still dazzled
with the fasting I have undergone, I saw him stand
there but even now.''

All now looked around and enquired for Ivanhoe,
but he had vanished. It was at length discovered
that a Jew had been to seek him; and that,
after very brief conference, he had called for Gurth
and his armour, and had left the castle.

``Fair cousin,'' said Athelstane to Rowena,
``could I think that this sudden disappearance of
Ivanhoe was occasioned by other than the weightiest
reason, I would myself resume---''

But he had no sooner let go her hand, on first
observing that Ivanhoe had disappeared, than Rowena,
who had found her situation extremely embarrassing,
had taken the first opportunity to escape
from the apartment.

``Certainly,'' quoth Athelstane, ``women are the
least to be trusted of all animals, monks and abbots
excepted. I am an infidel, if I expected not thanks
from her, and perhaps a kiss to boot---These cursed
grave-clothes have surely a spell on them, every
one flies from me.---To you I turn, noble King
Richard, with the vows of allegiance, which, as a
liege-subject---''

But King Richard was gone also, and no one
knew whither. At length it was learned that be
had hastened to the court-yard, summoned to his
presence the Jew who had spoken with Ivanhoe,
and after a moment's speech with him, had called
vehemently to horse, thrown himself upon a steed,
compelled the Jew to mount another, and set off
at a rate, which, according to Wamba, rendered the
old Jew's neck not worth a penny's purchase.

``By my halidome!'' said Athelstane, ``it is certain
that Zernebock hath possessed himself of my
castle in my absence. I return in my grave-clothes,
a pledge restored from the very sepulchre, and
every one I speak to vanishes as soon as they hear
my voice!---But it skills not talking of it. Come,
my friends---such of you as are left, follow me to
the banquet-hall, lest any more of us disappear---
it is, I trust, as yet tolerably furnished, as becomes
the obsequies of an ancient Saxon noble; and should
we tarry any longer, who knows but the devil may
fly off with the supper?''

CHAPTER XLIII

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 failing 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.