Ivanhoe

“I would soon have beat him into courtesy,” observed Brian; “I am accustomed to deal with such spirits: Our Turkish captives are as fierce and intractable as Odin himself could have been; yet two months in my household, under the management of my master of slaves, has made them humble, submissive, serviceable, and observant of your will. Marry, sir, you must beware of the poison and the dagger, for they use either with free will when you give them the slightest opportunity.”

“Aye, but,” answered Prior Aymer, “every land hath its own manners and fashions; and, besides that beating this fellow could procure us no information could respecting the road to Cedric’s house, it would have been sure to have established a quarrel betwixt you and him had we found our way thither.”

While Isaac thus stood an outcast in the present society, like his people among the nations, looking in vain for welcome or resting place, the Pilgrim who sat by the chimney took compassion upon him, and resigned his seat, saying briefly, “Old man, my garments are dried, my hunger is appeased, thou art both wet and fasting.” So saying, he gathered together, and brought to a flame, the decaying brands which lay scattered on the ample hearth; took form the larger board a mess of pottage and seethed kid, placed it upon the small table at which he himself had supped, and without waiting the Jew’s thanks, went to the other side of the hall;—whether from unwillingness to hold more close communication with the object of his benevolence, or from a wish to draw near to the upper end of the table, seemed uncertain.

[T]here was no race existing on the earth, in the air, or the waters, who were the object of such unintermitting, general, and relentless persecution as the Jews of this period. Upon the slightest and most unreasonable pretences [… or] absurd and groundless [accusations], their persons and property were exposed to every turn of popular fury; for Norman, Saxon, Dane, and Briton, however adverse these races were to each other, contended which should look with greatest detestation upon a people, whom it was accounted a point of religion to hate, to revile, to despise, to plunder, and to persecute. […] It is a well-known story of King John that he confronted a wealthy Jew in one of the royal castles, and daily caused one of his teeth to be torn out, until, when the jaw of the unhappy Israelite was half disfurnished, he consented to pay a large sum, which was the tyrant’s object to extort from him.

Meantime the clang of the blows, and the shouts of the combatants, mixed fearfully with the sound of the trumpets, and drowned the groans of those who fell, and lay rolling defenseless beneath the feet of the horses. The splendid armor of the combatants was now faced with dust and blood, and gave way at every stroke of the sword and battle-axe. The gay plumage, shorn from the crests, drifted upon the breeze like snow-flakes. All that was beautiful and graceful in the marital array had disappeared, and what was now visible was only calculated to awake terror or compassion.

Yet such is the force of habit, that not only the vulgar spectators, who are naturally attracted by sights of horror, but even the ladies who crowded the galleries, saw the conflict with thrilling interest certainly, but without a wish to withdraw their eyes from a sight so terrible.

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

“By the mass, thou meanest the fair Jewess,” said De Bracy.

“And if I do,” said Bois-Guilbert, “who shall gainsay me?”

“No one that I know,” said De Bracy, “unless it be your vow of celibacy, or a check of conscience for an intrigue with a Jewess.”

“For my vow,” said the Templar, “our grand master hath granted me a dispensation. And for my conscience, a man that has slain three hundred Saracens, need not reckon up every little failing[…].”

“Thou knowest best thine own privileges,” said De Bracy. “Yet, I would have sworn thy thought had been more on the old usurer’s money bags […].”

“I can admire both,” answered the Templar; “besides, the old Jew is but half prize. […] I must have something that I can term exclusively my own by this foray of ours, and I have fixed on the lovely Jewess as my peculiar prize.”

“Glory?” continued Rebecca; “alas, it is the rusted mail which hangs as a hatchment over the champion’s dim and mouldering tomb—is the defaced sculpture of the inscription with which the ignorant monk can hardly read to the inquiring pilgrim—are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of every kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye make others miserable? Or is there such virtue in the rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic love, kindly affection, peace and happiness are so wildly bartered, to become the hero of these ballads which vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls over their evening ale?”

[…] “Thou speakest, maiden of thou knowest not what. Thou wouldst quench the pure light of chivalry, which alone distinguishes the noble from the base, the gentle knight from the churl and the savage; which rates our life far, far beneath the pitch of our honor […].”

At this moment the door of the apartment flew open, and the Templar presented himself […]. “I have found thee,” he said to Rebecca; “thou shalt prove I will keep my word to share weal and woe with thee—There is but one path to safety […] up, and instantly follow me.”

“Alone,” answered Rebecca, “I will not follow thee […]—save my aged father—save this wounded knight.”

“A knight,” answered the Templar […], “a knight […] must encounter his fate […], and who recks how or where a Jew meets with his?”

“Savage warrior,” replied Rebecca, “rather will I perish in the flames than accept safety from thee!”

“Thou shalt not chuse, Rebecca—once didst thou foil me, but never mortal did so twice.”

So saying, he seized on the terrified maiden, who filled the air with her shrieks, and bore her out of the room in his arms […].

“Nay, beshrew thee, man, up with thee! I am English-born, and love no such eastern prostrations—Kneel to God, and not to a poor sinner like me.”

“Ay, Jew,” said Prior Aymer, “kneel to God, as represented in the servant of his later, and who knoweth, with thy sincere repentance and due gifts to the shrine of Saint Robert, what grace thou mayest acquire for thyself and thy daughter Rebecca? I grieve for the maiden, for she is [beautiful…]. Also Brian de Bois-Guilbert is one with whom I may do much—bethink thee how thou canst deserve my good word with him.”

“Alas! alas!” said the Jew, “on every hand the spoilers arise against me […].”

“And what else should be the lot of an accursed race?” answered the Prior; “for what saith holy writ […]—I will give their women to strangers […] and their treasures to others.”

“Thus,” said Rebecca, “do men throw on fate the issue of their own wild passions. But I do forgive thee, Bois-Guilbert, though the author of my early death. There are noble things which cross over they powerful mind; but it is the garden of the sluggard, and the weeds have rushed up, and conspired to choak the fair and wholesome blossom.”

“Yet,” said the Templar, “I am, Rebecca, as thou hast spoken me, untaught, untamed—and proud, that, amidst a shoal of empty fools and crafty bigots, I have retained the pre-eminent fortitude that places me above them. I have been a child of battle from youth upward, high in my views, steady and inflexible in pursuing them. Such must I remain—proud, inflexible, and unchanging; and of this the world shall have proof.—But thou forgivest me, Rebecca?”

“As freely as ever victim forgave her executioner.”

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 as 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 form 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.