Ivanhoe - Walter Scott (e ink ebook reader txt) 📗

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

from the larger board a mess of pottage and seethed kid, placed

it upon the small table at which he had himself 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.

Had there been painters in those days capable to execute such a

subject, the Jew, as he bent his withered form, and expanded his

chilled and trembling hands over the fire, would have formed no

bad emblematical personification of the Winter season. Having

dispelled the cold, he turned eagerly to the smoking mess which

was placed before him, and ate with a haste and an apparent

relish, that seemed to betoken long abstinence from food.

Meanwhile the Abbot and Cedric continued their discourse upon

hunting; the Lady Rowena seemed engaged in conversation with one

of her attendant females; and the haughty Templar, whose eye

wandered from the Jew to the Saxon beauty, revolved in his mind

thoughts which appeared deeply to interest him.

“I marvel, worthy Cedric,” said the Abbot, as their discourse

proceeded, “that, great as your predilection is for your own

manly language, you do not receive the Norman-French into your

favour, so far at least as the mystery of wood-craft and hunting

is concerned. Surely no tongue is so rich in the various phrases

which the field-sports demand, or furnishes means to the

experienced woodman so well to express his jovial art.”

“Good Father Aymer,” said the Saxon, “be it known to you, I care

not for those over-sea refinements, without which I can well

enough take my pleasure in the woods. I can wind my horn, though

I call not the blast either a ‘recheate’ or a ‘morte’---I can

cheer my dogs on the prey, and I can flay and quarter the animal

when it is brought down, without using the newfangled jargon of

‘curee, arbor, nombles’, and all the babble of the fabulous Sir

Tristrem.”*

There was no language which the Normans more formally separated from that of common life than the terms of the chase. The objects of their pursuit, whether bird or animal, changed their name each year, and there were a hundred conventional terms, to be ignorant of which was to be without one of the distinguishing marks of a gentleman. The reader may consult Dame Juliana Berners’ book on the subject. The origin of this science was imputed to the celebrated Sir Tristrem, famous for his tragic intrigue with the beautiful Ysolte. As the Normans reserved the amusement of hunting strictly to themselves, the terms of this formal jargon were all taken from the French language.

“The French,” said the Templar, raising his voice with the

presumptuous and authoritative tone which he used upon all

occasions, “is not only the natural language of the chase, but

that of love and of war, in which ladies should be won and

enemies defied.”

“Pledge me in a cup of wine, Sir Templar,” said Cedric, “and fill

another to the Abbot, while I look back some thirty years to tell

you another tale. As Cedric the Saxon then was, his plain

English tale needed no garnish from French troubadours, when it

was told in the ear of beauty; and the field of Northallerton,

upon the day of the Holy Standard, could tell whether the Saxon

war-cry was not heard as far within the ranks of the Scottish

host as the ‘cri de guerre’ of the boldest Norman baron. To the

memory of the brave who fought there!---Pledge me, my guests.”

He drank deep, and went on with increasing warmth. “Ay, that was

a day of cleaving of shields, when a hundred banners were bent

forwards over the heads of the valiant, and blood flowed round

like water, and death was held better than flight. A Saxon bard

had called it a feast of the swords---a gathering of the eagles

to the prey---the clashing of bills upon shield and helmet, the

shouting of battle more joyful than the clamour of a bridal. But

our bards are no more,” he said; “our deeds are lost in those of

another race---our language---our very name---is hastening to

decay, and none mourns for it save one solitary old man

---Cupbearer! knave, fill the goblets---To the strong in arms,

Sir Templar, be their race or language what it will, who now bear

them best in Palestine among the champions of the Cross!”

“It becomes not one wearing this badge to answer,” said Sir Brian

de Bois-Guilbert; “yet to whom, besides the sworn Champions of

the Holy Sepulchre, can the palm be assigned among the champions

of the Cross?”

“To the Knights Hospitallers,” said the Abbot; “I have a brother

of their order.”

“I impeach not their fame,” said the Templar; “nevertheless-----”

“I think, friend Cedric,” said Wamba, interfering, “that had

Richard of the Lion’s Heart been wise enough to have taken a

fool’s advice, he might have staid at home with his merry

Englishmen, and left the recovery of Jerusalem to those same

Knights who had most to do with the loss of it.”

“Were there, then, none in the English army,” said the Lady

Rowena, “whose names are worthy to be mentioned with the Knights

of the Temple, and of St John?”

“Forgive me, lady,” replied De Bois-Guilbert; “the English

monarch did, indeed, bring to Palestine a host of gallant

warriors, second only to those whose breasts have been the

unceasing bulwark of that blessed land.”

“Second to NONE,” said the Pilgrim, who had stood near enough to

hear, and had listened to this conversation with marked

impatience. All turned toward the spot from whence this

unexpected asseveration was heard.

“I say,” repeated the Pilgrim in a firm and strong voice, “that

the English chivalry were second to NONE who ever drew sword in

defence of the Holy Land. I say besides, for I saw it, that King

Richard himself, and five of his knights, held a tournament after

the taking of St John-de-Acre, as challengers against all comers.

I say that, on that day, each knight ran three courses, and cast

to the ground three antagonists. I add, that seven of these

assailants were Knights of the Temple---and Sir Brian de

Bois-Guilbert well knows the truth of what I tell you.”

It is impossible for language to describe the bitter scowl of

rage which rendered yet darker the swarthy countenance of the

Templar. In the extremity of his resentment and confusion, his

quivering fingers griped towards the handle of his sword, and

perhaps only withdrew, from the consciousness that no act of

violence could be safely executed in that place and presence.

Cedric, whose feelings were all of a right onward and simple

kind, and were seldom occupied by more than one object at once,

omitted, in the joyous glee with which he heard of the glory of

his countrymen, to remark the angry confusion of his guest; “I

would give thee this golden bracelet, Pilgrim,” he said, “couldst

thou tell me the names of those knights who upheld so gallantly

the renown of merry England.”

“That will I do blithely,” replied the Pilgrim, “and without

guerdon; my oath, for a time, prohibits me from touching gold.”

“I will wear the bracelet for you, if you will, friend Palmer,”

said Wamba.

“The first in honour as in arms, in renown as in place,” said the

Pilgrim, “was the brave Richard, King of England.”

“I forgive him,” said Cedric; “I forgive him his descent from the

tyrant Duke William.”

“The Earl of Leicester was the second,” continued the Pilgrim;

“Sir Thomas Multon of Gilsland was the third.”

“Of Saxon descent, he at least,” said Cedric, with exultation.

“Sir Foulk Doilly the fourth,” proceeded the Pilgrim.

“Saxon also, at least by the mother’s side,” continued Cedric,

who listened with the utmost eagerness, and forgot, in part at

least, his hatred to the Normans, in the common triumph of the

King of England and his islanders. “And who was the fifth?” he

demanded.

“The fifth was Sir Edwin Turneham.”

“Genuine Saxon, by the soul of Hengist!” shouted Cedric---“And

the sixth?” he continued with eagerness---“how name you the

sixth?”

“The sixth,” said the Palmer, after a pause, in which he seemed

to recollect himself, “was a young knight of lesser renown and

lower rank, assumed into that honourable company, less to aid

their enterprise than to make up their number---his name dwells

not in my memory.”

“Sir Palmer,” said Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert scornfully, “this

assumed forgetfulness, after so much has been remembered, comes

too late to serve your purpose. I will myself tell the name of

the knight before whose lance fortune and my horse’s fault

occasioned my falling---it was the Knight of Ivanhoe; nor was

there one of the six that, for his years, had more renown in

arms.---Yet this will I say, and loudly---that were he in

England, and durst repeat, in this week’s tournament, the

challenge of St John-de-Acre, I, mounted and armed as I now am,

would give him every advantage of weapons, and abide the result.”

“Your challenge would soon be answered,” replied the Palmer,

“were your antagonist near you. As the matter is, disturb not

the peaceful hall with vaunts of the issue of the conflict, which

you well know cannot take place. If Ivanhoe ever returns from

Palestine, I will be his surety that he meets you.”

“A goodly security!” said the Knight Templar; “and what do you

proffer as a pledge?”

“This reliquary,” said the Palmer, taking a small ivory box from

his bosom, and crossing himself, “containing a portion of the

true cross, brought from the Monastery of Mount Carmel.”

The Prior of Jorvaulx crossed himself and repeated a pater

noster, in which all devoutly joined, excepting the Jew, the

Mahomedans, and the Templar; the latter of whom, without vailing

his bonnet, or testifying any reverence for the alleged sanctity

of the relic, took from his neck a gold chain, which he flung on

the board, saying---“Let Prior Aymer hold my pledge and that of

this nameless vagrant, in token that when the Knight of Ivanhoe

comes within the four seas of Britain, he underlies the challenge

of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, which, if he answer not, I will

proclaim him as a coward on the walls of every Temple Court in

Europe.”

“It will not need,” said the Lady Rowena, breaking silence; “My

voice shall be heard, if no other in this hall is raised in

behalf of the absent Ivanhoe. I affirm he will meet fairly every

honourable challenge. Could my weak warrant add security to the

inestimable pledge of this holy pilgrim, I would pledge name and

fame that Ivanhoe gives this proud knight the meeting he

desires.”

A crowd of conflicting emotions seemed to have occupied Cedric,

and kept him silent during this discussion. Gratified pride,

resentment, embarrassment, chased each other over his broad and

open brow, like the shadow of clouds drifting over a

harvest-field; while his attendants, on whom the name of the

sixth knight seemed to produce an effect almost electrical, hung

in suspense upon their master’s looks. But when Rowena spoke,

the sound of