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

class="calibre1">to follow him, gliding over the stone floor with a noiseless

tread; and, after ascending a few steps, opened with great

caution the door of a small oratory, which adjoined to the

chapel. It was about eight feet square, hollowed, like the

chapel itself, out of the thickness of the wall; and the

loop-hole, which enlightened it, being to the west, and widening

considerably as it sloped inward, a beam of the setting sun found

its way into its dark recess, and showed a female of a dignified

mien, and whose countenance retained the marked remains of

majestic beauty. Her long mourning robes and her flowing wimple

of black cypress, enhanced the whiteness of her skin, and the

beauty of her light-coloured and flowing tresses, which time had

neither thinned nor mingled with silver. Her countenance

expressed the deepest sorrow that is consistent with resignation.

On the stone table before her stood a crucifix of ivory, beside

which was laid a missal, having its pages richly illuminated, and

its boards adorned with clasps of gold, and bosses of the same

precious metal.

“Noble Edith,” said Cedric, after having stood a moment silent,

as if to give Richard and Wilfred time to look upon the lady of

the mansion, “these are worthy strangers, come to take a part in

thy sorrows. And this, in especial, is the valiant Knight who

fought so bravely for the deliverance of him for whom we this day

mourn.”

“His bravery has my thanks,” returned the lady; “although it be

the will of Heaven that it should be displayed in vain. I thank,

too, his courtesy, and that of his companion, which hath brought

them hither to behold the widow of Adeling, the mother of

Athelstane, in her deep hour of sorrow and lamentation. To your

care, kind kinsman, I intrust them, satisfied that they will

want no hospitality which these sad walls can yet afford.”

The guests bowed deeply to the mourning parent, and withdrew from

their hospitable guide.

Another winding stair conducted them to an apartment of the same

size with that which they had first entered, occupying indeed the

story immediately above. From this room, ere yet the door was

opened, proceeded a low and melancholy strain of vocal music.

When they entered, they found themselves in the presence of about

twenty matrons and maidens of distinguished Saxon lineage. Four

maidens, Rowena leading the choir, raised a hymn for the soul of

the deceased, of which we have only been able to decipher two or

three stanzas:---

Dust unto dust,

To this all must;

The tenant hath resign’d

The faded form

To waste and worm---

Corruption claims her kind.

Through paths unknown

Thy soul hath flown,

To seek the realms of woe,

Where fiery pain

Shall purge the stain

Of actions done below.

In that sad place,

By Mary’s grace,

Brief may thy dwelling be

Till prayers and alms,

And holy psalms,

Shall set the captive free.

While this dirge was sung, in a low and melancholy tone, by the

female choristers, the others were divided into two bands, of

which one was engaged in bedecking, with such embroidery as their

skill and taste could compass, a large silken pall, destined to

cover the bier of Athelstane, while the others busied themselves

in selecting, from baskets of flowers placed before them,

garlands, which they intended for the same mournful purpose. The

behaviour of the maidens was decorous, if not marked with deep

affliction; but now and then a whisper or a smile called forth

the rebuke of the severer matrons, and here and there might be

seen a damsel more interested in endeavouring to find out how her

mourning-robe became her, than in the dismal ceremony for which

they were preparing. Neither was this propensity (if we must

needs confess the truth) at all diminished by the appearance of

two strange knights, which occasioned some looking up, peeping,

and whispering. Rowena alone, too proud to be vain, paid her

greeting to her deliverer with a graceful courtesy. Her

demeanour was serious, but not dejected; and it may be doubted

whether thoughts of Ivanhoe, and of the uncertainty of his fate,

did not claim as great a share in her gravity as the death of her

kinsman.

To Cedric, however, who, as we have observed, was not remarkably

clear-sighted on such occasions, the sorrow of his ward seemed so

much deeper than any of the other maidens, that he deemed it

proper to whisper the explanation---“She was the affianced bride

of the noble Athelstane.”---It may be doubted whether this

communication went a far way to increase Wilfred’s disposition to

sympathize with the mourners of Coningsburgh.

Having thus formally introduced the guests to the different

chambers in which the obsequies of Athelstane were celebrated

under different forms, Cedric conducted them into a small room,

destined, as he informed them, for the exclusive accomodation of

honourable guests, whose more slight connexion with the deceased

might render them unwilling to join those who were immediately

effected by the unhappy event. He assured them of every

accommodation, and was about to withdraw when the Black Knight

took his hand.

“I crave to remind you, noble Thane,” he said, “that when we last

parted, you promised, for the service I had the fortune to render

you, to grant me a boon.”

“It is granted ere named, noble Knight,” said Cedric; “yet, at

this sad moment------”

“Of that also,” said the King, “I have bethought me---but my time

is brief---neither does it seem to me unfit, that, when closing

the grave on the noble Athelstane, we should deposit therein

certain prejudices and hasty opinions.”

“Sir Knight of the Fetterlock,” said Cedric, colouring, and

interrupting the King in his turn, “I trust your boon regards

yourself and no other; for in that which concerns the honour of

my house, it is scarce fitting that a stranger should mingle.”

“Nor do I wish to mingle,” said the King, mildly, “unless in so

far as you will admit me to have an interest. As yet you have

known me but as the Black Knight of the Fetterlock---Know me now

as Richard Plantagenet.”

“Richard of Anjou!” exclaimed Cedric, stepping backward with the

utmost astonishment.

“No, noble Cedric---Richard of England!---whose deepest interest

---whose deepest wish, is to see her sons united with each other.

---And, how now, worthy Thane! hast thou no knee for thy prince?”

“To Norman blood,” said Cedric, “it hath never bended.”

“Reserve thine homage then,” said the Monarch, “until I shall

prove my right to it by my equal protection of Normans and

English.”

“Prince,” answered Cedric, “I have ever done justice to thy

bravery and thy worth---Nor am I ignorant of thy claim to the

crown through thy descent from Matilda, niece to Edgar Atheling,

and daughter to Malcolm of Scotland. But Matilda, though of the

royal Saxon blood, was not the heir to the monarchy.”

“I will not dispute my title with thee, noble Thane,” said

Richard, calmly; “but I will bid thee look around thee, and see

where thou wilt find another to be put into the scale against

it.”

“And hast thou wandered hither, Prince, to tell me so?” said

Cedric---“To upbraid me with the ruin of my race, ere the grave

has closed o’er the last scion of Saxon royalty?”---His

countenance darkened as he spoke.---“It was boldly---it was

rashly done!”

“Not so, by the holy rood!” replied the King; “it was done in the

frank confidence which one brave man may repose in another,

without a shadow of danger.”

“Thou sayest well, Sir King---for King I own thou art, and wilt

be, despite of my feeble opposition.---I dare not take the only

mode to prevent it, though thou hast placed the strong temptation

within my reach!”

“And now to my boon,” said the King, “which I ask not with one

jot the less confidence, that thou hast refused to acknowledge my

lawful sovereignty. I require of thee, as a man of thy word, on

pain of being held faithless, man-sworn, and ‘nidering’,*

Infamous.

to forgive and receive to thy paternal affection the good knight,

Wilfred of Ivanhoe. In this reconciliation thou wilt own I have

an interest---the happiness of my friend, and the quelling of

dissension among my faithful people.”

“And this is Wilfred!” said Cedric, pointing to his son.

“My father!---my father!” said Ivanhoe, prostrating himself at

Cedric’s feet, “grant me thy forgiveness!”

“Thou hast it, my son,” said Cedric, raising him up. “The son of

Hereward knows how to keep his word, even when it has been passed

to a Norman. But let me see thee use the dress and costume of

thy English ancestry---no short cloaks, no gay bonnets, no

fantastic plumage in my decent household. He that would be the

son of Cedric, must show himself of English ancestry.---Thou art

about to speak,” he added, sternly, “and I guess the topic. The

Lady Rowena must complete two years’ mourning, as for a betrothed

husband---all our Saxon ancestors would disown us were we to

treat of a new union for her ere the grave of him she should have

wedded---him, so much the most worthy of her hand by birth and

ancestry---is yet closed. The ghost of Athelstane himself would

burst his bloody cerements and stand before us to forbid such

dishonour to his memory.”

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