Ivanhoe - Walter Scott (bookreader txt) 📗

the Jew, “thou canst defend me, and I know thou wouldst. Poor as I am, I will requite it⁠—not with money, for money, so help me my Father Abraham, I have none⁠—but⁠—”

“Money and recompense,” said the Palmer, interrupting him, “I have already said I require not of thee. Guide thee I can; and, it may be, even in some sort defend thee; since to protect a Jew against a Saracen, can scarce be accounted unworthy of a Christian. Therefore, Jew, I will see thee safe under some fitting escort. We are now not far from the town of Sheffield, where thou mayest easily find many of thy tribe with whom to take refuge.”

“The blessing of Jacob be upon thee, good youth!” said the Jew; “in Sheffield I can harbour with my kinsman Zareth, and find some means of travelling forth with safety.”

“Be it so,” said the Palmer; “at Sheffield then we part, and half-an-hour’s riding will bring us in sight of that town.”

The half hour was spent in perfect silence on both parts; the Pilgrim perhaps disdaining to address the Jew, except in case of absolute necessity, and the Jew not presuming to force a conversation with a person whose journey to the Holy Sepulchre gave a sort of sanctity to his character. They paused on the top of a gently rising bank, and the Pilgrim, pointing to the town of Sheffield, which lay beneath them, repeated the words, “Here, then, we part.”

“Not till you have had the poor Jew’s thanks,” said Isaac; “for I presume not to ask you to go with me to my kinsman Zareth’s, who might aid me with some means of repaying your good offices.”

“I have already said,” answered the Pilgrim, “that I desire no recompense. If among the huge list of thy debtors, thou wilt, for my sake, spare the gyves and the dungeon to some unhappy Christian who stands in thy danger, I shall hold this morning’s service to thee well bestowed.”

“Stay, stay,” said the Jew, laying hold of his garment; “something would I do more than this, something for thyself.⁠—God knows the Jew is poor⁠—yes, Isaac is the beggar of his tribe⁠—but forgive me should I guess what thou most lackest at this moment.”

“If thou wert to guess truly,” said the Palmer, “it is what thou canst not supply, wert thou as wealthy as thou sayst thou art poor.”

“As I say?” echoed the Jew; “O! believe it, I say but the truth; I am a plundered, indebted, distressed man. Hard hands have wrung from me my goods, my money, my ships, and all that I possessed⁠—Yet I can tell thee what thou lackest, and, it may be, supply it too. Thy wish even now is for a horse and armour.”

The Palmer started, and turned suddenly towards the Jew:⁠—“What fiend prompted that guess?” said he, hastily.

“No matter,” said the Jew, smiling, “so that it be a true one⁠—and, as I can guess thy want, so I can supply it.”

“But consider,” said the Palmer, “my character, my dress, my vow.”

“I know you Christians,” replied the Jew, “and that the noblest of you will take the staff and sandal in superstitious penance, and walk afoot to visit the graves of dead men.”

“Blaspheme not, Jew,” said the Pilgrim, sternly.

“Forgive me,” said the Jew; “I spoke rashly. But there dropt words from you last night and this morning, that, like sparks from flint, showed the metal within; and in the bosom of that Palmer’s gown, is hidden a knight’s chain and spurs of gold. They glanced as you stooped over my bed in the morning.”

The Pilgrim could not forbear smiling. “Were thy garments searched by as curious an eye, Isaac,” said he, “what discoveries might not be made?”

“No more of that,” said the Jew, changing colour; and drawing forth his writing materials in haste, as if to stop the conversation, he began to write upon a piece of paper which he supported on the top of his yellow cap, without dismounting from his mule. When he had finished, he delivered the scroll, which was in the Hebrew character, to the Pilgrim, saying, “In the town of Leicester all men know the rich Jew, Kirjath Jairam of Lombardy; give him this scroll⁠—he hath on sale six Milan harnesses, the worst would suit a crowned head⁠—ten goodly steeds, the worst might mount a king, were he to do battle for his throne. Of these he will give thee thy choice, with everything else that can furnish thee forth for the tournament: when it is over, thou wilt return them safely⁠—unless thou shouldst have wherewith to pay their value to the owner.”

“But, Isaac,” said the Pilgrim, smiling, “dost thou know that in these sports, the arms and steed of the knight who is unhorsed are forfeit to his victor? Now I may be unfortunate, and so lose what I cannot replace or repay.”

The Jew looked somewhat astounded at this possibility; but collecting his courage, he replied hastily. “No⁠—no⁠—no⁠—It is impossible⁠—I will not think so. The blessing of Our Father will be upon thee. Thy lance will be powerful as the rod of Moses.”

So saying, he was turning his mule’s head away, when the Palmer, in his turn, took hold of his gaberdine. “Nay, but Isaac, thou knowest not all the risk. The steed may be slain, the armour injured⁠—for I will spare neither horse nor man. Besides, those of thy tribe give nothing for nothing; something there must be paid for their use.”

The Jew twisted himself in the saddle, like a man in a fit of the colic; but his better feelings predominated over those which were most familiar to him. “I care not,” he said, “I care not⁠—let me go. If there is damage, it will cost you nothing⁠—if there is usage money, Kirjath Jairam will forgive it for the sake of his kinsman Isaac. Fare thee well!⁠—Yet hark thee, good youth,” said he, turning about, “thrust thyself not too forward into this