"Where is Front-de-Boeuf?" said the latter, who had superintended the
defence of the fortress on the other side; "men say he hath been slain."

"He lives," said the Templar, coolly, "lives as yet; but had he worn the
bull's head of which he bears the name, and ten plates of iron to fence
it withal, he must have gone down before yonder fatal axe. Yet a few
hours, and Front-de-Boeuf is with his fathers--a powerful limb lopped
off Prince John's enterprise."

"And a brave addition to the kingdom of Satan," said De Bracy; "this
comes of reviling saints and angels, and ordering images of holy things
and holy men to be flung down on the heads of these rascaille yeomen."

"Go to--thou art a fool," said the Templar; "thy superstition is upon a
level with Front-de-Boeuf's want of faith; neither of you can render a
reason for your belief or unbelief."

"Benedicite, Sir Templar," replied De Bracy, "pray you to keep better
rule with your tongue when I am the theme of it. By the Mother of
Heaven, I am a better Christian man than thou and thy fellowship; for
the 'bruit' goeth shrewdly out, that the most holy Order of the Temple
of Zion nurseth not a few heretics within its bosom, and that Sir Brian
de Bois-Guilbert is of the number."

"Care not thou for such reports," said the Templar; "but let us think of
making good the castle.--How fought these villain yeomen on thy side?"

"Like fiends incarnate," said De Bracy. "They swarmed close up to
the walls, headed, as I think, by the knave who won the prize at the
archery, for I knew his horn and baldric. And this is old Fitzurse's
boasted policy, encouraging these malapert knaves to rebel against us!
Had I not been armed in proof, the villain had marked me down seven
times with as little remorse as if I had been a buck in season. He told
every rivet on my armour with a cloth-yard shaft, that rapped against
my ribs with as little compunction as if my bones had been of iron--But
that I wore a shirt of Spanish mail under my plate-coat, I had been
fairly sped."

"But you maintained your post?" said the Templar. "We lost the outwork
on our part."

"That is a shrewd loss," said De Bracy; "the knaves will find cover
there to assault the castle more closely, and may, if not well watched,
gain some unguarded corner of a tower, or some forgotten window, and
so break in upon us. Our numbers are too few for the defence of every
point, and the men complain that they can nowhere show themselves, but
they are the mark for as many arrows as a parish-butt on a holyday even.
Front-de-Boeuf is dying too, so we shall receive no more aid from his
bull's head and brutal strength. How think you, Sir Brian, were we
not better make a virtue of necessity, and compound with the rogues by
delivering up our prisoners?"

"How?" exclaimed the Templar; "deliver up our prisoners, and stand an
object alike of ridicule and execration, as the doughty warriors who
dared by a night-attack to possess themselves of the persons of a party
of defenceless travellers, yet could not make good a strong castle
against a vagabond troop of outlaws, led by swineherds, jesters, and the
very refuse of mankind?--Shame on thy counsel, Maurice de Bracy!--The
ruins of this castle shall bury both my body and my shame, ere I consent
to such base and dishonourable composition."

"Let us to the walls, then," said De Bracy, carelessly; "that man never
breathed, be he Turk or Templar, who held life at lighter rate than I
do. But I trust there is no dishonour in wishing I had here some two
scores of my gallant troop of Free Companions?--Oh, my brave lances! if
ye knew but how hard your captain were this day bested, how soon should
I see my banner at the head of your clump of spears! And how short while
would these rabble villains stand to endure your encounter!"

"Wish for whom thou wilt," said the Templar, "but let us make
what defence we can with the soldiers who remain--They are chiefly
Front-de-Boeuf's followers, hated by the English for a thousand acts of
insolence and oppression."

"The better," said De Bracy; "the rugged slaves will defend themselves
to the last drop of their blood, ere they encounter the revenge of the
peasants without. Let us up and be doing, then, Brian de Bois-Guilbert;
and, live or die, thou shalt see Maurice de Bracy bear himself this day
as a gentleman of blood and lineage."

"To the walls!" answered the Templar; and they both ascended the
battlements to do all that skill could dictate, and manhood accomplish,
in defence of the place. They readily agreed that the point of greatest
danger was that opposite to the outwork of which the assailants had
possessed themselves. The castle, indeed, was divided from that barbican
by the moat, and it was impossible that the besiegers could assail the
postern-door, with which the outwork corresponded, without surmounting
that obstacle; but it was the opinion both of the Templar and De Bracy,
that the besiegers, if governed by the same policy their leader had
already displayed, would endeavour, by a formidable assault, to draw
the chief part of the defenders' observation to this point, and take
measures to avail themselves of every negligence which might take place
in the defence elsewhere. To guard against such an evil, their numbers
only permitted the knights to place sentinels from space to space along
the walls in communication with each other, who might give the alarm
whenever danger was threatened. Meanwhile, they agreed that De Bracy
should command the defence at the postern, and the Templar should keep
with him a score of men or thereabouts as a body of reserve, ready to
hasten to any other point which might be suddenly threatened. The loss
of the barbican had also this unfortunate effect, that, notwithstanding
the superior height of the castle walls, the besieged could not see from
them, with the same precision as before, the operations of the enemy;
for some straggling underwood approached so near the sallyport of the
outwork, that the assailants might introduce into it whatever force they
thought proper, not only under cover, but even without the knowledge of
the defenders. Utterly uncertain, therefore, upon what point the storm
was to burst, De Bracy and his companion were under the necessity of
providing against every possible contingency, and their followers,
however brave, experienced the anxious dejection of mind incident to men
enclosed by enemies, who possessed the power of choosing their time and
mode of attack.

Meanwhile, the lord of the beleaguered and endangered castle lay upon
a bed of bodily pain and mental agony. He had not the usual resource of
bigots in that superstitious period, most of whom were wont to atone for
the crimes they were guilty of by liberality to the church, stupefying
by this means their terrors by the idea of atonement and forgiveness;
and although the refuge which success thus purchased, was no more like
to the peace of mind which follows on sincere repentance, than the
turbid stupefaction procured by opium resembles healthy and natural
slumbers, it was still a state of mind preferable to the agonies of
awakened remorse. But among the vices of Front-de-Boeuf, a hard and
griping man, avarice was predominant; and he preferred setting church
and churchmen at defiance, to purchasing from them pardon and absolution
at the price of treasure and of manors. Nor did the Templar, an infidel
of another stamp, justly characterise his associate, when he said
Front-de-Boeuf could assign no cause for his unbelief and contempt for
the established faith; for the Baron would have alleged that the Church
sold her wares too dear, that the spiritual freedom which she put up to
sale was only to be bought like that of the chief captain of Jerusalem,
"with a great sum," and Front-de-Boeuf preferred denying the virtue of
the medicine, to paying the expense of the physician.

But the moment had now arrived when earth and all his treasures were
gliding from before his eyes, and when the savage Baron's heart, though
hard as a nether millstone, became appalled as he gazed forward into the
waste darkness of futurity. The fever of his body aided the impatience
and agony of his mind, and his death-bed exhibited a mixture of
the newly awakened feelings of horror, combating with the fixed and
inveterate obstinacy of his disposition;--a fearful state of mind, only
to be equalled in those tremendous regions, where there are complaints
without hope, remorse without repentance, a dreadful sense of present
agony, and a presentiment that it cannot cease or be diminished!

"Where be these dog-priests now," growled the Baron, "who set such price
on their ghostly mummery?--where be all those unshod Carmelites, for
whom old Front-de-Boeuf founded the convent of St Anne, robbing his heir
of many a fair rood of meadow, and many a fat field and close--where be
the greedy hounds now?--Swilling, I warrant me, at the ale, or playing
their juggling tricks at the bedside of some miserly churl.--Me, the
heir of their founder--me, whom their foundation binds them to pray
for--me--ungrateful villains as they are!--they suffer to die like the
houseless dog on yonder common, unshriven and unhouseled!--Tell the
Templar to come hither--he is a priest, and may do something--But
no!--as well confess myself to the devil as to Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
who recks neither of heaven nor of hell.--I have heard old men talk of
prayer--prayer by their own voice--Such need not to court or to bribe
the false priest--But I--I dare not!"

"Lives Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said a broken and shrill voice close by
his bedside, "to say there is that which he dares not!"

The evil conscience and the shaken nerves of Front-de-Boeuf heard, in
this strange interruption to his soliloquy, the voice of one of those
demons, who, as the superstition of the times believed, beset the
beds of dying men to distract their thoughts, and turn them from the
meditations which concerned their eternal welfare. He shuddered and drew
himself together; but, instantly summoning up his wonted resolution, he
exclaimed, "Who is there?--what art thou, that darest to echo my words
in a tone like that of the night-raven?--Come before my couch that I may
see thee."

"I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," replied the voice.

"Let me behold thee then in thy bodily shape, if thou be'st indeed a
fiend," replied the dying knight; "think not that I will blench from
thee.--By the eternal dungeon, could I but grapple with these horrors
that hover round me, as I have done with mortal dangers, heaven or hell
should never say that I shrunk from the conflict!"

"Think on thy sins, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said the almost unearthly
voice, "on rebellion, on rapine, on murder!--Who stirred up the
licentious John to war against his grey-headed father--against his
generous brother?"

"Be thou fiend, priest, or devil," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thou liest
in thy throat!--Not I stirred John to rebellion--not I alone--there were
fifty knights and barons, the flower of the midland counties--better
men never laid lance in rest--And must I answer for the fault done
by fifty?--False fiend, I defy thee! Depart, and haunt my couch no
more--let me die in peace if thou be mortal--if thou be a demon, thy
time is not yet come."

"In peace thou shalt NOT die," repeated the voice; "even in death
shalt thou think on thy murders--on the groans which this castle has
echoed--on the blood that is engrained in its floors!"

"Thou canst not shake me by thy petty malice," answered Front-de-Boeuf,
with a ghastly and constrained laugh. "The infidel Jew--it was merit
with heaven to deal with him as I did, else wherefore are men canonized
who dip their hands in the blood of Saracens?--The Saxon porkers, whom I
have slain, they were the foes of my country, and of my lineage, and
of my liege lord.--Ho! ho! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of
plate--Art thou fled?--art thou silenced?"

"No, foul parricide!" replied the voice; "think of thy father!--think
of his death!--think of his banquet-room flooded with his gore, and that
poured forth by the hand of a son!"

"Ha!" answered the Baron, after a long pause, "an thou knowest that,
thou art indeed the author of evil, and as omniscient as the monks call
thee!--That secret I deemed locked in my own breast, and in that of one
besides--the temptress, the partaker of my guilt.--Go, leave me, fiend!
and seek the Saxon witch Ulrica, who alone could tell thee what she
and I alone witnessed.--Go, I say, to her, who washed the wounds, and
straighted the corpse, and gave to the slain man the outward show of
one parted in time and in the course of nature--Go to her, she was my
temptress, the foul provoker, the more foul rewarder, of the deed--let
her, as well as I, taste of the tortures which anticipate hell!"

"She already tastes them," said Ulrica, stepping before the couch of
Front-de-Boeuf; "she hath long drunken of this cup, and its bitterness
is now sweetened to see that thou dost partake it.--Grind not thy teeth,
Front-de-Boeuf--roll not thine eyes--clench not thine hand, nor shake
it at me with that gesture of menace!--The hand which, like that of thy
renowned ancestor who gained thy name, could have broken with one stroke
the skull of a mountain-bull, is now unnerved and powerless as mine
own!"

"Vile murderous hag!" replied Front-de-Boeuf; "detestable screech-owl!
it is then thou who art come to exult over the ruins thou hast assisted
to lay low?"

"Ay, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," answered she, "it is Ulrica!--it is the
daughter of the murdered Torquil Wolfganger!--it is the sister of his
slaughtered sons!--it is she who demands of thee, and of thy father's
house, father and kindred, name and fame--all that she has lost by the
name of Front-de-Boeuf!--Think of my wrongs, Front-de-Boeuf, and answer
me if I speak not truth. Thou hast been my evil angel, and I will be
thine--I will dog thee till the very instant of dissolution!"

"Detestable fury!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, "that moment shalt thou
never witness--Ho! Giles, Clement, and Eustace! Saint Maur, and Stephen!
seize this damned witch, and hurl her from the battlements headlong--she
has betrayed us to the Saxon!--Ho! Saint Maur! Clement! false-hearted,
knaves, where tarry ye?"

"Call on them again, valiant Baron," said the hag, with a smile of
grisly mockery; "summon thy vassals around thee, doom them that loiter
to the scourge and the dungeon--But know, mighty chief," she continued,
suddenly changing her tone, "thou shalt have neither answer, nor aid,
nor obedience at their hands.--Listen to these horrid sounds," for the
din of the recommenced assault and defence now rung fearfully loud from
the battlements of the castle; "in that war-cry is the downfall of thy
house--The blood-cemented fabric of Front-de-Boeuf's power totters
to the foundation, and before the foes he most despised!--The Saxon,
Reginald!--the scorned Saxon assails thy walls!--Why liest thou here,
like a worn-out hind, when the Saxon storms thy place of strength?"

"Gods and fiends!" exclaimed the wounded knight; "O, for one moment's
strength, to drag myself to the 'melee', and perish as becomes my name!"

"Think not of it, valiant warrior!" replied she; "thou shalt die no
soldier's death, but perish like the fox in his den, when the peasants
have set fire to the cover around it."

"Hateful hag! thou liest!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf; "my followers bear
them bravely--my walls are strong and high--my comrades in arms fear
not a whole host of Saxons, were they headed by Hengist and Horsa!--The
war-cry of the Templar and of the Free Companions rises high over the
conflict! And by mine honour, when we kindle the blazing beacon, for joy
of our defence, it shall consume thee, body and bones; and I shall live
to hear thou art gone from earthly fires to those of that hell, which
never sent forth an incarnate fiend more utterly diabolical!"

"Hold thy belief," replied Ulrica, "till the proof reach thee--But, no!"
she said, interrupting herself, "thou shalt know, even now, the doom,
which all thy power, strength, and courage, is unable to avoid,
though it is prepared for thee by this feeble band. Markest thou the
smouldering and suffocating vapour which already eddies in sable folds
through the chamber?--Didst thou think it was but the darkening of
thy bursting eyes--the difficulty of thy cumbered breathing?--No!
Front-de-Boeuf, there is another cause--Rememberest thou the magazine of
fuel that is stored beneath these apartments?"

"Woman!" he exclaimed with fury, "thou hast not set fire to it?--By
heaven, thou hast, and the castle is in flames!"

"They are fast rising at least," said Ulrica, with frightful composure;
"and a signal shall soon wave to warn the besiegers to press hard upon
those who would extinguish them.--Farewell, Front-de-Boeuf!--May Mista,
Skogula, and Zernebock, gods of the ancient Saxons--fiends, as the
priests now call them--supply the place of comforters at your dying bed,
which Ulrica now relinquishes!--But know, if it will give thee comfort
to know it, that Ulrica is bound to the same dark coast with thyself,
the companion of thy punishment as the companion of thy guilt.--And now,
parricide, farewell for ever!--May each stone of this vaulted roof find
a tongue to echo that title into thine ear!"

So saying, she left the apartment; and Front-de-Boeuf could hear the
crash of the ponderous key, as she locked and double-locked the door
behind her, thus cutting off the most slender chance of escape. In the
extremity of agony he shouted upon his servants and allies--"Stephen and
Saint Maur!--Clement and Giles!--I burn here unaided!--To the rescue--to
the rescue, brave Bois-Guilbert, valiant De Bracy!--It is Front-de-Boeuf
who calls!--It is your master, ye traitor squires!--Your ally--your
brother in arms, ye perjured and faithless knights!--all the curses due
to traitors upon your recreant heads, do you abandon me to perish thus
miserably!--They hear me not--they cannot hear me--my voice is lost in
the din of battle.--The smoke rolls thicker and thicker--the fire has
caught upon the floor below--O, for one drought of the air of heaven,
were it to be purchased by instant annihilation!" And in the mad frenzy
of despair, the wretch now shouted with the shouts of the fighters, now
muttered curses on himself, on mankind, and on Heaven itself.--"The red
fire flashes through the thick smoke!" he exclaimed; "the demon marches
against me under the banner of his own element--Foul spirit, avoid!--I
go not with thee without my comrades--all, all are thine, that garrison
these walls--Thinkest thou Front-de-Boeuf will be singled out to go
alone?--No--the infidel Templar--the licentious De Bracy--Ulrica, the
foul murdering strumpet--the men who aided my enterprises--the dog
Saxons and accursed Jews, who are my prisoners--all, all shall attend
me--a goodly fellowship as ever took the downward road--Ha, ha, ha!" and
he laughed in his frenzy till the vaulted roof rang again. "Who laughed
there?" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, in altered mood, for the noise of
the conflict did not prevent the echoes of his own mad laughter
from returning upon his ear--"who laughed there?--Ulrica, was it
thou?--Speak, witch, and I forgive thee--for, only thou or the fiend of
hell himself could have laughed at such a moment. Avaunt--avaunt!---"

But it were impious to trace any farther the picture of the blasphemer
and parricide's deathbed.




CHAPTER XXXI

     Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
     Or, close the wall up with our English dead.
     -------And you, good yeomen,
     Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
     The mettle of your pasture--let us swear
     That you are worth your breeding.
     King Henry V

Cedric, although not greatly confident in Ulrica's message, omitted not
to communicate her promise to the Black Knight and Locksley. They were
well pleased to find they had a friend within the place, who might, in
the moment of need, be able to facilitate their entrance, and readily
agreed with the Saxon that a storm, under whatever disadvantages, ought
to be attempted, as the only means of liberating the prisoners now in
the hands of the cruel Front-de-Boeuf.

"The royal blood of Alfred is endangered," said Cedric.

"The honour of a noble lady is in peril," said the Black Knight.

"And, by the Saint Christopher at my baldric," said the good yeoman,
"were there no other cause than the safety of that poor faithful knave,
Wamba, I would jeopard a joint ere a hair of his head were hurt."

"And so would I," said the Friar; "what, sirs! I trust well that a
fool--I mean, d'ye see me, sirs, a fool that is free of his guild and
master of his craft, and can give as much relish and flavour to a cup of
wine as ever a flitch of bacon can--I say, brethren, such a fool shall
never want a wise clerk to pray for or fight for him at a strait, while
I can say a mass or flourish a partisan." And with that he made his
heavy halberd to play around his head as a shepherd boy flourishes his
light crook.

"True, Holy Clerk," said the Black Knight, "true as if Saint Dunstan
himself had said it.--And now, good Locksley, were it not well that
noble Cedric should assume the direction of this assault?"

"Not a jot I," returned Cedric; "I have never been wont to study either
how to take or how to hold out those abodes of tyrannic power, which
the Normans have erected in this groaning land. I will fight among the
foremost; but my honest neighbours well know I am not a trained soldier
in the discipline of wars, or the attack of strongholds."

"Since it stands thus with noble Cedric," said Locksley, "I am most
willing to take on me the direction of the archery; and ye shall hang
me up on my own Trysting-tree, an the defenders be permitted to show
themselves over the walls without being stuck with as many shafts as
there are cloves in a gammon of bacon at Christmas."

"Well said, stout yeoman," answered the Black Knight; "and if I be
thought worthy to have a charge in these matters, and can find among
these brave men as many as are willing to follow a true English knight,
for so I may surely call myself, I am ready, with such skill as my
experience has taught me, to lead them to the attack of these walls."

The parts being thus distributed to the leaders, they commenced the
first assault, of which the reader has already heard the issue.

When the barbican was carried, the Sable Knight sent notice of the
happy event to Locksley, requesting him at the same time, to keep such
a strict observation on the castle as might prevent the defenders from
combining their force for a sudden sally, and recovering the outwork
which they had lost. This the knight was chiefly desirous of avoiding,
conscious that the men whom he led, being hasty and untrained
volunteers, imperfectly armed and unaccustomed to discipline, must, upon
any sudden attack, fight at great disadvantage with the veteran soldiers
of the Norman knights, who were well provided with arms both defensive
and offensive; and who, to match the zeal and high spirit of the
besiegers, had all the confidence which arises from perfect discipline
and the habitual use of weapons.

The knight employed the interval in causing to be constructed a sort of
floating bridge, or long raft, by means of which he hoped to cross the
moat in despite of the resistance of the enemy. This was a work of some
time, which the leaders the less regretted, as it gave Ulrica leisure to
execute her plan of diversion in their favour, whatever that might be.

When the raft was completed, the Black Knight addressed the
besiegers:--"It avails not waiting here longer, my friends; the sun is
descending to the west--and I have that upon my hands which will not
permit me to tarry with you another day. Besides, it will be a marvel if
the horsemen come not upon us from York, unless we speedily accomplish
our purpose. Wherefore, one of ye go to Locksley, and bid him commence a
discharge of arrows on the opposite side of the castle, and move forward
as if about to assault it; and you, true English hearts, stand by me,
and be ready to thrust the raft endlong over the moat whenever the
postern on our side is thrown open. Follow me boldly across, and aid me
to burst yon sallyport in the main wall of the castle. As many of you as
like not this service, or are but ill armed to meet it, do you man the
top of the outwork, draw your bow-strings to your ears, and mind you
quell with your shot whatever shall appear to man the rampart--Noble
Cedric, wilt thou take the direction of those which remain?"

"Not so, by the soul of Hereward!" said the Saxon; "lead I cannot; but
may posterity curse me in my grave, if I follow not with the foremost
wherever thou shalt point the way--The quarrel is mine, and well it
becomes me to be in the van of the battle."

"Yet, bethink thee, noble Saxon," said the knight, "thou hast neither
hauberk, nor corslet, nor aught but that light helmet, target, and
sword."

"The better!" answered Cedric; "I shall be the lighter to climb these
walls. And,--forgive the boast, Sir Knight,--thou shalt this day see
the naked breast of a Saxon as boldly presented to the battle as ever ye
beheld the steel corslet of a Norman."

"In the name of God, then," said the knight, "fling open the door, and
launch the floating bridge."

The portal, which led from the inner-wall of the barbican to the moat,
and which corresponded with a sallyport in the main wall of the castle,
was now suddenly opened; the temporary bridge was then thrust forward,
and soon flashed in the waters, extending its length between the castle
and outwork, and forming a slippery and precarious passage for two men
abreast to cross the moat. Well aware of the importance of taking the
foe by surprise, the Black Knight, closely followed by Cedric, threw
himself upon the bridge, and reached the opposite side. Here he began to
thunder with his axe upon the gate of the castle, protected in part from
the shot and stones cast by the defenders by the ruins of the former
drawbridge, which the Templar had demolished in his retreat from the
barbican, leaving the counterpoise still attached to the upper part of
the portal. The followers of the knight had no such shelter; two were
instantly shot with cross-bow bolts, and two more fell into the moat;
the others retreated back into the barbican.

The situation of Cedric and of the Black Knight was now truly dangerous,
and would have been still more so, but for the constancy of the
archers in the barbican, who ceased not to shower their arrows upon
the battlements, distracting the attention of those by whom they were
manned, and thus affording a respite to their two chiefs from the
storm of missiles which must otherwise have overwhelmed them. But their
situation was eminently perilous, and was becoming more so with every
moment.

"Shame on ye all!" cried De Bracy to the soldiers around him; "do ye
call yourselves cross-bowmen, and let these two dogs keep their station
under the walls of the castle?--Heave over the coping stones from the
battlements, an better may not be--Get pick-axe and levers, and down
with that huge pinnacle!" pointing to a heavy piece of stone carved-work
that projected from the parapet.

At this moment the besiegers caught sight of the red flag upon the angle
of the tower which Ulrica had described to Cedric. The stout yeoman
Locksley was the first who was aware of it, as he was hasting to the
outwork, impatient to see the progress of the assault.

"Saint George!" he cried, "Merry Saint George for England!--To the
charge, bold yeomen!--why leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to
storm the pass alone?--make in, mad priest, show thou canst fight for
thy rosary,--make in, brave yeomen!--the castle is ours, we have friends
within--See yonder flag, it is the appointed signal--Torquilstone is
ours!--Think of honour, think of spoil--One effort, and the place is
ours!"

With that he bent his good bow, and sent a shaft right through the
breast of one of the men-at-arms, who, under De Bracy's direction, was
loosening a fragment from one of the battlements to precipitate on the
heads of Cedric and the Black Knight. A second soldier caught from the
hands of the dying man the iron crow, with which he heaved at and
had loosened the stone pinnacle, when, receiving an arrow through his
head-piece, he dropped from the battlements into the moat a dead man.
The men-at-arms were daunted, for no armour seemed proof against the
shot of this tremendous archer.

"Do you give ground, base knaves!" said De Bracy; "'Mount joye Saint
Dennis!'--Give me the lever!"

And, snatching it up, he again assailed the loosened pinnacle, which was
of weight enough, if thrown down, not only to have destroyed the remnant
of the drawbridge, which sheltered the two foremost assailants, but also
to have sunk the rude float of planks over which they had crossed. All
saw the danger, and the boldest, even the stout Friar himself, avoided
setting foot on the raft. Thrice did Locksley bend his shaft against De
Bracy, and thrice did his arrow bound back from the knight's armour of
proof.

"Curse on thy Spanish steel-coat!" said Locksley, "had English smith
forged it, these arrows had gone through, an as if it had been silk or
sendal." He then began to call out, "Comrades! friends! noble Cedric!
bear back, and let the ruin fall."

His warning voice was unheard, for the din which the knight himself
occasioned by his strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty
war-trumpets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward on the planked
bridge, to warn Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him.
But his warning would have come too late; the massive pinnacle already
tottered, and De Bracy, who still heaved at his task, would have
accomplished it, had not the voice of the Templar sounded close in his
ears:--

"All is lost, De Bracy, the castle burns."

"Thou art mad to say so!" replied the knight.

"It is all in a light flame on the western side. I have striven in vain
to extinguish it."

With the stern coolness which formed the basis of his character, Brian
de Bois-Guilbert communicated this hideous intelligence, which was not
so calmly received by his astonished comrade.

"Saints of Paradise!" said De Bracy; "what is to be done? I vow to Saint
Nicholas of Limoges a candlestick of pure gold--"

"Spare thy vow," said the Templar, "and mark me. Lead thy men down, as
if to a sally; throw the postern-gate open--There are but two men who
occupy the float, fling them into the moat, and push across for the
barbican. I will charge from the main gate, and attack the barbican on
the outside; and if we can regain that post, be assured we shall defend
ourselves until we are relieved, or at least till they grant us fair
quarter."

"It is well thought upon," said De Bracy; "I will play my part--Templar,
thou wilt not fail me?"

"Hand and glove, I will not!" said Bois-Guilbert. "But haste thee, in
the name of God!"

De Bracy hastily drew his men together, and rushed down to the
postern-gate, which he caused instantly to be thrown open. But scarce
was this done ere the portentous strength of the Black Knight forced his
way inward in despite of De Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost
instantly fell, and the rest gave way notwithstanding all their leader's
efforts to stop them.

"Dogs!" said De Bracy, "will ye let TWO men win our only pass for
safety?"

"He is the devil!" said a veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the
blows of their sable antagonist.

"And if he be the devil," replied De Bracy, "would you fly from him into
the mouth of hell?--the castle burns behind us, villains!--let despair
give you courage, or let me forward! I will cope with this champion
myself."

And well and chivalrous did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had
acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage
to which the postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted
champions were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows
which they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight
with his ponderous axe. At length the Norman received a blow, which,
though its force was partly parried by his shield, for otherwise never
more would De Bracy have again moved limb, descended yet with such
violence on his crest, that he measured his length on the paved floor.

"Yield thee, De Bracy," said the Black Champion, stooping over him, and
holding against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the
knights dispatched their enemies, (and which was called the dagger of
mercy,)--"yield thee, Maurice de Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art
but a dead man."

"I will not yield," replied De Bracy faintly, "to an unknown conqueror.
Tell me thy name, or work thy pleasure on me--it shall never be said
that Maurice de Bracy was prisoner to a nameless churl."

The Black Knight whispered something into the ear of the vanquished.

"I yield me to be true prisoner, rescue or no rescue," answered the
Norman, exchanging his tone of stern and determined obstinacy for one of
deep though sullen submission.

"Go to the barbican," said the victor, in a tone of authority, "and
there wait my further orders."

"Yet first, let me say," said De Bracy, "what it imports thee to know.
Wilfred of Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the
burning castle without present help."

"Wilfred of Ivanhoe!" exclaimed the Black Knight--"prisoner, and
perish!--The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if a hair
of his head be singed--Show me his chamber!"

"Ascend yonder winding stair," said De Bracy; "it leads to his
apartment--Wilt thou not accept my guidance?" he added, in a submissive
voice.

"No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders. I trust thee not, De
Bracy."

During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at
the head of a body of men, among whom the Friar was conspicuous, had
pushed across the bridge as soon as they saw the postern open, and drove
back the dispirited and despairing followers of De Bracy, of whom some
asked quarter, some offered vain resistance, and the greater part fled
towards the court-yard. De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and cast
a sorrowful glance after his conqueror. "He trusts me not!" he repeated;
"but have I deserved his trust?" He then lifted his sword from the
floor, took off his helmet in token of submission, and, going to the
barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom he met by the way.

As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the
chamber, where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He
had been awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle; and
his attendant, who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself at
the window to watch and report to him the fate of the attack, was
for some time prevented from observing either, by the increase of the
smouldering and stifling vapour. At length the volumes of smoke which
rolled into the apartment--the cries for water, which were heard even
above the din of the battle made them sensible of the progress of this
new danger.

"The castle burns," said Rebecca; "it burns!--What can we do to save
ourselves?"

"Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life," said Ivanhoe, "for no human aid
can avail me."

"I will not fly," answered Rebecca; "we will be saved or perish
together--And yet, great God!--my father, my father--what will be his
fate!"

At this moment the door of the apartment flew open, and the Templar
presented himself,--a ghastly figure, for his gilded armour was broken
and bloody, and the plume was partly shorn away, partly burnt from his
casque. "I have found thee," said he to Rebecca; "thou shalt prove I
will keep my word to share weal and woe with thee--There is but one
path to safety, I have cut my way through fifty dangers to point it to
thee--up, and instantly follow me!" [38]

"Alone," answered Rebecca, "I will not follow thee. If thou wert born of
woman--if thou hast but a touch of human charity in thee--if thy heart
be not hard as thy breastplate--save my aged father--save this wounded
knight!"

"A knight," answered the Templar, with his characteristic calmness, "a
knight, Rebecca, must encounter his fate, whether it meet him in the
shape of sword or flame--and who recks how or where a Jew meets with
his?"

"Savage warrior," said Rebecca, "rather will I perish in the flames than
accept safety from thee!"

"Thou shalt not choose, 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 in spite of her
cries, and without regarding the menaces and defiance which Ivanhoe
thundered against him. "Hound of the Temple--stain to thine Order--set
free the damsel! Traitor of Bois-Guilbert, it is Ivanhoe commands
thee!--Villain, I will have thy heart's blood!"

"I had not found thee, Wilfred," said the Black Knight, who at that
instant entered the apartment, "but for thy shouts."

"If thou be'st true knight," said Wilfred, "think not of me--pursue yon
ravisher--save the Lady Rowena--look to the noble Cedric!"

"In their turn," answered he of the Fetterlock, "but thine is first."

And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him off with as much ease as the
Templar had carried off Rebecca, rushed with him to the postern, and
having there delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, he again
entered the castle to assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.

One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from
window and shot-hole. But in other parts, the great thickness of the
walls and the vaulted roofs of the apartments, resisted the progress
of the flames, and there the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce
more dreadful element held mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued
the defenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and satiated in
their blood the vengeance which had long animated them against the
soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the garrison resisted to
the uttermost--few of them asked quarter--none received it. The air was
filled with groans and clashing of arms--the floors were slippery with
the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.

Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed in quest of Rowena, while
the faithful Gurth, following him closely through the "melee", neglected
his own safety while he strove to avert the blows that were aimed at
his master. The noble Saxon was so fortunate as to reach his ward's
apartment just as she had abandoned all hope of safety, and, with a
crucifix clasped in agony to her bosom, sat in expectation of instant
death. He committed her to the charge of Gurth, to be conducted in
safety to the barbican, the road to which was now cleared of the enemy,
and not yet interrupted by the flames. This accomplished, the loyal
Cedric hastened in quest of his friend Athelstane, determined, at every
risk to himself, to save that last scion of Saxon royalty. But ere
Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall in which he had himself been
a prisoner, the inventive genius of Wamba had procured liberation for
himself and his companion in adversity.

When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the hottest, the
Jester began to shout, with the utmost power of his lungs, "Saint George
and the dragon!--Bonny Saint George for merry England!--The castle is
won!" And these sounds he rendered yet more fearful, by banging against
each other two or three pieces of rusty armour which lay scattered
around the hall.

A guard, which had been stationed in the outer, or anteroom, and
whose spirits were already in a state of alarm, took fright at Wamba's
clamour, and, leaving the door open behind them, ran to tell the Templar
that foemen had entered the old hall. Meantime the prisoners found no
difficulty in making their escape into the anteroom, and from thence
into the court of the castle, which was now the last scene of contest.
Here sat the fierce Templar, mounted on horseback, surrounded by several
of the garrison both on horse and foot, who had united their strength
to that of this renowned leader, in order to secure the last chance
of safety and retreat which remained to them. The drawbridge had been
lowered by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers, who
had hitherto only annoyed the castle on that side by their missiles, no
sooner saw the flames breaking out, and the bridge lowered, than they
thronged to the entrance, as well to prevent the escape of the garrison,
as to secure their own share of booty ere the castle should be burnt
down. On the other hand, a party of the besiegers who had entered by
the postern were now issuing out into the court-yard, and attacking with
fury the remnant of the defenders who were thus assaulted on both sides
at once.

Animated, however, by despair, and supported by the example of their
indomitable leader, the remaining soldiers of the castle fought with
the utmost valour; and, being well-armed, succeeded more than once in
driving back the assailants, though much inferior in numbers. Rebecca,
placed on horseback before one of the Templar's Saracen slaves, was in
the midst of the little party; and Bois-Guilbert, notwithstanding the
confusion of the bloody fray, showed every attention to her safety.
Repeatedly he was by her side, and, neglecting his own defence, held
before her the fence of his triangular steel-plated shield; and anon
starting from his position by her, he cried his war-cry, dashed forward,
struck to earth the most forward of the assailants, and was on the same
instant once more at her bridle rein.

Athelstane, who, as the reader knows, was slothful, but not cowardly,
beheld the female form whom the Templar protected thus sedulously, and
doubted not that it was Rowena whom the knight was carrying off, in
despite of all resistance which could be offered.

"By the soul of Saint Edward," he said, "I will rescue her from yonder
over-proud knight, and he shall die by my hand!"

"Think what you do!" cried Wamba; "hasty hand catches frog for fish--by
my bauble, yonder is none of my Lady Rowena--see but her long dark
locks!--Nay, an ye will not know black from white, ye may be leader, but
I will be no follower--no bones of mine shall be broken unless I know
for whom.--And you without armour too!--Bethink you, silk bonnet never
kept out steel blade.--Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must
drench.--'Deus vobiscum', most doughty Athelstane!"--he concluded,
loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon's tunic.

To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one whose
dying grasp had just relinquished it--to rush on the Templar's band, and
to strike in quick succession to the right and left, levelling a warrior
at each blow, was, for Athelstane's great strength, now animated with
unusual fury, but the work of a single moment; he was soon within two
yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his loudest tone.

"Turn, false-hearted Templar! let go her whom thou art unworthy to
touch--turn, limb of a hand of murdering and hypocritical robbers!"

"Dog!" said the Templar, grinding his teeth, "I will teach thee to
blaspheme the holy Order of the Temple of Zion;" and with these words,
half-wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette towards the Saxon, and
rising in the stirrups, so as to take full advantage of the descent of
the horse, he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athelstane.

Well said Wamba, that silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade. So
trenchant was the Templar's weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had
been a willow twig, the tough and plaited handle of the mace, which the
ill-fated Saxon reared to parry the blow, and, descending on his head,
levelled him with the earth.

"'Ha! Beau-seant!'" exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, "thus be it to the
maligners of the Temple-knights!" Taking advantage of the dismay which
was spread by the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, "Those who
would save themselves, follow me!" he pushed across the drawbridge,
dispersing the archers who would have intercepted them. He was followed
by his Saracens, and some five or six men-at-arms, who had mounted their
horses. The Templar's retreat was rendered perilous by the numbers of
arrows shot off at him and his party; but this did not prevent him from
galloping round to the barbican, of which, according to his previous
plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have been in possession.

"De Bracy! De Bracy!" he shouted, "art thou there?"

"I am here," replied De Bracy, "but I am a prisoner."

"Can I rescue thee?" cried Bois-Guilbert.

"No," replied De Bracy; "I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I will
be true prisoner. Save thyself--there are hawks abroad--put the seas
betwixt you and England--I dare not say more."

"Well," answered the Templar, "an thou wilt tarry there, remember I
have redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks
the walls of the Preceptory of Templestowe will be cover sufficient, and
thither will I, like heron to her haunt."

Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his followers.

Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued
to fight desperately with the besiegers, after the departure of the
Templar, but rather in despair of quarter than that they entertained any
hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of the
castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in
the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, such
as was of yore raised on the field of battle by the scalds of the
yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled grey hair flew back from her
uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contended
in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff
which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters,
who spin and abridge the thread of human life. Tradition has preserved
some wild strophes of the barbarous hymn which she chanted wildly amid
that scene of fire and of slaughter:--

     1.
     Whet the bright steel,
     Sons of the White Dragon!
     Kindle the torch,
     Daughter of Hengist!
     The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,
     It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;
     The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,
     It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.
     Whet the steel, the raven croaks!
     Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
     Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!
     Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!

     2.
     The black cloud is low over the thane's castle
     The eagle screams--he rides on its bosom.
     Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
     Thy banquet is prepared!
     The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
     The race of Hengist will send them guests.
     Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
     And strike your loud timbrels for joy!
     Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
     Many a helmed head.

     3.
     Dark sits the evening upon the thanes castle,
     The black clouds gather round;
     Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant!
     The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest against
     them.
     He, the bright consumer of palaces,
     Broad waves he his blazing banner,
     Red, wide and dusky,
     Over the strife of the valiant:
     His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers;
     He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the
     wound!

     4.
     All must perish!
     The sword cleaveth the helmet;
     The strong armour is pierced by the lance;
     Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,
     Engines break down the fences of the battle.
     All must perish!
     The race of Hengist is gone--
     The name of Horsa is no more!
     Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword!
     Let your blades drink blood like wine;
     Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
     By the light of the blazing halls!
     Strong be your swords while your blood is warm,
     And spare neither for pity nor fear,
     For vengeance hath but an hour;
     Strong hate itself shall expire
     I also must perish! [39]

The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to
the evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide through
the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof
and rafter; and the combatants were driven from the court-yard. The
vanquished, of whom very few remained, scattered and escaped into the
neighbouring wood. The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with
wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks
and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was
for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing
her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reined empress of the
conflagration which she had raised. At length, with a terrific crash,
the whole turret gave way, and she perished in the flames which had
consumed her tyrant. An awful pause of horror silenced each murmur of
the armed spectators, who, for the space of several minutes, stirred not
a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of Locksley was then heard,
"Shout, yeomen!--the den of tyrants is no more! Let each bring his
spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous at the Trysting-tree in the
Harthill-walk; for there at break of day will we make just partition
among our own bands, together with our worthy allies in this great deed
of vengeance."




CHAPTER XXXII.

     Trust me each state must have its policies:
     Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters;
     Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk,
     Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline;
     For not since Adam wore his verdant apron,
     Hath man with man in social union dwelt,
     But laws were made to draw that union closer.
     --Old Play

The daylight had dawned upon the glades of the oak forest. The green
boughs glittered with all their pearls of dew. The hind led her fawn
from the covert of high fern to the more open walks of the greenwood,
and no huntsman was there to watch or intercept the stately hart, as he
paced at the head of the antler'd herd.

The outlaws were all assembled around the Trysting-tree in the
Harthill-walk, where they had spent the night in refreshing themselves
after the fatigues of the siege, some with wine, some with slumber, many
with hearing and recounting the events of the day, and computing the
heaps of plunder which their success had placed at the disposal of their
Chief.

The spoils were indeed very large; for, notwithstanding that much was
consumed, a great deal of plate, rich armour, and splendid clothing,
had been secured by the exertions of the dauntless outlaws, who could be
appalled by no danger when such rewards were in view. Yet so strict were
the laws of their society, that no one ventured to appropriate any
part of the booty, which was brought into one common mass, to be at the
disposal of their leader.

The place of rendezvous was an aged oak; not however the same to which
Locksley had conducted Gurth and Wamba in the earlier part of the story,
but one which was the centre of a silvan amphitheatre, within half a
mile of the demolished castle of Torquilstone. Here Locksley assumed his
seat--a throne of turf erected under the twisted branches of the huge
oak, and the silvan followers were gathered around him. He assigned to
the Black Knight a seat at his right hand, and to Cedric a place upon
his left.

"Pardon my freedom, noble sirs," he said, "but in these glades I am
monarch--they are my kingdom; and these my wild subjects would reck but
little of my power, were I, within my own dominions, to yield place to
mortal man.--Now, sirs, who hath seen our chaplain? where is our curtal
Friar? A mass amongst Christian men best begins a busy morning."--No one
had seen the Clerk of Copmanhurst. "Over gods forbode!" said the outlaw
chief, "I trust the jolly priest hath but abidden by the wine-pot a
thought too late. Who saw him since the castle was ta'en?"

"I," quoth the Miller, "marked him busy about the door of a cellar,
swearing by each saint in the calendar he would taste the smack of
Front-de-Boeuf's Gascoigne wine."

"Now, the saints, as many as there be of them," said the Captain,
"forefend, lest he has drunk too deep of the wine-butts, and perished by
the fall of the castle!--Away, Miller!--take with you enow of men,
seek the place where you last saw him--throw water from the moat on the
scorching ruins--I will have them removed stone by stone ere I lose my
curtal Friar."

The numbers who hastened to execute this duty, considering that an
interesting division of spoil was about to take place, showed how much
the troop had at heart the safety of their spiritual father.

"Meanwhile, let us proceed," said Locksley; "for when this bold deed
shall be sounded abroad, the bands of De Bracy, of Malvoisin, and other
allies of Front-de-Boeuf, will be in motion against us, and it were well
for our safety that we retreat from the vicinity.--Noble Cedric," he
said, turning to the Saxon, "that spoil is divided into two portions; do
thou make choice of that which best suits thee, to recompense thy people
who were partakers with us in this adventure."

"Good yeoman," said Cedric, "my heart is oppressed with sadness. The
noble Athelstane of Coningsburgh is no more--the last sprout of
the sainted Confessor! Hopes have perished with him which can never
return!--A sparkle hath been quenched by his blood, which no human
breath can again rekindle! My people, save the few who are now with me,
do but tarry my presence to transport his honoured remains to their last
mansion. The Lady Rowena is desirous to return to Rotherwood, and must
be escorted by a sufficient force. I should, therefore, ere now, have
left this place; and I waited--not to share the booty, for, so help me
God and Saint Withold! as neither I nor any of mine will touch the value
of a liard,--I waited but to render my thanks to thee and to thy bold
yeomen, for the life and honour ye have saved."

"Nay, but," said the chief Outlaw, "we did but half the work at
most--take of the spoil what may reward your own neighbours and
followers."

"I am rich enough to reward them from mine own wealth," answered Cedric.

"And some," said Wamba, "have been wise enough to reward themselves;
they do not march off empty-handed altogether. We do not all wear
motley."

"They are welcome," said Locksley; "our laws bind none but ourselves."

"But, thou, my poor knave," said Cedric, turning about and embracing
his Jester, "how shall I reward thee, who feared not to give thy body
to chains and death instead of mine!--All forsook me, when the poor fool
was faithful!"

A tear stood in the eye of the rough Thane as he spoke--a mark of
feeling which even the death of Athelstane had not extracted; but there
was something in the half-instinctive attachment of his clown, that
waked his nature more keenly than even grief itself.

"Nay," said the Jester, extricating himself from master's caress, "if
you pay my service with the water of your eye, the Jester must weep
for company, and then what becomes of his vocation?--But, uncle, if you
would indeed pleasure me, I pray you to pardon my playfellow Gurth, who
stole a week from your service to bestow it on your son."