OUR scene now returns to the exterior of the Castle, or Precep"tory, of Tem"plestowe, about the hour when the bloody die was to be cast for the life or death of Rebecca. A throne was erected for the Grand Master at the east end of the tilt- yard, surrounded with seats of distinction for the Preceptors and Knights of the Order.
At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of fagots, so arranged around a stake, deeply fixed in the ground, as to leave a space for the victim whom they were destined to consume, to enter within the fatal circle in order to be chained to the stake by the fetters which hung ready for the purpose.
The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to a black chair placed near the pile. On her first glance at the terrible spot where preparations were making for a death alike dismaying to the mind and painful to the body, she was observed to shudder and shut her eyes-praying internally, doubtless, for her lips moved though no speech was heard. In the space of a minute she opened her eyes, looked fixedly on the pile, as if to familiarize her mind with the object, and then slowly and naturally turned away her head.
It was the general belief that no one could or would appear for a Jewess accused of sorcery; and the knights whispered to each other that it was time to declare the pledge of Rebecca forfeited. At that instant a knight, urging his horse to speed, appeared on the plain advancing towards the lists. A hundred voices exclaimed, "A champion! a champion!" And despite the prejudices of the multitude, they shouted unanimously as the knight rode into the tilt-yard.
The second glance, however, served to destroy the hope that his timely arrival had excited. His horse, urged for many miles to its utmost speed, appeared to reel from fatigue; and the rider, however undauntedly he presented himself in the lists, either from weakness, from weariness, or from both combined, seemed scarce able to support himself in the saddle.
To the summons of the herald, who demanded his rank, hisname and purpose, the stranger knight answered readily and boldly, "I am a good knight and noble, come hither to uphold with lance and sword the just and lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York; to maintain the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless, and to defy Sir Brian the Templar as a traitor, murderer, and liar; as I will prove in this field with my body against his, by the aid of God,①and of Saint George,the good knight."
"The stranger must first show," said a Templar, "that he is a good knight, and of honourable lineage. The Temple sendeth not forth her champions against nameless men.""My name," said the knight, raising his helmet, "is better known, my lineage more pure, than thine own. I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe.""I will not fight with thee at present," said the Templar, in a changed and hollow voice. "Get thy wounds healed, purvey thee a better horse, and it may be I will hold it worth my while to scourge out of thee this boyish spirit of bravado.""Ha! proud Templar," said Ivanhoe, "hast thou forgotten that twice thou didst fall before this lance? Remember the lists at A"cre-remember the passage of arms at Ash"by-remember thy proud vaunt in the halls of Roth"erwood, and the gage of②your gold chain against my reliquary,that thou wouldst do
battle with Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and recover the honour thou hadst lost! By that reliquary, and the holy relic it contains, I will proclaim thee, Templar, a coward in every Court inTILT-YARDEurope-unless thou do battle without further delay."Sir Brian turned his countenance irresolutely towards Rebecca, and then exclaimed, looking fiercely at Ivanhoe, "Dog of a Saxon! take thy lance, and prepare for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!""Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?" said Ivanhoe.
"I may not deny what thou hast challenged," said the Grand Master, "provided the maiden accept thee as her champion. Yet I would thou wert in better plight to do battle. An enemy of our Order hast thou ever been, yet would I have thee honourably met withal.""Thus-thus as I am, and not otherwise," said Ivanhoe; "it is the judgment of God-to his keeping I commend myself.- Rebecca," said he, riding up to the fatal chair, "dost thou accept of me for thy champion?""I do," she said, "I do,"-fluttered by an emotion which the fear of death had been unable to produce-"I do accept thee as the champion whom Heaven hath sent me. Yet, no-no; thy wounds are uncured. Meet not that proud man-why shouldst thou perish also?"But Ivanhoe was already at his post; he had closed his visorand assumed his lance. Sir Brian did the same; and his esquire remarked, as he clasped his visor, that his face-which had, notwithstanding the variety of emotions by which he had been agitated, continued during the whole morning of an ashy paleness-had now become suddenly very much flushed.
