Вальтер Скотт: Айвенго / Ivanhoe

“And my ward Rowena,” said Cedric, “will you marry her?”

“Father Cedric,” said Athelstane, “be reasonable. The Lady Rowena doesn’t love me, she loves my cousin Wilfred’s little finger more than my whole person. Don’t blush, Rowena, there is no shame in loving a good knight. Give me your hand for a minute. Here, cousin Wilfred of Ivanhoe, I now give up my claim… Hey! Our cousin Wilfred has disappeared! I saw him stand there a moment ago.”

Everybody looked around and searched for Ivanhoe, but he was not there. Somebody said that a Jew asked to see him and after a short talk, Ivanhoe left the castle.

“My beautiful cousin, Rowena…” said Athelstane, but Rowena was not there either! The situation was terribly embarrassing for her, and while Athelstan was looking for Ivanhoe, she escaped from the room.

“Certainly,” said Athelstane, “these grave-clothes have a spell on them, every one runs from me. To you I turn, noble King Richard…”

But King Richard was gone also! He went to talk to the Jew who had spoken with Ivanhoe, then he demanded a horse and rode away.

“I swear!” said Athelstane, “Every one I speak to disappears as soon as they hear my voice! Come, my friends, let us go and eat before our supper disappears as well!”

Our scene returns to the exterior of the Preceptory of Templestowe, about the hour when the bloody die was to be cast for the life or death of Rebecca. Many people came to watch the event.

This enclosure was formed on a piece of level ground adjoining to the Preceptory, which had been levelled with care, for the exercise of military and chivalrous sports.

A throne was erected for the Grand Master at the east end, surrounded with seats of distinction for the Preceptors and Knights of the Order.

At the opposite end of the lists a stake was prepared for burning the supposed witch.

The heavy bell of the church of Saint Michael of Templestowe gave the signal for the approaching ceremony.

The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to the black chair placed near the stake. The Grand Master took his seat, and a herald announced, “Here stands the good Knight, Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, ready to do battle with any knight of free blood, who will be a champion for this Rebecca.” The trumpets sounded, and there was a pause for many minutes.

“No champion appears for her,” said the Grand Master. “But we will wait until noon.”

During this awful pause, Rebecca heard the voice of Bois-Guilbert, who came close by her side.

“Sit on my horse and we will ride far away. I will make you my queen and with my lance and sword I will win you a kingdom.”

“Go away,” said Rebecca, “you are my enemy, cruel, hard-hearted man!”

At this instant a knight appeared on the plain advancing towards the lists. A hundred voices exclaimed, “A champion! a champion!” But the knight’s horse, urged for many miles to its utmost speed, seemed to fall from fatigue, and the rider seemed weak or tired.

The knight said to the herald, “I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe, a good knight and noble, come here to defend with lance and sword the just and lawful maiden Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York; to prove the judgment pronounced against her to be false, and to announce that Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert is a traitor, murderer, and liar; as I will prove in this field with my body against his, by the aid of God. Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?”

“I may not deny what you have challenged,” said the Grand Master, “provided the maiden accepts you as her champion.”

“Rebecca,” said Ivanhoe, “do you accept me as your champion?”

“I do,” she said—“I do,” fluttered by an emotion which the fear of death had been unable to produce, “I do accept you as the champion whom Heaven has sent me.”

Ivanhoe was already at his post, took his lance. Bois-Guilbert did the same; and his squire remarked that his face, which had continued during the whole morning of an ashy paleness, was now become suddenly very much flushed.

The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full career. The wearied horse of Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, went down, as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and vigorous steed of the Templar. This issue of the combat all had foreseen; but although the spear of Ivanhoe did but, in comparison, touch the shield of Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment of all who beheld it reeled in his saddle and fell in the lists.

Ivanhoe was soon on foot ready to fight with his sword; but his antagonist lay on the ground. Wilfred, placing his foot on his breast, and the sword’s point to his throat, commanded him to surrender, or die on the spot. Bois-Guilbert returned no answer.

“Don’t kill him, Sir Knight,” cried the Grand Master, “We announce him defeated.”

He descended into the lists, and commanded them to take off the helmet of the fallen champion. His eyes were closed—the dark red flush was still in his face. As they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes opened—but they were fixed and glazed. Untouched by the lance of his enemy, he had died a victim to the violence of his own emotions.

“This is indeed the judgment of God,” said the Grand Master.

When the first moments of surprise were over, Wilfred of Ivanhoe demanded of the Grand Master, as judge of the field, if he had manfully and rightfully done his duty in the combat? “Manfully and rightfully has it been done,” said the Grand Master. “I pronounce the maiden free and guiltless.”

He was interrupted by the sound of horses’ feet, advancing in such numbers, and so rapidly, as to shake the ground before them. The Black Knight galloped into the lists. He was followed by a group of soldiers and several knights in complete armour.

“I am too late,” he said, looking around him. “I was going to fight Bois-Guilbert myself. – Ivanhoe, was this well, to fight when you are still so weak?”

“Heaven, my King,” answered Ivanhoe, “has killed this proud man, not me.”

“Peace be with him,” said Richard, looking steadfastly on the corpse, “he was a brave knight. But we must waste no time—Bohun, do your duty!”

A knight stepped forward from the King’s followers, and, laying his hand on the shoulder of Albert de Malvoisin, said, “I arrest you for treason.”

The Grand Master exclaimed in astonishment, “Who dares to arrest a knight of the Temple of Zion in his own Preceptory and in the presence of the Grand Master?”

“I make the arrest,” replied the knight—“I, Henry Bohun, Earl of Essex, Lord High Constable of England.”

“And he arrests Malvoisin,” said the King, taking off his helmet, “by the order of Richard Plantagenet, here present. Malvoisin, you will die with your brother Philip. Grand Master, leave, you cannot oppose me.”

“I will write to Rome against you,” said the Grand Master, “Chaplains, sing the Psalm! Knights, squires, and followers of the Holy Temple, prepare to follow me!’”

The Grand Master spoke with a dignity which inspired courage into his followers. They gathered around him like the sheep around the watch-dog. The Grand Master gave the signal of departure. Their trumpets sounded a wild march and they moved off as slowly as their horses could step, as if to show that they were not afraid of the King’s knights.

During all this Rebecca saw and heard nothing—she was locked in the arms of her aged father. But one word from Isaac returned her to her feelings.

“Let us go,” he said, “my dear daughter, and throw ourselves at the feet of this good young man.”

“No,” said Rebecca, “I cannot speak to him now.”