Sir Scott - Ivanhoe

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!

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.

Dark sits the evening upon the thane’s 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!

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! 3

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 courtyard. 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 reigned 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 1

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 antlered 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 God’s 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-Bœuf’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 St. Withold! as neither I nor any of mine will touch the value of a hard ei—I waited but to render my thanks to thee and to thy bold yeomen, for the life and honour ye have saved.”