Ivanhoe: A Romance
reduced to the usual expedient of knights-errant, who, on such
occasions, turned their horses to graze, and laid themselves down to
meditate on their lady-mistress, with an oak-tree for a canopy. But the
Black Knight either had no mistress to meditate upon, or, being as
indifferent in love as he seemed to be in war, was not sufficiently
occupied by passionate reflections upon her beauty and cruelty, to be
able to parry the effects of fatigue and hunger, and suffer love to act
as a substitute for the solid comforts of a bed and supper. He felt
dissatisfied, therefore, when, looking around, he found himself deeply
involved in woods, through which indeed there were many open glades,
and some paths, but such as seemed only formed by the numerous herds of
cattle which grazed in the forest, or by the animals of chase, and the
hunters who made prey of them.
The sun, by which the knight had chiefly directed his course, had now
sunk behind the Derbyshire hills on his left, and every effort which he
might make to pursue his journey was as likely to lead him out of his
road as to advance him on his route. After having in vain endeavoured
to select the most beaten path, in hopes it might lead to the cottage
of some herdsman, or the silvan lodge of a forester, and having
repeatedly found himself totally unable to determine on a choice, the
knight resolved to trust to the sagacity of his horse; experience
having, on former occasions, made him acquainted with the wonderful
talent possessed by these animals for extricating themselves and their
riders on such emergencies.
The good steed, grievously fatigued with so long a day’s journey under
a rider cased in mail, had no sooner found, by the slackened reins,
that he was abandoned to his own guidance, than he seemed to assume new
strength and spirit; and whereas, formerly he had scarce replied to the
spur, otherwise than by a groan, he now, as if proud of the confidence
reposed in him, pricked up his ears, and assumed, of his own accord, a
more lively motion. The path which the animal adopted rather turned off
from the course pursued by the knight during the day; but as the horse
seemed confident in his choice, the rider abandoned himself to his
discretion.
He was justified by the event; for the footpath soon after appeared a
little wider and more worn, and the tinkle of a small bell gave the
knight to understand that he was in the vicinity of some chapel or
hermitage.
Accordingly, he soon reached an open plat of turf, on the opposite side
of which, a rock, rising abruptly from a gently sloping plain, offered
its grey and weatherbeaten front to the traveller. Ivy mantled its
sides in some places, and in others oaks and holly bushes, whose roots
found nourishment in the cliffs of the crag, waved over the precipices
below, like the plumage of the warrior over his steel helmet, giving
grace to that whose chief expression was terror. At the bottom of the
rock, and leaning, as it were, against it, was constructed a rude hut,
built chiefly of the trunks of trees felled in the neighbouring forest,
and secured against the weather by having its crevices stuffed with
moss mingled with clay. The stem of a young fir-tree lopped of its
branches, with a piece of wood tied across near the top, was planted
upright by the door, as a rude emblem of the holy cross. At a little
distance on the right hand, a fountain of the purest water trickled out
of the rock, and was received in a hollow stone, which labour had
formed into a rustic basin. Escaping from thence, the stream murmured
down the descent by a channel which its course had long worn, and so
wandered through the little plain to lose itself in the neighbouring
wood.
Beside this fountain were the ruins of a very small chapel, of which
the roof had partly fallen in. The building, when entire, had never
been above sixteen feet long by twelve feet in breadth, and the roof,
low in proportion, rested upon four concentric arches which sprung from
the four corners of the building, each supported upon a short and heavy
pillar. The ribs of two of these arches remained, though the roof had
fallen down betwixt them; over the others it remained entire. The
entrance to this ancient place of devotion was under a very low round
arch, ornamented by several courses of that zig-zag moulding,
resembling shark’s teeth, which appears so often in the more ancient
Saxon architecture. A belfry rose above the porch on four small
pillars, within which hung the green and weatherbeaten bell, the feeble
sounds of which had been some time before heard by the Black Knight.
The whole peaceful and quiet scene lay glimmering in twilight before
the eyes of the traveller, giving him good assurance of lodging for the
night; since it was a special duty of those hermits who dwelt in the
woods, to exercise hospitality towards benighted or bewildered
passengers.
Accordingly, the knight took no time to consider minutely the
particulars which we have detailed, but thanking Saint Julian (the
patron of travellers) who had sent him good harbourage, he leaped from
his horse and assailed the door of the hermitage with the butt of his
lance, in order to arouse attention and gain admittance.
It was some time before he obtained any answer, and the reply, when
made, was unpropitious.
“Pass on, whosoever thou art,” was the answer given by a deep hoarse
voice from within the hut, “and disturb not the servant of God and St
Dunstan in his evening devotions.”
“Worthy father,” answered the knight, “here is a poor wanderer
bewildered in these woods, who gives thee the opportunity of exercising
thy charity and hospitality.”
“Good brother,” replied the inhabitant of the hermitage, “it has
pleased Our Lady and St Dunstan to destine me for the object of those
virtues, instead of the exercise thereof. I have no provisions here
which even a dog would share with me, and a horse of any tenderness of
nurture would despise my couch—pass therefore on thy way, and God speed
thee.”
“But how,” replied the knight, “is it possible for me to find my way
through such a wood as this, when darkness is coming on? I pray you,
reverend father as you are a Christian, to undo your door, and at least
point out to me my road.”
“And I pray you, good Christian brother,” replied the anchorite, “to
disturb me no more. You have already interrupted one ‘pater’, two
‘aves’, and a ‘credo’, which I, miserable sinner that I am, should,
according to my vow, have said before moonrise.”
“The road—the road!” vociferated the knight, “give me directions for
the road, if I am to expect no more from thee.”
“The road,” replied the hermit, “is easy to hit. The path from the wood
leads to a morass, and from thence to a ford, which, as the rains have
abated, may now be passable. When thou hast crossed the ford, thou wilt
take care of thy footing up the left bank, as it is somewhat
precipitous; and the path, which hangs over the river, has lately, as I
learn, (for I seldom leave the duties of my chapel,) given way in
sundry places. Thou wilt then keep straight forward—-”
“A broken path—a precipice—a ford, and a morass!” said the knight
interrupting him,—“Sir Hermit, if you were the holiest that ever wore
beard or told bead, you shall scarce prevail on me to hold this road
to-night. I tell thee, that thou, who livest by the charity of the
country—ill deserved, as I doubt it is—hast no right to refuse shelter
to the wayfarer when in distress. Either open the door quickly, or, by
the rood, I will beat it down and make entry for myself.”
“Friend wayfarer,” replied the hermit, “be not importunate; if thou
puttest me to use the carnal weapon in mine own defence, it will be
e’en the worse for you.”
At this moment a distant noise of barking and growling, which the
traveller had for some time heard, became extremely loud and furious,
and made the knight suppose that the hermit, alarmed by his threat of
making forcible entry, had called the dogs who made this clamour to aid
him in his defence, out of some inner recess in which they had been
kennelled. Incensed at this preparation on the hermit’s part for making
good his inhospitable purpose, the knight struck the door so furiously
with his foot, that posts as well as staples shook with violence.
The anchorite, not caring again to expose his door to a similar shock,
now called out aloud, “Patience, patience—spare thy strength, good
traveller, and I will presently undo the door, though, it may be, my
doing so will be little to thy pleasure.”
The door accordingly was opened; and the hermit, a large, strong-built
man, in his sackcloth gown and hood, girt with a rope of rushes, stood
before the knight. He had in one hand a lighted torch, or link, and in
the other a baton of crab-tree, so thick and heavy, that it might well
be termed a club. Two large shaggy dogs, half greyhound half mastiff,
stood ready to rush upon the traveller as soon as the door should be
opened. But when the torch glanced upon the lofty crest and golden
spurs of the knight, who stood without, the hermit, altering probably
his original intentions, repressed the rage of his auxiliaries, and,
changing his tone to a sort of churlish courtesy, invited the knight to
enter his hut, making excuse for his unwillingness to open his lodge
after sunset, by alleging the multitude of robbers and outlaws who were
abroad, and who gave no honour to Our Lady or St Dunstan, nor to those
holy men who spent life in their service.
“The poverty of your cell, good father,” said the knight, looking
around him, and seeing nothing but a bed of leaves, a crucifix rudely
carved in oak, a missal, with a rough-hewn table and two stools, and
one or two clumsy articles of furniture—“the poverty of your cell
should seem a sufficient defence against any risk of thieves, not to
mention the aid of two trusty dogs, large and strong enough, I think,
to pull down a stag, and of course, to match with most men.”
“The good keeper of the forest,” said the hermit, “hath allowed me the
use of these animals, to protect my solitude until the times shall
mend.”
Having said this, he fixed his torch in a twisted branch of iron which
served for a candlestick; and, placing the oaken trivet before the
embers of the fire, which he refreshed with some dry wood, he placed a
stool upon one side of the table, and beckoned to the knight to do the
same upon the other.
They sat down, and gazed with great gravity at each other, each
thinking in his heart that he had seldom seen a stronger or more
athletic figure than was placed opposite to him.
“Reverend hermit,” said the knight, after looking long and fixedly at
his host, “were it not to interrupt your devout meditations, I would
pray to know three things of your holiness; first, where I am to put my
horse?—secondly, what I can have for supper?—thirdly, where I am to
take up my couch for the night?”
“I will reply to you,” said the hermit, “with my finger, it being
against my rule to speak by words where signs can answer the purpose.”
So saying, he pointed successively to two corners of the hut. “Your
stable,” said he, “is there—your bed there; and,” reaching down a
platter with two handfuls of parched pease upon it from the
neighbouring shelf, and placing it upon the table, he added, “your
supper is here.”
The knight shrugged his shoulders, and leaving the hut, brought in his
horse, (which in the interim he had fastened to a tree,) unsaddled him
with much attention, and spread upon the steed’s weary back his own
mantle.
The hermit was apparently somewhat moved to compassion by the anxiety
as well as address which the stranger displayed in tending his horse;
for, muttering something about provender left for the keeper’s palfrey,