Ivanhoe: A Romance
besides, sweet daughter of Zion, that were the most Christian king to
offer me his most Christian daughter, with Languedoc for a dowery, I
could not wed her. It is against my vow to love any maiden, otherwise
than ‘par amours’, as I will love thee. I am a Templar. Behold the
cross of my Holy Order.”
“Darest thou appeal to it,” said Rebecca, “on an occasion like the
present?”
“And if I do so,” said the Templar, “it concerns not thee, who art no
believer in the blessed sign of our salvation.”
“I believe as my fathers taught,” said Rebecca; “and may God forgive my
belief if erroneous! But you, Sir Knight, what is yours, when you
appeal without scruple to that which you deem most holy, even while you
are about to transgress the most solemn of your vows as a knight, and
as a man of religion?”
“It is gravely and well preached, O daughter of Sirach!” answered the
Templar; “but, gentle Ecclesiastics, thy narrow Jewish prejudices make
thee blind to our high privilege. Marriage were an enduring crime on
the part of a Templar; but what lesser folly I may practise, I shall
speedily be absolved from at the next Preceptory of our Order. Not the
wisest of monarchs, not his father, whose examples you must needs allow
are weighty, claimed wider privileges than we poor soldiers of the
Temple of Zion have won by our zeal in its defence. The protectors of
Solomon’s Temple may claim license by the example of Solomon.”
“If thou readest the Scripture,” said the Jewess, “and the lives of the
saints, only to justify thine own license and profligacy, thy crime is
like that of him who extracts poison from the most healthful and
necessary herbs.”
The eyes of the Templar flashed fire at this reproof—“Hearken,” he
said, “Rebecca; I have hitherto spoken mildly to thee, but now my
language shall be that of a conqueror. Thou art the captive of my bow
and spear—subject to my will by the laws of all nations; nor will I
abate an inch of my right, or abstain from taking by violence what thou
refusest to entreaty or necessity.”
“Stand back,” said Rebecca—“stand back, and hear me ere thou offerest
to commit a sin so deadly! My strength thou mayst indeed overpower for
God made women weak, and trusted their defence to man’s generosity. But
I will proclaim thy villainy, Templar, from one end of Europe to the
other. I will owe to the superstition of thy brethren what their
compassion might refuse me, Each Preceptory—each Chapter of thy Order,
shall learn, that, like a heretic, thou hast sinned with a Jewess.
Those who tremble not at thy crime, will hold thee accursed for having
so far dishonoured the cross thou wearest, as to follow a daughter of
my people.”
“Thou art keen-witted, Jewess,” replied the Templar, well aware of the
truth of what she spoke, and that the rules of his Order condemned in
the most positive manner, and under high penalties, such intrigues as
he now prosecuted, and that, in some instances, even degradation had
followed upon it—“thou art sharp-witted,” he said; “but loud must be
thy voice of complaint, if it is heard beyond the iron walls of this
castle; within these, murmurs, laments, appeals to justice, and screams
for help, die alike silent away. One thing only can save thee, Rebecca.
Submit to thy fate—embrace our religion, and thou shalt go forth in
such state, that many a Norman lady shall yield as well in pomp as in
beauty to the favourite of the best lance among the defenders of the
Temple.”
“Submit to my fate!” said Rebecca—“and, sacred Heaven! to what
fate?—embrace thy religion! and what religion can it be that harbours
such a villain?—THOU the best lance of the Templars!—Craven
knight!—forsworn priest! I spit at thee, and I defy thee.—The God of
Abraham’s promise hath opened an escape to his daughter—even from this
abyss of infamy!”
As she spoke, she threw open the latticed window which led to the
bartisan, and in an instant after, stood on the very verge of the
parapet, with not the slightest screen between her and the tremendous
depth below. Unprepared for such a desperate effort, for she had
hitherto stood perfectly motionless, Bois-Guilbert had neither time to
intercept nor to stop her. As he offered to advance, she exclaimed,
“Remain where thou art, proud Templar, or at thy choice advance!—one
foot nearer, and I plunge myself from the precipice; my body shall be
crushed out of the very form of humanity upon the stones of that
court-yard, ere it become the victim of thy brutality!”
As she spoke this, she clasped her hands and extended them towards
heaven, as if imploring mercy on her soul before she made the final
plunge. The Templar hesitated, and a resolution which had never yielded
to pity or distress, gave way to his admiration of her fortitude. “Come
down,” he said, “rash girl!—I swear by earth, and sea, and sky, I will
offer thee no offence.”
“I will not trust thee, Templar,” said Rebecca; “thou hast taught me
better how to estimate the virtues of thine Order. The next Preceptory
would grant thee absolution for an oath, the keeping of which concerned
nought but the honour or the dishonour of a miserable Jewish maiden.”
“You do me injustice,” exclaimed the Templar fervently; “I swear to you
by the name which I bear—by the cross on my bosom—by the sword on my
side—by the ancient crest of my fathers do I swear, I will do thee no
injury whatsoever! If not for thyself, yet for thy father’s sake
forbear! I will be his friend, and in this castle he will need a
powerful one.”
“Alas!” said Rebecca, “I know it but too well—dare I trust thee?”
“May my arms be reversed, and my name dishonoured,” said Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, “if thou shalt have reason to complain of me! Many a
law, many a commandment have I broken, but my word never.”
“I will then trust thee,” said Rebecca, “thus far;” and she descended
from the verge of the battlement, but remained standing close by one of
the embrasures, or “machicolles”, as they were then called.—“Here,” she
said, “I take my stand. Remain where thou art, and if thou shalt
attempt to diminish by one step the distance now between us, thou shalt
see that the Jewish maiden will rather trust her soul with God, than
her honour to the Templar!”
While Rebecca spoke thus, her high and firm resolve, which corresponded
so well with the expressive beauty of her countenance, gave to her
looks, air, and manner, a dignity that seemed more than mortal. Her
glance quailed not, her cheek blanched not, for the fear of a fate so
instant and so horrible; on the contrary, the thought that she had her
fate at her command, and could escape at will from infamy to death,
gave a yet deeper colour of carnation to her complexion, and a yet more
brilliant fire to her eye. Bois-Guilbert, proud himself and
high-spirited, thought he had never beheld beauty so animated and so
commanding.
“Let there be peace between us, Rebecca,” he said.
“Peace, if thou wilt,” answered Rebecca—“Peace—but with this space
between.”
“Thou needst no longer fear me,” said Bois-Guilbert.
“I fear thee not,” replied she; “thanks to him that reared this dizzy
tower so high, that nought could fall from it and live—thanks to him,
and to the God of Israel!—I fear thee not.”
“Thou dost me injustice,” said the Templar; “by earth, sea, and sky,
thou dost me injustice! I am not naturally that which you have seen me,
hard, selfish, and relentless. It was woman that taught me cruelty, and
on woman therefore I have exercised it; but not upon such as thou. Hear
me, Rebecca—Never did knight take lance in his hand with a heart more
devoted to the lady of his love than Brian de Bois-Guilbert. She, the
daughter of a petty baron, who boasted for all his domains but a
ruinous tower, and an unproductive vineyard, and some few leagues of
the barren Landes of Bourdeaux, her name was known wherever deeds of
arms were done, known wider than that of many a lady’s that had a
county for a dowery.—Yes,” he continued, pacing up and down the little
platform, with an animation in which he seemed to lose all
consciousness of Rebecca’s presence—“Yes, my deeds, my danger, my
blood, made the name of Adelaide de Montemare known from the court of
Castile to that of Byzantium. And how was I requited?—When I returned
with my dear-bought honours, purchased by toil and blood, I found her
wedded to a Gascon squire, whose name was never heard beyond the limits
of his own paltry domain! Truly did I love her, and bitterly did I
revenge me of her broken faith! But my vengeance has recoiled on
myself. Since that day I have separated myself from life and its
ties—My manhood must know no domestic home—must be soothed by no
affectionate wife—My age must know no kindly hearth—My grave must be
solitary, and no offspring must outlive me, to bear the ancient name of
Bois-Guilbert. At the feet of my Superior I have laid down the right of
self-action—the privilege of independence. The Templar, a serf in all
but the name, can possess neither lands nor goods, and lives, moves,
and breathes, but at the will and pleasure of another.”
“Alas!” said Rebecca, “what advantages could compensate for such an
absolute sacrifice?”
“The power of vengeance, Rebecca,” replied the Templar, “and the
prospects of ambition.”
“An evil recompense,” said Rebecca, “for the surrender of the rights
which are dearest to humanity.”
“Say not so, maiden,” answered the Templar; “revenge is a feast for the
gods! And if they have reserved it, as priests tell us, to themselves,
it is because they hold it an enjoyment too precious for the possession
of mere mortals.—And ambition? it is a temptation which could disturb
even the bliss of heaven itself.”—He paused a moment, and then added,
“Rebecca! she who could prefer death to dishonour, must have a proud
and a powerful soul. Mine thou must be!—Nay, start not,” he added, “it
must be with thine own consent, and on thine own terms. Thou must
consent to share with me hopes more extended than can be viewed from
the throne of a monarch!—Hear me ere you answer and judge ere you
refuse.—The Templar loses, as thou hast said, his social rights, his
power of free agency, but he becomes a member and a limb of a mighty
body, before which thrones already tremble,—even as the single drop of
rain which mixes with the sea becomes an individual part of that
resistless ocean, which undermines rocks and ingulfs royal armadas.
Such a swelling flood is that powerful league. Of this mighty Order I
am no mean member, but already one of the Chief Commanders, and may
well aspire one day to hold the batoon of Grand Master. The poor
soldiers of the Temple will not alone place their foot upon the necks
of kings—a hemp-sandall’d monk can do that. Our mailed step shall
ascend their throne—our gauntlet shall wrench the sceptre from their
gripe. Not the reign of your vainly-expected Messiah offers such power
to your dispersed tribes as my ambition may aim at. I have sought but a
kindred spirit to share it, and I have found such in thee.”
“Sayest thou this to one of my people?” answered Rebecca. “Bethink
thee—”
“Answer me not,” said the Templar, “by urging the difference of our
creeds; within our secret conclaves we hold these nursery tales in
derision. Think not we long remained blind to the idiotical folly of
our founders, who forswore every delight of life for the pleasure of
dying martyrs by hunger, by thirst, and by pestilence, and by the
swords of savages, while they vainly strove to defend a barren desert,
valuable only in the eyes of superstition. Our Order soon adopted
bolder and wider views, and found out a better indemnification for our
sacrifices. Our immense possessions in every kingdom of Europe, our
high military fame, which brings within our circle the flower of