Ivanhoe: A Romance
composure, the liberal meal which he had made at noon, and not greatly
interesting himself about the duration of his captivity, which he
concluded, would, like all earthly evils, find an end in Heaven’s good
time.
“‘Pax vobiscum’,” said the Jester, entering the apartment; “the
blessing of St Dunstan, St Dennis, St Duthoc, and all other saints
whatsoever, be upon ye and about ye.”
“Enter freely,” answered Cedric to the supposed friar; “with what
intent art thou come hither?”
“To bid you prepare yourselves for death,” answered the Jester.
“It is impossible!” replied Cedric, starting. “Fearless and wicked as
they are, they dare not attempt such open and gratuitous cruelty!”
“Alas!” said the Jester, “to restrain them by their sense of humanity,
is the same as to stop a runaway horse with a bridle of silk thread.
Bethink thee, therefore, noble Cedric, and you also, gallant
Athelstane, what crimes you have committed in the flesh; for this very
day will ye be called to answer at a higher tribunal.”
“Hearest thou this, Athelstane?” said Cedric; “we must rouse up our
hearts to this last action, since better it is we should die like men,
than live like slaves.”
“I am ready,” answered Athelstane, “to stand the worst of their malice,
and shall walk to my death with as much composure as ever I did to my
dinner.”
“Let us then unto our holy gear, father,” said Cedric.
“Wait yet a moment, good uncle,” said the Jester, in his natural tone;
“better look long before you leap in the dark.”
“By my faith,” said Cedric, “I should know that voice!”
“It is that of your trusty slave and jester,” answered Wamba, throwing
back his cowl. “Had you taken a fool’s advice formerly, you would not
have been here at all. Take a fool’s advice now, and you will not be
here long.”
“How mean’st thou, knave?” answered the Saxon.
“Even thus,” replied Wamba; “take thou this frock and cord, which are
all the orders I ever had, and march quietly out of the castle, leaving
me your cloak and girdle to take the long leap in thy stead.”
“Leave thee in my stead!” said Cedric, astonished at the proposal;
“why, they would hang thee, my poor knave.”
“E’en let them do as they are permitted,” said Wamba; “I trust—no
disparagement to your birth—that the son of Witless may hang in a chain
with as much gravity as the chain hung upon his ancestor the alderman.”
“Well, Wamba,” answered Cedric, “for one thing will I grant thy
request. And that is, if thou wilt make the exchange of garments with
Lord Athelstane instead of me.”
“No, by St Dunstan,” answered Wamba; “there were little reason in that.
Good right there is, that the son of Witless should suffer to save the
son of Hereward; but little wisdom there were in his dying for the
benefit of one whose fathers were strangers to his.”
“Villain,” said Cedric, “the fathers of Athelstane were monarchs of
England!”
“They might be whomsoever they pleased,” replied Wamba; “but my neck
stands too straight upon my shoulders to have it twisted for their
sake. Wherefore, good my master, either take my proffer yourself, or
suffer me to leave this dungeon as free as I entered.”
“Let the old tree wither,” continued Cedric, “so the stately hope of
the forest be preserved. Save the noble Athelstane, my trusty Wamba! it
is the duty of each who has Saxon blood in his veins. Thou and I will
abide together the utmost rage of our injurious oppressors, while he,
free and safe, shall arouse the awakened spirits of our countrymen to
avenge us.”
“Not so, father Cedric,” said Athelstane, grasping his hand,—for, when
roused to think or act, his deeds and sentiments were not unbecoming
his high race—“Not so,” he continued; “I would rather remain in this
hall a week without food save the prisoner’s stinted loaf, or drink
save the prisoner’s measure of water, than embrace the opportunity to
escape which the slave’s untaught kindness has purveyed for his
master.”
“You are called wise men, sirs,” said the Jester, “and I a crazed fool;
but, uncle Cedric, and cousin Athelstane, the fool shall decide this
controversy for ye, and save ye the trouble of straining courtesies any
farther. I am like John-a-Duck’s mare, that will let no man mount her
but John-a-Duck. I came to save my master, and if he will not
consent—basta—I can but go away home again. Kind service cannot be
chucked from hand to hand like a shuttlecock or stool-ball. I’ll hang
for no man but my own born master.”
“Go, then, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane, “neglect not this
opportunity. Your presence without may encourage friends to our
rescue—your remaining here would ruin us all.”
“And is there any prospect, then, of rescue from without?” said Cedric,
looking to the Jester.
“Prospect, indeed!” echoed Wamba; “let me tell you, when you fill my
cloak, you are wrapped in a general’s cassock. Five hundred men are
there without, and I was this morning one of the chief leaders. My
fool’s cap was a casque, and my bauble a truncheon. Well, we shall see
what good they will make by exchanging a fool for a wise man. Truly, I
fear they will lose in valour what they may gain in discretion. And so
farewell, master, and be kind to poor Gurth and his dog Fangs; and let
my cockscomb hang in the hall at Rotherwood, in memory that I flung
away my life for my master, like a faithful—-fool.”
The last word came out with a sort of double expression, betwixt jest
and earnest. The tears stood in Cedric’s eyes.
“Thy memory shall be preserved,” he said, “while fidelity and affection
have honour upon earth! But that I trust I shall find the means of
saving Rowena, and thee, Athelstane, and thee, also, my poor Wamba,
thou shouldst not overbear me in this matter.”
The exchange of dress was now accomplished, when a sudden doubt struck
Cedric.
“I know no language,” he said, “but my own, and a few words of their
mincing Norman. How shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?”
“The spell lies in two words,” replied Wamba—“‘Pax vobiscum’ will
answer all queries. If you go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, ‘Pax
vobiscum’ carries you through it all. It is as useful to a friar as a
broomstick to a witch, or a wand to a conjurer. Speak it but thus, in a
deep grave tone,—‘Pax vobiscum!’—it is irresistible—Watch and ward,
knight and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm upon them all. I
think, if they bring me out to be hanged to-morrow, as is much to be
doubted they may, I will try its weight upon the finisher of the
sentence.”
“If such prove the case,” said the master, “my religious orders are
soon taken—‘Pax vobiscum’. I trust I shall remember the
pass-word.—Noble Athelstane, farewell; and farewell, my poor boy, whose
heart might make amends for a weaker head—I will save you, or return
and die with you. The royal blood of our Saxon kings shall not be spilt
while mine beats in my veins; nor shall one hair fall from the head of
the kind knave who risked himself for his master, if Cedric’s peril can
prevent it.—Farewell.”
“Farewell, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane; “remember it is the true
part of a friar to accept refreshment, if you are offered any.”
“Farewell, uncle,” added Wamba; “and remember ‘Pax vobiscum’.”
Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his expedition; and it was not
long ere he had occasion to try the force of that spell which his
Jester had recommended as omnipotent. In a low-arched and dusky
passage, by which he endeavoured to work his way to the hall of the
castle, he was interrupted by a female form.
“‘Pax vobiscum!’” said the pseudo friar, and was endeavouring to hurry
past, when a soft voice replied, “‘Et vobis—quaso, domine
reverendissime, pro misericordia vestra’.”
“I am somewhat deaf,” replied Cedric, in good Saxon, and at the same
time muttered to himself, “A curse on the fool and his ‘Pax vobiscum!’
I have lost my javelin at the first cast.”
It was, however, no unusual thing for a priest of those days to be deaf
of his Latin ear, and this the person who now addressed Cedric knew
full well.
“I pray you of dear love, reverend father,” she replied in his own
language, “that you will deign to visit with your ghostly comfort a
wounded prisoner of this castle, and have such compassion upon him and
us as thy holy office teaches—Never shall good deed so highly advantage
thy convent.”
“Daughter,” answered Cedric, much embarrassed, “my time in this castle
will not permit me to exercise the duties of mine office—I must
presently forth—there is life and death upon my speed.”
“Yet, father, let me entreat you by the vow you have taken on you,”
replied the suppliant, “not to leave the oppressed and endangered
without counsel or succour.”
“May the fiend fly away with me, and leave me in Ifrin with the souls
of Odin and of Thor!” answered Cedric impatiently, and would probably
have proceeded in the same tone of total departure from his spiritual
character, when the colloquy was interrupted by the harsh voice of
Urfried, the old crone of the turret.
“How, minion,” said she to the female speaker, “is this the manner in
which you requite the kindness which permitted thee to leave thy
prison-cell yonder?—Puttest thou the reverend man to use ungracious
language to free himself from the importunities of a Jewess?”
“A Jewess!” said Cedric, availing himself of the information to get
clear of their interruption,—“Let me pass, woman! stop me not at your
peril. I am fresh from my holy office, and would avoid pollution.”
“Come this way, father,” said the old hag, “thou art a stranger in this
castle, and canst not leave it without a guide. Come hither, for I
would speak with thee.—And you, daughter of an accursed race, go to the
sick man’s chamber, and tend him until my return; and woe betide you if
you again quit it without my permission!”
Rebecca retreated. Her importunities had prevailed upon Urfried to
suffer her to quit the turret, and Urfried had employed her services
where she herself would most gladly have paid them, by the bedside of
the wounded Ivanhoe. With an understanding awake to their dangerous
situation, and prompt to avail herself of each means of safety which
occurred, Rebecca had hoped something from the presence of a man of
religion, who, she learned from Urfried, had penetrated into this
godless castle. She watched the return of the supposed ecclesiastic,
with the purpose of addressing him, and interesting him in favour of
the prisoners; with what imperfect success the reader has been just
acquainted.
CHAPTER XXVII
Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate,
But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin?
Thy deeds are proved—thou know’st thy fate;
But come, thy tale—begin—begin.
But I have griefs of other kind,
Troubles and sorrows more severe;
Give me to ease my tortured mind,
Lend to my woes a patient ear;
And let me, if I may not find
A friend to help—find one to hear.
CRABBE’S HALL OF JUSTICE
When Urfried had with clamours and menaces driven Rebecca back to the
apartment from which she had sallied, she proceeded to conduct the
unwilling Cedric into a small apartment, the door of which she
heedfully secured. Then fetching from a cupboard a stoup of wine and
two flagons, she placed them on the table, and said in a tone rather
asserting a fact than asking a question, “Thou art Saxon, father—Deny
it not,” she continued, observing that Cedric hastened not to reply;
“the sounds of my native language are sweet to mine ears, though seldom
heard save from the tongues of the wretched and degraded serfs on whom
the proud Normans impose the meanest drudgery of this dwelling. Thou
art a Saxon, father—a Saxon, and, save as thou art a servant of God, a
freeman.—Thine accents are sweet in mine ear.”
“Do not Saxon priests visit this castle, then?” replied Cedric; “it