A few lines down we have the words, "The waves of death compassed me." Does this not give you a vivid idea of the helplessness of David and his hopelessness? What he means is, "I was in constant danger of losing my life," but he puts this fact into impressive words that leave a distinct picture in our minds.

Still further on we read, "There went up a smoke out of his nostrils, and fire out of his mouth devoured." This strikes us as a very daring way of describing God, but it is also a forceful way. We get just the idea of the irresistibleness of God which David meant we should.

These are but a few of the striking descriptions of which David makes use in this song. You will find others in almost every paragraph.



CHEVY-CHASE

By RICHARD SHEALE

NOTE.—It was said in the old legend that Percy, Earl of Northumberland, declared that he would hunt for three days on Scottish lands without asking leave from Earl Douglas, who either owned the soil or had control of it under the king. This ballad dates back probably to the time of James I, and is merely a modernized version of the old stories.

God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all; A woful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chase befall.

To drive the deer with hound and horn Earl Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborn The hunting of that day.

The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer days to take,—

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase To kill and bear away. These tidings to Earl Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay;

Who sent Earl Percy present word He would prevent his sport. The English earl, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort,

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran To chase the fallow deer; On Monday they began to hunt When daylight did appear;

And long before high noon they had A hundred fat bucks slain; Then, having dined, the drovers went To rouse the deer again.

The bowmen mustered on the hills, Well able to endure; And all their rear, with special care, That day was guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods The nimble deer to take, That with their cries the hills and dales An echo shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughtered deer; Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me here;

"But if I thought he would not come, No longer would I stay;" With that a brave young gentleman Thus to the earl did say:—

"Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come,— His men in armor bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears All marching in our sight;

"All men of pleasant Teviotdale, Fast by the river Tweed;" "Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said, "And take your bows with speed;

"And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance; For never was there champion yet, In Scotland or in France,

"That ever did on horseback come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spear."

Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armor shone like gold.

"Show me," said he, "whose men you be, That hunt so boldly here, That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow deer."

The first man that did answer make, Was noble Percy he— Who said, "We list not to declare, Nor show whose men we be:

"Yet will we spend our dearest blood Thy chiefest harts to slay." Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, And thus in rage did say:

"Ere thus I will out-braved be, One of us two shall die; I know thee well, an earl thou art,— Lord Percy, so am I.

"But trust me, Percy, pity it were, And great offence, to kill Any of these our guiltless men, For they have done no ill.

"Let you and me the battle try, And set our men aside." "Accursed be he," Earl Percy said, "By whom this is denied."

Then stepped a gallant squire forth, Witherington was his name, Who said, "I would not have it told To Henry, our king, for shame,

"That e'er my captain fought on foot, And I stood looking on. You two be earls," said Witherington, "And I a squire alone;

I'll do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand; While I have power to wield my sword I'll fight with heart and hand."

Our English archers bent their bows,— Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows sent, Full fourscore Scots they slew,

Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent, As chieftain stout and good; As valiant captain, all unmoved, The shock he firmly stood.

His host he parted had in three, As leader ware and tried; And soon his spearmen on their foes Bore down on every side.

Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound; But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground.

And throwing straight their bows away, They grasped their swords so bright; And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, On shields and helmets light.

They closed full fast on every side,— No slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground.

In truth, it was a grief to see How each one chose his spear, And how the blood out of their breasts Did gush like water clear.

At last these two stout earls did meet; Like captains of great might, Like lions wode, they laid on lode, And made a cruel fight.

They fought until they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steel, Until the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling down did feel.

"Yield thee, Lord Percy," Douglas said, "In faith I will thee bring Where thou shalt high advanced be By James, our Scottish king.

"Thy ransom I will freely give, And this report of thee,— Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see."

"No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, "Thy proffer I do scorn; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born."

With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart,— A deep and deadly blow;

Who never spake more words than these: "Fight on, my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end; Lord Percy sees my fall."

Then leaving life, Earl Percy took The dead man by the hand; And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life Would I had lost my land.

"In truth, my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure a more redoubted knight Mischance did never take."

A knight amongst the Scots there was Who saw Earl Douglas die, Who straight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Earl Percy.

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called, Who, with a spear full bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight;

And past the English archers all, Without a dread or fear; And through Earl Percy's body then He thrust his hateful spear;

With such vehement force and might He did his body gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth-yard and more.

So thus did both these nobles die. Whose courage none could stain. An English archer then perceived The noble earl was slain.

He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long To the hard head haled he.

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery So right the shaft he set, The gray goose wing that was thereon In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun; For when they rung the evening-bell The battle scarce was done.

With stout Earl Percy there was slain Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold baron.

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington my heart is woe That ever he slain should be, For when his legs were hewn in two, He knelt and fought on his knee.

And with Earl Douglas there was slain Sir Hugh Mountgomery, Sir Charles Murray, that from the field One foot would never flee.

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too,— His sister's son was he; Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, But saved he could not be.

And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Earl Douglas die: Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain, Under the greenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail; They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away; They kissed them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay.

The news was brought to Edinburgh, Where Scotland's king did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain:

"O heavy news," King James did say; "Scotland can witness be I have not any captain more Of such account as he."

Like tidings to King Henry came Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slain in Chevy-Chase:

"Now God be with him," said our King, "Since 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he:

"Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say But I will vengeance take; I'll be revenged on them all For brave Earl Percy's sake."

This vow full well the King performed After at Humbledown; In one day fifty knights were slain With lords of high renown;

And of the rest, of small account, Did many hundreds die: Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, Made by the Earl Percy.

God save the king, and bless this land, With plenty, joy and peace; And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease.



THE ATTACK ON THE CASTLE [Footnote: The Attack on the Castle is from Scott's novel of Ivanhoe.]

By SIR WALTER SCOTT

A moment of peril is often also a moment of open-hearted kindness and affection. We are thrown off our guard by the general agitation of our feelings, and betray the intensity of those which, at more tranquil periods, our prudence at least conceals, if it cannot altogether suppress them. In finding herself once more by the side of Ivanhoe, Rebecca was astonished at the keen sensation of pleasure which she experienced, even at a time when all around them both was danger, if not despair. As she felt his pulse, and inquired after his health, there was a softness in her touch and in her accents, implying a kinder interest than she would herself have been pleased to have voluntarily expressed. Her voice faltered and her hand trembled, and it was only the cold question of Ivanhoe, "Is it you, gentle maiden?" which recalled her to herself, and reminded her the sensations which she felt were not and could not be mutual. A sigh escaped, but it was scarce audible; and the questions which she asked the knight concerning his state of health were put in the tone of calm friendship. Ivanhoe answered her hastily that he was, in point of health, as well, and better, than he could have expected. "Thanks," he said, "dear Rebecca, to thy helpful skill."

"He calls me dear Rebecca," said the maiden to herself, "but it is in the cold and careless tone which ill suits the word. His war-horse, his hunting hound, are dearer to him than the despised Jewess!"

"My mind, gentle maiden," continued Ivanhoe, "is more disturbed by anxiety than my body with pain. From the speeches of these men who were my warders just now, I learn that I am a prisoner, and, if I judge aright of the loud hoarse voice which even now despatched them hence on some military duty, I am in the castle of Front-de-Boeuf. If so, how will this end, or how can I protect Rowena and my father?"

"He names not the Jew or Jewess," said Rebecca, internally; "yet what is our portion in him, and how justly am I punished by Heaven for letting my thoughts dwell upon him!" She hastened after this brief self-accusation to give Ivanhoe what information she could; but it amounted only to this, that the Templar Bois-Guilbert and the Baron Front-de-Boeuf were commanders within the castle; that it was beleaguered from without, but by whom she knew not.

The noise within the castle, occasioned by the defensive preparations, which had been considerable for some time, now increased into tenfold bustle and clamor. The heavy yet hasty step of the men-at-arms traversed the battlements, or resounded on the narrow and winding passages and stairs which led to the various bartizans [Footnote: A bartizan is a sort of small overhanging balcony, built for defense or for lookout.] and points of defense. The voices of the knights were heard, animating their followers, or directing means of defense, while their commands were often drowned in the clashing of armor, or the clamorous shouts of those whom they addressed. Tremendous as these sounds were, and yet more terrible from the awful event which they presaged, there was a sublimity mixed with them which Rebecca's high- toned mind could feel even in that moment of terror. Her eye kindled, although the blood fled from her cheeks; and there was a strong mixture of fear, and of a thrilling sense of the sublime, as she repeated, half-whispering to herself, half-speaking to her companion, the sacred text—"The quiver rattleth—the glittering spear and the shield—the noise of the captains and the shouting!"



But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that sublime passage, glowing with impatience at his inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in the affray of which these sounds were the introduction. "If I could but drag myself," he said, "to yonder window, that I might see how this brave game is like to go! If I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or battle- axe to strike were it but a single blow for our deliverance! It is vain—it is vain—I am alike nerveless and weaponless."

"Fret not thyself, noble knight," answered Rebecca, "the sounds have ceased of a sudden; it may be they join not battle."

"Thou knowest naught of it," said Ivanhoe, impatiently; "this dead pause only shows that the men are at their posts on the walls and expecting an instant attack; what we have heard is but the distant muttering of the storm; it will burst anon in all its fury. Could I but reach yonder window!"

"Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, noble knight," replied his attendant. Observing his solicitude, she added, "I myself will stand at the lattice, and describe as I can what passes without."

"You must not—you shall not!" exclaimed Ivanhoe. "Each lattice, each aperture, will soon be a mark for the archers; some random shaft—"

"It shall be welcome!" murmured Rebecca, as with firm pace she ascended two or three steps, which led to the window of which they spoke.

"Rebecca—dear Rebecca!" exclaimed Ivanhoe, "this is no maiden's pastime; do not expose thyself to wounds and death, and render me forever miserable for having given the occasion; at least, cover thyself with yonder ancient buckler, and show as little of your person at the lattice as may be."

Following with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable security to herself, could witness part of what was passing without the castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were making for the storm. Indeed, the situation which she thus obtained was peculiarly favorable for this purpose, because being placed on an angle of the main building, Rebecca could not only see what passed beyond the precincts of the castle, but also commanded a view of the outwork likely to be the first object of the meditated assault. It was an exterior fortification of no great height or strength, intended to protect the postern-gate, through which Cedric had been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle moat divided this species of barbican [Footnote: A barbican is a tower or outwork built to defend the entry to a castle or fortification.] from the rest of the fortress, so that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut off the communication with the main building, by withdrawing the temporary bridge. In the outwork was a sallyport [Footnote: A sallyport is an underground passage from the outer to the inner fortifications.] corresponding to the postern of the castle, and the whole was surrounded by a strong palisade. Rebecca could observe, from the number of men placed for the defence of this post, that the besieged entertained apprehensions for its safety; and from the mustering of the assailants in a direction nearly opposite to the outwork, it seemed no less plain that it had been selected as a vulnerable point of attack.

These appearances she hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, and added, "The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, although only a few are advanced from its dark shadow."

"Under what banner?" asked Ivanhoe.

"Under no ensign of war which I can observe," answered Rebecca.

"A singular novelty," muttered the knight, "to advance to storm such a castle without pennon or banner displayed! Seest thou who they be that act as leaders?"

"A knight, clad in sable armor, is the most conspicuous," said the Jewess; "he alone is armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of all around him."

"What device does he bear on his shield?" replied Ivanhoe.

"Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted blue on the black shield."

"A fetterlock and shackle-bolt [Footnote: These are terms in heraldry. Ivanhoe means that, since he is a prisoner, fetters and shackles would be good device for his shield.] azure," said Ivanhoe; "I know not who may bear the device, but well I ween it might now be mine own. Canst thou not see the motto?"

"Scarce the device itself at this distance," replied Rebecca; "but when the sun glances fair upon his shield it shows as I tell you."

"Seem there no other leaders?" exclaimed the anxious inquirer.

"None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station," said Rebecca; "but doubtless the other side of the castle is also assailed. They appear even now preparing to advance—God of Zion protect us! What a dreadful sight! Those who advance first bear huge shields and defences made of plank; the others follow, bending their bows as they come on. They raise their bows! God of Moses, forgive the creatures Thou hast made!"

Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the battlements, which, mingled with the deep and hollow clang of the nakers (a species of kettledrum), retorted in notes of defiance the challenge of the enemy. The shouts of both parties augmented the fearful din, the assailants crying, "Saint George for merry England!" [Footnote: Saint George is the patron saint of England.] and the Normans answering them with loud cries of "En avant De Bracy! Beau-seant! 'Beau-seant! Front-de-Boeuf a la rescousse!" [Footnote: En avant De Bracy means Forward, De Bracy. Beau-seant is the name given to the black and white standard of the Knights Templars. The word was used as a battle cry. A la rescousse means To the rescue.] according to the war-cries of their different commanders.

It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was to be decided, and the desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an equally vigorous defence on the part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their woodland pastimes to the most effective use of the long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of the time, so "wholly together," that no point at which a defender could show the least part of his person escaped their cloth-yard shafts. [Footnote: Cloth-yard was the name given to an old measure used for cloth, which differed somewhat from the modern yard. A cloth-yard shaft was an arrow a yard long.] By this heavy discharge, which continued as thick and sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding, every arrow had its individual aim, and flew by scores together against each embrasure and opening in the parapets, as well as at every window where a defender either occasionally had post, or might be suspected to be stationed—by this sustained discharge, two or three of the garrison were slain and several others wounded. But confident in their armor of proof, and in the cover which their situation afforded, the followers of Front-de-Boeuf and his allies showed an obstinacy in defence proportioned to the fury of the attack, and replied with the discharge of their large cross-bows, as well as with their long-bows, slings, and other missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows; and, as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected, did considerably more damage than they received at their hand. The whizzing of shafts and of missiles on both sides was only interrupted by the shouts which arose when either side inflicted or sustained some notable loss.

"And I must lie here like a bed-ridden monk," exclaimed Ivanhoe, "while the game that gives me freedom or death is played out by the hand of others! Look from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath. Look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm."

With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath.

"What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded knight.

"Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them."

"That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers be."

"I see him not," said Rebecca.

"Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest?"

"He blenches not!—he blenches not!" said Rebecca, "I see him now, he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They pull down the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. They have made a breach in the barriers— they rush in—they are thrust back! Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. God of Jacob! it is the meeting of two fierce tides—the conflict of two oceans moved by adverse winds!"

She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible.

"Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring; "the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again, there is now less danger."

Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, "Holy prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the strife, Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the captive!" She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, "He is down!—he is down!"



"Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe; "for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen?"

"The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness—"But no—but no! the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed! he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm. His sword is broken—he snatches an axe from a yeoman—he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow. The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman—he falls—he falls!"

"Front-de-Boeuf?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.

"Front-de-Boeuf," answered the Jewess. "His men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar; their united force compels the champion to pause. They drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls."

"The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" said Ivanhoe.

"They have—they have!" exclaimed Rebecca; and they press the besieged hard upon the outer wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other; down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. Great God! hast Thou given men Thine own image that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren!"

"Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such thoughts. Who yield? Who push their way?"

"The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering; "the soldiers lie grovelling under them like crushed reptiles. The besieged have the better."

"Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the knight; "do the false yeomen give way?"

"No!" exclaimed Rebecca, "they bear themselves right yeomanly. The Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe; the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle. Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold champion: he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or feathers!"

"By Saint John of Acre," [Footnote: Saint John of Acre was the full name of the Syrian town usually known as Acre. During the Crusade which the Christians of Europe undertook to recover the Holy Land from the Saracens, Acre was one of the chief points of contest. It was held first by one party, then by the other. Owing to this importance, it was natural that its name should come to be used as an exclamation.] said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed!"

"The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca—"it crashes—it is splintered by his blows—they rush in—the outwork is won. Oh God! they hurl the defenders from the battlements—they throw them into the moat. O men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer!"

"That ridge—the ridge which communicates with the castle—have they won that pass?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.

"No," replied Rebecca; "the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed; few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle— the shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others. Alas! I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle."

"What do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; look forth yet again—this is no time to faint at bloodshed."

"It is over for the time," answered Rebecca; "our friends strengthen themselves within the outwork which they have mastered, and it affords them so good a shelter from the foemen's shot that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to injure them."

"Our friends," said Ivanhoe, "will surely not abandon an enterprise so gloriously begun and so happily attained. O no! I will put my faith in the good knight whose axe hath rent heart-of-oak and bars of iron. Singular," he again muttered to himself, "if there be two who can do a deed of such derring-do![Footnote: Derring-do is an old word for daring, or warlike deed] A fetterlock, and a shackle-bolt on a field sable—what may that mean? Seest thou nought else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight may be distinguished?"

"Nothing," said the Jewess; "all about him is black as the wing of the night raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him further; but having once seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among a thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength—there seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the champion were given to every blow which he deals upon his enemies. God assoilzie [Footnote: Assoilzie is an old word for absolve] him of the sin of bloodshed! It is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the arm and heart of one man can triumph over hundreds."

"Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, "thou hast painted a hero; surely they rest but to refresh their force, or to provide the means of crossing the moat. Under such a leader as thou hast spoken this knight to be, there are no craven fears, no cold-blooded delays, no yielding up a gallant emprize, since the difficulties which render it arduous render it also glorious. I swear by the honor of my house—I vow by the name of my bright lady-love, I would endure ten years' captivity to fight one day by that good knight's side in such a quarrel as this!"

"Alas!" said Rebecca, leaving her station at the window, and approaching the couch of the wounded knight, "this impatient yearning after action—this struggling with and repining at your present weakness, will not fail to injure your returning health. How couldst thou hope to inflict wounds on others, ere that be healed which thou thyself hast received?"

"Rebecca," he replied, "thou knowest not how impossible it is for one trained to actions of chivalry to remain passive as a priest, or a woman, when they are acting deeds of honor around him. The love of battle is the food upon which we live—the dust of the melee [Footnote: Melee is a French word meaning a hand-to-hand conflict.] is the breath of our nostrils! We live not—we wish not to live—longer than while we are victorious and renowned. Such, maiden, are the laws of chivalry to which we are sworn, and to which we offer all that we hold dear."

"Alas!" said the fair Jewess, "and what is it, valiant knight, save an offering of sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a passing through the fire to Moloch? [Footnote: Moloch was the fire-god of the ancient Ammonites, to whom human sacrifices were offered.] What remains to you as the prize of all the blood you have spilled, of all the travail and pain you have endured, of all the tears which your deeds have caused, when death hath broken the strong man's spear, and overtaken the speed of his war-horse?"

"What remains?" cried Ivanhoe. "Glory, maiden—glory! which gilds our sepulchre and embalms our name."

"Glory!" continued Rebecca; "alas! is the rusted nail which hangs as a hatchment over the champion's dim and mouldering tomb, is the defaced sculpture of the inscription which the ignorant monk can hardly read to the inquiring pilgrim—are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of every kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye may make others miserable? Or is there such virtue in the rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic love, kindly affection, peace and happiness, are so wildly bartered, to become the hero of those ballads which vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls over their evening ale?"

"By the soul of Hereward!" replied the knight, impatiently, "thou speakest, maiden, of thou knowest not what. Thou wouldst quench the pure light of chivalry, which alone distinguishes the noble from the base, the gentle knight from the churl and the savage; which rates our life far, far beneath the pitch of our honor, raises us victorious over pain, toil, and suffering, and teaches us to fear no evil but disgrace. Thou art no Christian, Rebecca; and to thee are unknown those high feelings which swell the bosom of a noble maiden when her lover hath done some deed of emprize which sanctions his flame. Chivalry! Why, maiden, she is the nurse of pure and high affection, the stay of the oppressed, the redresser of grievances, the curb of the power of the tyrant. Nobility were but an empty name without her, and liberty finds the best protection in her lance and her sword."

"I am, indeed," said Rebecca, "sprung from a race whose courage was distinguished in the defence of their own land, but who warred not, even while yet a nation, save at the command of the Deity, or in defending their country from oppression. The sound of the trumpet wakes Judah no longer, and her despised children are now but the unresisting victims of hostile and military oppression. Well hast thou spoken, Sir Knight: until the God of Jacob shall raise up for His chosen people a second Gideon, or a new Maccabeus, it ill beseemeth the Jewish damsel to speak of battle or of war."

The high-minded maiden concluded the argument in a tone of sorrow, which deeply expressed her sense of the degradation of her people, imbittered perhaps by the idea that Ivanhoe considered her as one not entitled to interfere in a case of honor, and incapable of entertaining or expressing sentiments of honor and generosity.

"How little he knows this bosom," she said, "to imagine that cowardice or meanness of soul must needs be its guests, because I have censured the fantastic chivalry. Would to Heaven that the shedding of mine own blood, drop by drop, could redeem the captivity of Judah! Nay, would to God it could avail to set free my father, and this his benefactor, from the chains of the oppressor. The proud Christian should then see whether the daughter of God's chosen people dared not to die as bravely as the finest Nazarene maiden, that boasts her descent from some petty chieftain of the rude and frozen north!"

She then looked toward the couch of the wounded knight.

"He sleeps," she said; "nature exhausted by suffrance, and the waste of spirits, his wearied frame embraces the first moment of temporary relaxation to sink into slumber."

She wrapped herself closely in her veil, and sat down at a distance from the couch of the wounded knight, with her back turned toward it, fortifying, or endeavoring to fortify, her mind against the impending evils.

During the interval of quiet which followed the first success of the besiegers, while the one party was preparing to pursue their advantage and the other to strengthen their means of defence, the Templar and De Bracy held brief counsel together in the hall of the castle.

"Where is Front-de-Boeuf?" said the latter, who had superintended the defence of the fortress on the other side; "men say he hath been slain."

"He lives," said the Templar, coolly—"Lives as yet; but had he worn the bull's head of which he bears the name, [Footnote: Front-de-Boeuf means Bull's Head.] and ten plates of iron to fence it withal, he must have gone down before yonder fatal axe. Yet a few hours, and Front-de- Boeuf is with his fathers—a powerful limb lopped off Prince John's enterprise." [Footnote: Prince John was scheming to usurp the throne of England while King Richard, his brother, was absent on one of the Crusades.]

"And a brave addition to the kingdom of Satan," said De Bracy; "this comes of reviling saints and angels, and ordering images of holy things and holy men to be flung down on the heads of these rascaille yeomen."

"Go to, thou art a fool," said the Templar; "thy superstition is upon a level with Front-de-Boeuf's want of faith; neither of you can render a reason for your belief or unbelief. Let us think of making good the castle. How fought these villain yeomen on thy side?"

"Like fiends incarnate," said De Bracy. "They swarmed close up to the walls, headed, as I think, by the knave who won the prize at the archery, for I knew his horn and baldric. Had I not been armed in proof, the villain had marked me down seven times with as little remorse as if I had been a buck in season. He told every rivet on my armor with a cloth-yard shaft, that rapped against my ribs with as little compunction as if my bones had been of iron. But that I wore a shirt of Spanish mail under my platecoat, I had been fairly sped."

"But you maintained your post?" said the Templar. "We lost the outwork on our part."

"That is a shrewd loss," said De Bracy; "the knaves will find cover there to assault the castle more closely, and may, if not well watched, gain some unguarded corner of a tower, or some forgotten window, and so break in upon us. Our numbers are too few for the defence of every point, and the men complain that they can nowhere show themselves, but they are the mark for as many arrows as a parish-butt on a holyday even. Front-de-Boeuf is dying too, so we shall receive no more aid from his bull's head and brutal strength. How think you, Sir Brian, were we not better make a virtue of necessity, and compound with the rogues by delivering up our prisoners?"

"How!" exclaimed the Templar; "deliver up our prisoners, and stand an object alike of ridicule and execration, as the doughty warriors who dared by a night attack to possess themselves of the persons of a party of defenceless travelers, yet could not make good a strong castle against a vagabond troop of outlaws, led by swineherds, jesters, and the very refuse of mankind? Shame on thy counsel, Maurice de Bracy! The ruins of this castle shall bury both my body and my shame, ere I consent to such base and dishonorable composition."

"Let us to the walls, then," said De Bracy, carelessly; "that man never breathed, be he Turk or Templar, who held life at lighter rate than I do. But I trust there is no dishonor in wishing I had here some two scores of my gallant troop of Free Companions? Oh, my brave lances! if ye knew but how hard your captain were this day bested, how soon should I see my banner at the head of your clump of spears! And how short while would these rabble villains stand to endure your encounter!"

"Wish for whom thou wilt," said the Templar, "but let us make what defence we can with the soldiers who remain. They are chiefly Front-de- Boeuf's followers, hated by the English for a thousand acts of insolence and oppression."

"The better," said De Bracy; "the rugged slaves will defend themselves to the last drop of their blood, ere they encounter the revenge of the peasants without. Let us up and be doing, then, Brian de Bois-Guilbert; and, live or die, thou shalt see Maurice de Bracy bear himself this day as a gentleman of blood and lineage."

"To the walls!" answered the Templar; and they both ascended the battlements to do all that skill could dictate, and manhood accomplish, in defence of the place. They readily agreed that the point of greatest danger was that opposite to the outwork of which the assailants had possessed themselves. The castle, indeed, was divided from that barbican by the moat, and it was impossible that the besiegers could assail the postern door, with which the outwork corresponded, without surmounting that obstacle; but it was the opinion both of the Templar and De Bracy that the besiegers, if governed by the same policy their leader had already displayed, would endeavor, by a formidable assault, to draw the chief part of the defenders' observation to this point, and take measures to avail themselves of every negligence which might take place in the defence elsewhere. To guard against such an evil, their numbers only permitted the knights to place sentinels from space to space along the walls in communication with each other, who might give the alarm whenever danger was threatened. Meanwhile, they agreed that De Bracy should command the defense of the postern, and the Templar should keep with him a score of men or thereabouts as a body of reserve, ready to hasten to any other point which might be suddenly threatened. The loss of the barbican had also this unfortunate effect, that notwithstanding the superior height of the castle walls, the besieged could not see from them, with the same precision as before, the operations of the enemy; for some straggling underwood approached so near the sallyport of the outwork that the assailants might introduce into it whatever force they thought proper, not only under cover, but even without the knowledge of the defenders. Utterly uncertain, therefore, upon what point the storm was to burst, De Bracy and his companion were under the necessity of providing against every possible contingency, and their followers, however brave, experienced the anxious dejection of mind incident to men inclosed by enemies who possessed the power of choosing their time and mode of attack.

Meanwhile, the lord of the beleaguered and endangered castle lay upon a bed of bodily pain and mental agony. He had not the usual resource of bigots in that superstitious period, most of whom were wont to atone for the crimes they were guilty of by liberality to the church, stupefying by this means their terrors by the idea of atonement and forgiveness; and although the refuge which success thus purchased was no more like to the peace of mind which follows on sincere repentance than the turbid stupefaction procured by opium resembles healthy and natural slumbers, it was still a state of mind preferable to the agonies of awakened remorse. But among the vices of Front-de-Boeuf, a hard and griping man, avarice was predominant; and he preferred setting church and churchmen at defiance to purchasing from them pardon and absolution at the price of treasure and of manors. Nor did the Templar, an infidel of another stamp, justly characterize his associate when he said Front-de-Boeuf could assign no cause for his unbelief and contempt for the established faith; for the baron would have alleged that the church sold her wares too dear, that the spiritual freedom which she put up to sale was only to be bought, like that of the chief captain of Jerusalem, "with a great sum," and Front-de-Boeuf preferred denying the virtue of the medicine to paying the expense of the physician.

But the moment had now arrived when earth and all his treasures were gliding from before his eyes, and when the savage baron's heart, though hard as a nether millstone, became appalled as he gazed forward into the waste darkness of futurity. The fever of his body aided the impatience and agony of his mind, and his death-bed exhibited a mixture of the newly-awakened feelings of horror combating with the fixed and inveterate obstinacy of his disposition—a fearful state of mind, only to be equalled in those tremendous regions where there are complaints without hope, remorse without repentance, a dreadful sense of present agony, and a presentiment that it cannot cease or be diminished!

"Where be these dog-priests now," growled the baron, "who set such price on their ghostly mummery? I have heard old men talk of prayer— prayer by their own voice—such need not to court or to bribe the false priest. But I—I dare not!"

"Lives Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said a broken and shrill voice close by his bedside, "to say there is that which he dares not?"

The evil conscience and the shaken nerves of Front-de-Boeuf heard, in this strange interruption to his soliloquy, the voice of one of those demons who, as the superstition of the times believed, beset the beds of dying men, to distract their thoughts, and turn them from the meditations which concerned their eternal welfare.

He shuddered and drew himself together; but, instantly summoning up his wonted resolution, he exclaimed, "Who is there? what art thou, that darest to echo my words in a tone like that of the night raven? Come before my couch that I may see thee."

"I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," replied the voice.

"Let me behold thee then in thy bodily shape, if thou be'st indeed a fiend," replied the dying knight; "think not that I will blench from thee. By the eternal dungeon, could I but grapple with these horrors that hover round me as I have done with mortal danger, Heaven or Hell should never say that I shrunk from the conflict!"

"Think on thy sins, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said the almost unearthly voice—"on rebellion, on rapine, on murder! Who stirred up the licentious John to war against his grayheaded father—against his generous brother?"

"Be thou fiend, priest, or devil," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thou liest in thy throat! Not I stirred John to rebellion—not I alone; there were fifty knights and barons, the flower of the midland counties, better men never laid lance in rest. And must I answer for the fault done by fifty? False fiend, I defy thee! Depart, and haunt my couch no more. Let me die in peace if thou be mortal; if thou be demon, thy time is not yet come."

"In peace thou shalt NOT die," repeated the voice; "even in death shalt thou think on thy murders—on the groans which this castle has echoed— on the blood that is engrained in its floors!"

"Thou canst not shake me by thy petty malice," answered Front-de-Boeuf, with a ghastly and constrained laugh. "The infidel Jew—it was merit with Heaven to deal with him as I did, else wherefore are men canonized who dip their hands in the blood of Saracens? The Saxon porkers whom I have slain—they were the foes of my country, and of my lineage, and of my liege lord. Ho! ho! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of plate. Art thou fled? art thou silenced?"

"No, foul parricide!" replied the voice; "think of thy father!—think of his death!—think of his banquet-room flooded with his gore, and that poured forth by the hand of a son!"

"Ha!" answered the Baron, after a long pause, "an thou knowest that, thou art indeed the Author of Evil, and as omniscient as the monks call thee! That secret I deemed locked in my own breast, and in that of one besides—the temptress, the partaker of my guilt. Go, leave me, fiend! and seek the Saxon witch Ulrica, who alone could tell thee what she and I alone witnessed. Go, I say, to her, who washed the wounds, and straighted the corpse, and gave to the slain man the outward show of one parted in time and in the course of nature. Go to her; she was my temptress, the foul provoker, the more foul rewarder, of the deed; let her, as well as I, taste of the tortures which anticipate Hell!"

"She already tastes them," said Ulrica, stepping before the couch of Front-de-Boeuf; "she hath long drunken of this cup, and its bitterness is now sweetened to see that thou dost partake it. Grind not thy teeth, Front-de-Boeuf—roll not thy eyes—clench not thy hand, nor shake it at me with that gesture of menace! The hand which, like that of thy renowned ancestor who gained thy name, could have broken with one stroke the skull of a mountain-bull, is now unnerved and powerless as mine own!"

"Vile, murderous hag!" replied Front-de-Boeuf—"detestable screech-owl! it is then thou who art come to exult over the ruins thou hast assisted to lay low?"

"Ay, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," answered she, "It is Ulrica!—it is the daughter of the murdered Torquil Wolfganger!—it is the sister of his slaughtered sons! it is she who demands of thee, and of thy father's house, father and kindred, name and fame—all that she has lost by the name of Front-de-Boeuf! Think of my wrongs, Front-de-Boeuf, and answer me if I speak not truth. Thou hast been my evil angel, and I will be thine: I will dog thee till the very instant of dissolution!"

"Detestable fury!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, "that moment shalt thou never witness. Ho! Giles, Clement, and Eustace! Saint Maur and Stephen! seize this damned witch, and hurl her from the battlements headlong; she has betrayed us to the Saxon! Ho! Saint Maur! Clement! false- hearted knaves, where tarry ye?"

"Call on them again, valiant baron," said the hag, with a smile of grisly mockery; "summon thy vassals around thee, doom them that loiter to the scourge and the dungeon. But know, mighty chief," she continued, suddenly changing her tone, "thou shalt have neither answer, nor aid, nor obedience at their hands. Listen to these horrid sounds," for the din of the recommenced assault and defence now rung fearfully loud from the battlements of the castle; "in that warcry is the downfall of thy house. The blood-cemented fabric of Front-de-Boeuf's power totters to the foundation, and before the foes he most despised! The Saxon, Reginald!—the scorned Saxon assails thy walls! Why liest thou here, like a worn-out hind, when the Saxon storms thy place of strength? Thou shalt die no soldier's death, but perish like the fox in his den, when the peasants have set fire to the cover around it."

"Hateful hag! thou liest!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf; "my followers bear them bravely—my walls are strong and high—my comrades in arms fear not a whole host of Saxons. The war-cry of the Templar and of the Free Companions rises high over the conflict! And by mine honor, when we kindle the blazing beacon for joy of our defence, it shall consume thee body and bones."

"Hold thy belief," replied Ulrica, "till the proof reach thee. But no!" she said, interrupting herself, "thou shalt know even now the doom which all thy power, strength and courage is unable to avoid, though it is prepared for thee by this feeble hand. Markest thou the smouldering and suffocating vapor which already eddies in sable folds through the chamber? Didst thou think it was but the darkening of thy bursting eyes, the difficulty of thy cumbered breathing? No! Front-de-Boeuf, there is another cause. Rememberest thou the magazine of fuel that is stored beneath these apartments?"

"Woman!" he exclaimed with fury, "thou hast not set fire to it? By heaven, thou hast, and the castle is in flames!"

"They are fast rising at least," said Ulrica, with frightful composure, "and a signal shall soon wave to warn the besiegers to press hard upon those who would extinguish them. Farewell, Front-de-Boeuf! But know, if it will give thee comfort to know it, that Ulrica is bound to the same dark coast with thyself, the companion of thy punishment as the companion of thy guilt. And now, parricide, farewell for ever! May each stone of this vaulted roof find a tongue to echo that title into thine ear!"



So saying, she left the apartment; and Front-de-Boeuf could hear the crash of the ponderous keys as she locked and double-locked the door behind her, thus cutting off the most slender chance of escape. In the extremity of agony, he shouted upon his servants and allies—"Stephen and Saint Maur! Clement and Giles! I burn here unaided! To the rescue— to the rescue, brave Bois-Guilbert, valiant De Bracy! It is Front-de- Boeuf who calls! It is your master, ye traitor squires! Your ally—your brother in arms, ye perjured and faithless knights! All the curses due to traitors upon your recreant heads, do you abandon me to perish thus miserably! They hear me not—they cannot hear me—my voice is lost in the din of battle. The smoke rolls thicker and thicker, the fire has caught upon the floor below. O, for one draught of the air of heaven, were it to be purchased by instant annihilation! The red fire flashes through the thick smoke! the demon marches against me under the banner of his own element. Foul spirit, avoid! I go not with thee without my comrades—all, all are thine that garrison these walls. Thinkest thou Front-de-Boeuf will be singled out to go alone? No; the infidel Templar, De Bracy, Ulrica, the men who aided my enterprises, the dog Saxons and accursed Jews who are my prisoners—all, all shall attend me—a goodly fellowship as ever took the downward road."

But it were impious to trace any further the picture of the blasphemer and parricide's death-bed.

When the barbican was carried, the Sable Knight sent notice of the happy event to Locksley, the archer, requesting him at the same time to keep such a strict observation on the castle as might prevent the defenders from combining their force for a sudden sally, and recovering the outwork which they had lost. This the knight was chiefly desirous of avoiding, conscious that the men whom he led, being hasty and untrained volunteers, imperfectly armed and unaccustomed to discipline, must, upon any sudden attack, fight at great disadvantage with the veteran soldiers of the Norman knights, who were well provided with arms both defensive and offensive; and who, to match the zeal and high spirit of the besiegers, had all the confidence which arises from perfect discipline and the habitual use of weapons.

The knight employed the interval in causing to be constructed a sort of floating bridge, or long raft, by means of which he hoped to cross the moat, in despite of the resistance of the enemy. This was a work of some time, which the leaders the less regretted, as it gave Ulrica leisure to execute her plan of diversion in their favor, whatever that might be.

When the raft was completed, the Black Knight addressed the besiegers: "It avails not waiting here longer, my friends; the sun is descending to the west, and I have that upon my hands which will not permit me to tarry with you another day. Besides, it will be a marvel if the horsemen come not upon us from York, unless we speedily accomplish our purpose. Wherefore, one of ye go to Locksley, and bid him commence a discharge of arrows on the opposite side of the castle, and move forward as if about to assault it; and you, true English hearts, stand by me, and be ready to thrust the raft endlong over the moat whenever the postern on our side is thrown open. Follow me boldly across, and aid me to burst yon sallyport in the main wall of the castle. As many of you as like not this service, or are but ill armed to meet it, do you man the top of the outwork, draw your bowstrings to your ears, and mind you quell with your shot whatever shall appear to man the rampart. Noble Cedric, wilt thou take the direction of those which remain?"

"Not so!" said the Saxon; "lead I cannot; but may posterity curse me in my grave, if I follow not with the foremost wherever thou shalt point the way. The quarrel is mine, and well it becomes me to be in the van of the battle."

"Yet, bethink thee, noble Saxon," said the knight, "thou hast neither hauberk, nor corselet, nor aught but that light helmet, target, and sword."

"The better!" answered Cedric; "I shall be the lighter to climb these walls. And—forgive the boast, Sir Knight—thou shalt this day see the naked breast of a Saxon as boldly presented to the battle as ever ye beheld the steel corselet of a Norman."

"In the name of God, then," said the knight, "fling open the door, and launch the floating bridge."

The portal, which led from the inner wall of the barbican to the moat, and which corresponded with a sallyport in the main wall of the castle, was now suddenly opened; the temporary bridge was then thrust forward, and soon flashed in the waters, extending its length between the castle and outwork, and forming a slippery and precarious passage for two men abreast to cross the moat. Well aware of the importance of taking the foe by surprise, the Black Knight, closely followed by Cedric, threw himself upon the bridge, and reached the opposite side. Here he began to thunder with his axe upon the gate of the castle, protected in part from the shot and stones cast by the defenders by the ruins of the former drawbridge, which the Templar had demolished in his retreat from the barbican, leaving the counterpoise still attached to the upper part of the portal. The followers of the knight had no such shelter; two were instantly shot with cross-bow bolts, and two more fell into the moat; the others retreated back into the barbican.

The situation of Cedric and of the Black Knight was now truly dangerous, and would have been still more so but for the constancy of the archers in the barbican, who ceased not to shower their arrows upon the battlements, distracting the attention of those by whom they were manned, and thus affording a respite to their two chiefs from the storm of missiles which must otherwise have overwhelmed them. But their situation was eminently perilous, and was becoming more so with every moment.

"Shame on ye all!" cried De Bracy to the soldiers around him; "do ye call yourselves cross-bowmen, and let these two dogs keep their station under the walls of the castle? Heave over the coping stones from the battlement, an better may not be. Get pickaxe and levers, and down with that huge pinnacle!" pointing to a heavy piece of stone carved-work that projected from the parapet.

At this moment the besiegers caught sight of the red flag upon the angle of the tower, which Ulrica raised to show that she had fired the castle. The stout yeoman Locksley was the first who was aware of it, as he was hasting to the outwork, impatient to see the progress of the assault.

"Saint George!" he cried—"Merry Saint George for England! To the charge, bold yeomen! why leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to storm the pass alone? Make in, brave yeomen!—the castle is ours, we have friends within. See yonder flag, it is the appointed signal— Torquilstone is ours! Think of honor—think of spoil! One effort, and the place is ours!"

With that he bent his good bow, and sent a shaft right through the breast of one of the men-at-arms, who, under De Bracy's direction, was loosening a fragment from one of the battlements to precipitate on the heads of Cedric and the Black Knight. A second soldier caught from the hands of the dying man the iron crow with which he heaved at and had loosened the stone pinnacle, when, receiving an arrow through his headpiece, he dropped from the battlements into the moat a dead man. The men-at-arms were daunted, for no armor seemed proof against the shot of this tremendous archer.

"Do you give ground, base knaves!" said De Bracy. "Give me the lever!"

And, snatching it up, he again assailed the loosened pinnacle, which was of weight enough, if thrown down, not only to have destroyed the remnant of the drawbridge which sheltered the two foremost assailants, but also to have sunk the rude float of planks over which they had crossed. All saw the danger, and the boldest avoided setting foot on the raft. Thrice did Locksley bend his shaft against De Bracy, and thrice did his arrow bound back from the knight's armor of proof.

"Curse on thy Spanish steel-coat!" said Locksley, "had English smith forged it, these arrows had gone through, as if it had been silk or sendal." He then began to call out. "Comrades! friends! noble Cedric! bear back and let the ruin fall."

His warning voice was unheard, for the din which the knight himself occasioned by his strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty war-trumpets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward on the planked bridge, to warn Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him. But his warning would have come too late; the massive pinnacle already tottered, and De Bracy, who still heaved at his task, would have accomplished it had not the voice of the Templar sounded close in his ear:

"All is lost, De Bracy; the castle burns."

"Thou art mad to say so!" replied the knight.

"It is all in a light flame on the western side. I have striven in vain to extinguish it."

With the stern coolness which formed the basis of his character, Brian de Bois-Guilbert communicated this hideous intelligence, which was not so calmly received by his astonished comrade.

"Saints of Paradise!" said De Bracy; "what is to be done?"

"Lead thy men down," said the Templar, "as if to a sally; throw the postern gate open. There are but two men who occupy the float, fling them into the moat, push across for the barbican. I will charge from the main gate, and attack the barbican on the outside; and if we can regain that post, be assured we shall defend ourselves until we are relieved, or at least till they grant us fair quarter."

"It is well thought upon," said De Bracy; "I will play my part. Templar, thou wilt not fail me?"

"Hand and glove, I will not!" said Bois-Guilbert. "But haste thee, in the name of God!"

De Bracy hastily drew his men together, and rushed down to the postern gate, which he caused instantly to be thrown open. But scarce was this done ere the portentous strength of the Black Knight forced his way inward in despite of De Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost instantly fell, and the rest gave way notwithstanding all their leader's efforts to stop them.

"Dogs!" said De Bracy, "will ye let two men win our only pass for safety?"

"He is the devil!" said a veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the blows of their sable antagonist.

"And if he be the devil," replied De Bracy, "would you fly from him into the mouth of hell? The castle burns behind us, villains!—let despair give you courage, or let me forward! I will cope with this champion myself."

And well and chivalrous did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage to which the postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted champions were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows which they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight with his ponderous axe.

At length the Norman received a blow which, though its force was partly parried by his shield, for otherwise never more would De Bracy have again moved limb, descended yet with such violence on his crest that he measured his length on the paved floor.

"Yield thee, De Bracy," said the Black Champion, stooping over him, and holding against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the knights despatched their enemies, and which was called the dagger of mercy—"Yield thee, Maurice De Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art but a dead man."

"I will not yield," replied De Bracy, faintly, "to an unknown conqueror. Tell me thy name or work thy pleasure on me; it shall never be said that Maurice De Bracy was prisoner to a nameless churl."

The Black Knight whispered something into the ear of the vanquished. [Footnote: The Black Knight is Richard the Lion-Hearted, king of England, who has returned from the Crusades to reclaim his throne from his usurping brother.]

"I yield me to be true prisoner, rescue or no rescue," answered the Norman, exchanging his tone of determined obstinacy for one of deep though sullen submission.

"Go to the barbican," said the victor, in a tone of authority, "and there wait my further orders."

"Yet first let me say," said De Bracy, "what it imports thee to know. Wilfred of Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the burning castle without present help."

"Wilfred of Ivanhoe!" exclaimed the Black Knight—"prisoner, and perish! The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if a hair of his head be singed. Show me his chamber!"

"Ascend yonder winding stair," said De Bracy; "it leads to his apartment. Wilt thou not accept my guidance?" he added in a submissive voice.

"No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders, I trust thee not, De Bracy."

During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at the head of a body of men, had pushed across the bridge as soon as they saw the postern open, and drove back the dispirited and despairing followers of De Bracy, of whom some asked quarter, some offered vain resistance, and the greater part fled toward the courtyard.

De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and cast a sorrowful glance after his conqueror. "He trusts me not!" he repeated; "but have I deserved his trust?"

He then lifted his sword from the floor, took off his helmet in token of submission, and, going to the barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom he met by the way.

As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the chamber where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He had been awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle; and his attendant, who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself at the window to watch and report to him the fate of the attack, was for some time prevented from observing either by the increase of the smouldering and stifling vapor. At length the volumes of smoke which rolled into the apartment, the cries for water, which were heard even above the din of the battle, made them sensible of the progress of this new danger.

"The castle burns," said Rebecca—"it burns! What can we do to save ourselves?"

"Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life," said Ivanhoe, "for no human aid can avail me."

"I had not found thee, Wilfred," said the Black Knight, who at that instant entered the apartment, "but for thy shouts."

And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him with him to the postern, and having there delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, again entered the castle to assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.

One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from window and shot-hole. But in other parts the great thickness of the walls and the vaulted roofs of the apartments resisted the progress of the flames, and there the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce more dreadful element held mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued the defenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and satiated in their blood the vengeance which had long animated them against the soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the garrison resisted to the uttermost; few of them asked quarter; none received it. The air was filled with groans and clashing of arms; the floors were slippery with the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.

Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed, in quest of Rowena, while the faithful Gurth, following him closely through the melee, neglected his own safety while he strove to avert the blows that were aimed at his master. The noble Saxon was so fortunate as to reach his ward's apartment just as she had abandoned all hope of safety, and, with a crucifix clasped in agony to her bosom, sat in expectation of instant death. He committed her to the charge of Gurth, to be conducted in safety to the barbican, the road to which was now cleared of the enemy, and not yet interrupted by the flames. This accomplished, the loyal Cedric hastened in quest of his friend Athelstane, determined, at every risk to himself, to save that last scion of Saxon royalty. But ere Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall In which he had himself been a prisoner, the inventive genius of Wamba the Jester had procured liberation for himself and his companion in adversity.

When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the hottest, the Jester began to shout, with the utmost power of his lungs, "Saint George and the dragon! Bonny Saint George for merry England! The castle is won!" And these sounds he rendered yet more fearful by banging against each other two or three pieces of rusty armor which lay scattered around the hall.

A guard, which had been stationed in the outer or ante-room, and whose spirits were already in a state of alarm, took fright at Wamba's clamor, and, leaving the door open behind them, ran to tell the Templar that foemen had entered the old hall. Meantime the prisoners found no difficulty in making their escape into the ante-room, and from thence into the court of the castle, which was now the last scene of contest. Here sat the fierce Templar, mounted on horseback, surrounded by several of the garrison both on horse and foot, who had united their strength to that of this renowned leader, in order to secure the last chance of safety and retreat which remained to them. The drawbridge had been lowered by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers, who had hitherto only annoyed the castle on that side by their missiles, no sooner saw the flames breaking out, and the bridge lowered, than they thronged to the entrance, as well to prevent the escape of the garrison as to secure their own share of booty ere the castle should be burned down. On the other hand, a party of the besiegers, who had entered by the postern, were now issuing out into the courtyard, and attacking with fury the remnant of the defenders, who were thus assaulted on both sides at once. Animated, however, by despair, and supported by the example of their indomitable leader, the remaining soldiers of the castle fought with the utmost valor; and, being well armed, succeeded more than once in driving back the assailants, though much inferior in numbers.

Athelstane, who was slothful, but not cowardly, beheld the Templar.

"By the soul of Saint Edward," he said, "yonder over-proud knight shall die by my hand!"

"Think what you do!" cried Wamba; "hasty hand catches frog for fish. Ye may be leader, but I will be no follower; no bones of mine shall be broken. And you without armor too! Bethink you, silk bonnet never kept out steel blade. Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must drench. Deus vobiscum [Footnote: Deus vobiscum means God be with you] most doughty Athelstane!" he concluded, loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon's tunic.

To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one whose dying gasp had just relinquished it, to rush on the Templar's band, and to strike in quick succession to the right and left, levelling a warrior at each blow, was, for Athelstane's great strength, now animated with unusual fury, but the work of a single moment; he was soon within two yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his loudest tone.

"Turn, false-hearted Templar! turn, limb of a band of murdering and hypocritical robbers!"

"Dog!" said the Templar, grinding his teeth, "I will teach thee to blaspheme the holy order of the Temple of Zion;" and with these words, half-wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette toward the Saxon, and rising in the stirrups, so as to take full advantage of the descent of the horse, he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athelstane.

"Well," said Wamba, "that silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade!" So trenchant was the Templar's weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had been a willow-twig, the tough and plaited handle of the mace, which the ill-fated Saxon reared to parry the blow, and, descending on his head, levelled him with the earth.

"Ha! Beau-seant!" exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, "thus be it to the maligners of the Temple knights!" Taking advantage of the dismay which was spread by the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, "Those who would save themselves, follow me!" he pushed across the drawbridge, dispersing the archers who would have intercepted them. He was followed by his Saracens, and some five or six men-at-arms, who had mounted their horses. The Templar's retreat was rendered perilous by the numbers of arrows shot off at him and his party; but this did not prevent him from galloping round to the barbican, of which, according to his previous plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have been in possession.

"De Bracy! De Bracy!" he shouted, "art thou there?"

"I am here," replied De Bracy, "but I am a prisoner."

"Can I rescue thee?" cried Bois-Guilbert.

"No," replied De Bracy; "I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I will be true prisoner. Save thyself; there are hawks abroad. Put the seas betwixt you and England; I dare not say more."

"Well," answered the Templar, "an thou wilt tarry there, remember I have redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks the walls of the preceptory of Templestowe will be cover sufficient, and thither will I, like heron to her haunt."

Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his followers.

Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued to fight desperately with the besiegers, after the departure of the Templar, but rather in despair of quarter than that they entertained any hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war- song, such as was of yore raised on the field of battle by the scalds of the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled gray hair flew back from her uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters who spin and abridge the thread of human life.

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 neighboring 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-trees 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."



THE DEATH OF HECTOR

From HOMER'S ILIAD [Footnote: One of the greatest poems that has ever been written is the Iliad, an epic of great length dealing with the siege of Troy. The author is generally considered to be the old Greek poet and singer Homer. although some authorities believe that the poem was not all written by any one man.

The selection from the Iliad which is given here is from the translation by Alexander Pope. The passage has been abridged somewhat.]

NOTE.—Of all the mythical or half-mythical events which the ancient Greeks believed formed a part of their early history, there is none about which more stories have grown up than the Trojan War. According to the Greek belief, this struggle took place somewhere in the twelfth century B. C., but it now seems entirely likely that there was really no such contest, and that the stories told about it were but myths.

To the marriage of Peleus with the sea-nymph Thetis, all the gods were invited except Eris, or Discord, who, angered at the slight, determined to have vengeance. She took, therefore, a most beautiful golden apple on which were inscribed the words For The Fairest, and tossed it into the midst of the merry wedding party. Instantly a dispute arose, Juno, queen of the gods, Minerva, goddess of wisdom, and Venus, goddess of love and beauty, each claiming the fruit. Finally it was decided to leave the choice to an impartial judge, and Paris, son of Priam, the old king of Troy, was chosen.

Paris was utterly ignorant of the fact that he was the son of the king, having been banished from his home in his infancy because a prophecy had foretold that he should bring about the destruction of his native city. Rescued and brought up by a shepherd, he lived a simple shepherd's life on Mount Ida.

When the three radiant goddesses stood before him he was overcome with the difficulty of his task, and each of the three attempted to help him out by offering a bribe. Juno offered prosperity through life, Minerva wisdom and influence, but Venus, smiling slyly, promised him the love of the most beautiful woman in the world. Moved not by this bribe, but by the unsurpassable beauty of Venus, Paris awarded her the apple, and thus gained for himself and for his people the hatred of Juno and Minerva.

Later Paris was received back into his father's palace, and was sent on an embassy to the home of Menelaus, king of Sparta, in Greece. While at the home of Menelaus, Paris fell in love with Helen, the wife of his host, the most beautiful woman in the world, and persuaded her to return to Troy with him. Thoroughly roused, Menelaus sought the aid of the other Grecian kings in his attempt to get back his wife and punish the Trojans for the treachery of their prince, and a huge expedition under the command of Agamemnon, brother of Menelaus, set out for Troy. The Grecian army could make no immediate head against the Trojans, and for nine years it encamped outside the city of Troy, attempting to bring about its downfall. Battles and contests between single champions were frequent, but neither side seemed able to win any permanent victory.

Achilles was the bravest and strongest of the Grecian heroes, and all looked to him as the man through whom success must come. However, he became angered at Agamemnon and withdrew from the contest, and victory seemed about to fall to the Trojans. One day Patroclus, the friend and kinsman of Achilles, distressed at the Greek fortunes, removed of Achilles his armor, and at the head of Achilles's own men, went forth to do battle with the Trojans. He was slain by Hector, the son of Priam, the bravest of the Trojan defenders, and in anger at his friend's death, Achilles returned to the conflict. The battle was waged outside the city, and owing to the prowess of Achilles, matters looked bad for the Trojans.

Apollo, god of light, who favored the Trojans, took upon himself the form of a Trojan warrior, and while appearing to flee, drew Achilles after him, and thus allowed the Trojans to gain the shelter of the city walls. The selection from the Iliad given here begins just as Apollo throws off his disguise and reveals his identity to Achilles.

Thus to their bulwarks, smit with panic fear, The herded Ilians* rush like driven deer: There safe they wipe the briny drops away, And drown in bowls the labors of the day. Close to the walls, advancing o'er the fields Beneath one roof of well-compacted shields, March, bending on, the Greeks' embodied powers, Far stretching in the shade of Trojan towers. Great Hector singly stay'd: chain'd down by fate There fix'd he stood before the Scaean gate; Still his bold arms determined to employ, The guardian still of long-defended Troy.

*[Footnote: Ilium, or Ilion, was another name for Troy, and the Ilians were Trojans.]

Apollo now to tired Achilles turns (The power confess'd in all his glory burns): "And what," he cries, "has Peleus'* son in view, With mortal speed a godhead to pursue? For not to thee to know the gods' is given, Unskill'd to trace the latent marks of heaven. What boots thee now, that Troy forsook the plain? Vain thy past labor, and thy present vain: Safe in their walls are now her troops bestow'd, While here thy frantic rage attacks a god."

*[Footnote: Achilles was the son of Peleus and the sea-nymph Thetis.]

The chief incensed—"Too partial god of day! To check my conquests in the middle way: How few in Ilion else had refuge found! What gasping numbers now had bit the ground! Thou robb'st me of a glory justly mine, Powerful of godhead, and of fraud divine: Mean fame, alas! for one of heavenly strain, To cheat a mortal who repines in vain."

Then to the city, terrible and strong, With high and haughty steps he tower'd along, So the proud courser, victor of the prize, To the near goal with double ardor flies. Him, as he blazing shot across the field, The careful eyes of Priam* first beheld Not half so dreadful rises to the sight Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night, Orion's dog* (the year when autumn weighs), And o'er the feebler stars exerts his rays; Terrific glory! for his burning breath Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death, So flamed his fiery mail. Then wept the sage: He strikes his reverend head, now white with age; He lifts his wither'd arms; obtests* the skies; He calls his much-loved son with feeble cries: The son, resolved Achilles' force to dare, Full at the Scaean gates expects* the war; While the sad father on the rampart stands, And thus adjures him with extended hands:

*[Footnote: Priam was the old king of Troy, father of Hector.] *[Footnote: Orion's dog means Sirius, the dog star, which was believed by the ancients to be a star of very bad omen.] *[Footnote: Obtests means entreats.] *[Footnote: Expects here means awaits.]

"Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone; Hector! my loved, my dearest, bravest son! Mehinks already I behold thee slain, And stretch'd beneath that fury of the plain, Implacable Achilles! might'st thou be To all the gods no dearer than to me! Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the shore, And bloody dogs grow fiercer from thy gore. How many valiant sons I late enjoy'd, Valiant in vain! by thy cursed arm destroy'd, Or, worse than slaughter'd, sold in distant isles To shameful bondage, and unworthy toils, What sorrows then must their sad mother know, What anguish I? unutterable woe! Yet less that anguish, less to her, to me, Less to all Troy, if not deprived of thee. Yet shun Achilles! enter yet the wall; And spare thyself, thy father, spare us all! Save thy dear life; or, if a soul so brave Neglect that thought, thy dearer glory save. Pity, while yet I live, these silver hairs; While yet thy father feels the woes he bears, Yet cursed with sense! a wretch, whom in his rage (All trembling on the verge of helpless age) Great Jove has placed, sad spectacle of pain! The bitter dregs of fortune's cup to drain: To fill the scenes of death his closing eyes, And number all his days by miseries! Who dies in youth and vigor, dies the best, Struck through with wounds, all honest on the breast. But when the Fates* in fulness of their rage Spurn the hoar head of unresisting age, In dust the reverend lineaments deform, And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm: This, this is misery! the last, the worst, That man can feel! man, fated to be cursed!"

*[Footnote: The Fates were thought of by the ancient peoples as three old women, who spun the thread of human life, twisted it, and cut it off whenever they thought it was long enough.]

He said, and acting what no words could say, Rent from his head the silver locks away. With him the mournful mother bears a part; Yet all her sorrow turn not Hector's heart. The zone unbraced, her bosom she display'd; And thus, fast-falling the salt tears, she said:

"Have mercy on me, O my son! revere The words of age; attend a parent's prayer! If ever thee in these fond arms I press'd, Or still'd thy infant clamors at this breast; Ah, do not thus our helpless years forego, But, by our walls secured, repel the foe."

So they,* while down their cheeks the torrents roll; But fix'd remains the purpose of his soul; Resolved he stands, and with a fiery glance Expects the hero's terrible advance. So, roll'd up in his den, the swelling snake Beholds the traveller approach the brake; When fed with noxious herbs his turgid veins Have gather'd half the poisons of the plains; He burns, he stiffens with collected ire, And his red eyeballs glare with living fire.* Beneath a turret, on his shield reclined, He stood, and question'd thus his mighty mind:

*[Footnote: The word spoke is omitted here.] *[Footnote: Homer is famous for such comparisons as these. If you ever come across the term "Homeric simile," you may know that it means such a long, carefully worked out comparison as this.]

"Where lies my way? to enter in the wall? Honor and shame the ungenerous thought recall: Shall proud Polydamas* before the gate Proclaim, his counsels are obeyed too late, Which timely follow'd but the former night What numbers had been saved by Hector's flight? That wise advice rejected with disdain, I feel my folly in my people slain. Methinks my suffering country's voice I hear, But most her worthless sons insult my ear, On my rash courage charge the chance of war, And blame those virtues which they cannot share. No—if I e'er return, return I must Glorious, my country's terror laid in dust: Or if I perish, let her see me fall In field at least, and fighting for her wall."

*[Footnote: Polydamas, a Trojan hero and a friend of Hector's, had previously advised prudence and retreat within the wall.]

Thus pondering, like a god the Greek drew nigh; His dreadful plumage nodded from on high; The Pelian* javelin, in his better hand, Shot trembling rays that glitter'd o'er the land; And on his breast the beamy splendor shone, Like Jove's own lightning, o'er the rising sun. As Hector sees, unusual terrors rise; Struck by some god, he fears, recedes, and flies. He leaves the gates, he leaves the wall behind: Achilles follows like the winged wind. Thus at the panting dove a falcon flies (The swiftest racer of the liquid skies), Just when he holds, or thinks he holds his prey, Obliquely wheeling through the aerial way, With open beak and shrilling cries he springs, And aims his claws, and shoots upon his wings: No less fore-right* the rapid chase they held, One urged by fury, one by fear impell'd: Now circling round the walls their course maintain, Where the high watch-tower overlooks the plain; Now where the fig-trees spread their umbrage broad, (A wider compass), smoke along the road. Next by Scamander's* double source they bound, Where two famed fountains burst the parted ground; This hot through scorching clefts is seen to rise, With exhalations streaming to the skies; That the green banks in summer's heat o'erflows, Like crystal clear, and cold as winter snows: Each gushing fount a marble cistern fills, Whose polished bed receives the falling rills; Where Trojan dames (ere yet alarm'd by Greece) Wash'd their fair garments in the days of peace.* By these they pass'd, one chasing, one in flight The mighty fled, pursued by stronger might: Swift was the course; no vulgar prize they play, No vulgar victim must reward the day: Such as in races crown the speedy strife: The prize contended was great Hector's life.

*[Footnote: Pelian is an adjective formed from Peleus, the name of the father of Achilles.] *[Footnote: Fore-right means straight forward.] *[Footnote: The Scamander was a famous river that flowed near the city of Troy. According to the Iliad, its source was two springs, one a cold and one a hot spring.] *[Footnote: It was not, in these very ancient times, thought beneath the dignity of even a princess to wash her linen in some clear river or spring.]

As when some hero's funerals are decreed In grateful honor of the mighty dead;* Where high rewards the vigorous youth inflame (Some golden tripod, or some lovely dame) The panting coursers swiftly turn the goal, And with them turns the raised spectator's soul: Thus three times round the Trojan wall they fly. The gazing gods lean forward from the sky.*

*[Footnote: The favorite way, among the ancients, of doing honor to a man after his death was to hold a sort of a funeral festival, where contests in running, wrestling, boxing, and other feats of strength and skill were held.] *[Footnote: The gods play a very important part in the Iliad. Sometimes, as here, they simply watch the struggle from their home above Olympus; sometimes, as in the first lines of this selection, they actually descend to the battlefield and take part in the contest.]

As through the forest, o'er the vale and lawn, The well-breath'd beagle drives the flying fawn, In vain he tries the covert of the brakes, Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes; Sure of the vapor* in the tainted dews, The certain hound his various maze pursues. Thus step by step, where'er the Trojan wheel'd, There swift Achilles compass'd round the field. Oft as to reach the Dardan* gates he bends, And hopes the assistance of his pitying friends, (Whose showering arrows, as he coursed below, From the high turrets might oppress the foe), So oft Achilles turns him to the plain: He eyes the city, but he eyes in vain. As men in slumbers seem with speedy pace, One to pursue, and one to lead the chase, Their sinking limbs the fancied course forsake, Nor this can fly, nor that can overtake; No less the laboring heroes pant and strain: While that but flies, and this pursues in vain.

*[Footnote: Vapor here means scent.] *[Footnote: Dardan is an old word for Trojan.]

What god, O Muse,* assisted Hector's force With fate itself so long to hold the course? Phoebus* it was; who, in his latest hour, Endued his knees with strength, his nerves with power. And great Achilles, lest some Greek's advance Should snatch the glory from his lifted lance, Sign'd to the troops to yield his foe the way, And leave untouch'd the honors of the day.

*[Footnote: The Muses were nine sister goddesses who inspired poetry and music. No ancient Greek poet ever undertook to write without first seeking the aid of the Muse who presided over the particular kind of poetry that he was writing. Homer here addresses Calliope, the Muse of epic poetry.] *[Footnote: Phoebus is Apollo, whom at the opening of this selection we found aiding Hector by misleading Achilles.]

Jove* lifts the golden balances, that show The fates of mortal men, and things below: Here each contending hero's lot he tries, And weighs, with equal hand, their destinies. Low sinks the scale surcharged with Hector's fate; Heavy with death it sinks, and hell receives the weight.

*[Footnote: Jove, or Jupiter, was the king of gods and men.]

Then Phoebus left him. Fierce Minerva* flies To stern Pelides,* and triumphing, cries: "O loved of Jove! this day our labors cease, And conquest blazes with full beams on Greece. Great Hector falls; that Hector famed so far, Drunk with renown, insatiable of war, Falls by thy hand, and mine! nor force, nor flight, Shall more avail him, nor his god of light.* See, where in vain he supplicates above, Roll'd at the feet of unrelenting Jove; Rest here: myself will lead the Trojan on, And urge to meet the fate he cannot shun."

*[Footnote: Minerva, goddess of wisdom, was the special protector of the Greeks. Throughout the struggle she was anxious to take part against the Trojans, but much of the time Jupiter would not let her fight; he allowed her merely to advise.] *[Footnote: The ending—ides means son of. Thus Pelides means son of Peleus.] *[Footnote: The god of light was Apollo.]

Her voice divine the chief with joyful mind Obey'd; and rested, on his lance reclined, While like Deiphobus* the martial dame (Her face, her gesture, and her arms the same), In show and aid, by hapless Hector's side Approach'd, and greets him thus with voice belied:

*[Footnote: Deiphobus was one of the brothers of Hector. Minerva assumes his form, and deceives Hector into thinking that his brother has come to aid him.]

"Too long, O Hector! have I borne the sight Of this distress, and sorrow'd in thy flight: It fits us now a noble stand to make, And here, as brothers, equal fates partake."

Then he: "O prince! allied in blood and fame, Dearer than all that own a brother's name; Of all that Hecuba* to Priam bore, Long tried, long loved: much loved, but honor'd more! Since you, of all our numerous race alone Defend my life, regardless of your own."

*[Footnote: Hecuba was the name of Hector's mother.]

Again the goddess:* "Much my father's prayer, And much my mother's, press'd me to forbear: My friends embraced my knees, adjured my stay, But stronger love impell'd, and I obey. Come then, the glorious conflict let us try, Let the steel sparkle, and the javelin fly; Or let us stretch Achilles on the field, Or to his arm our bloody trophies yield."

*[Footnote: Spoke, or said, is understood here.]

Fraudful she said; then swiftly march'd before: The Dardan hero shuns his foe no more. Sternly they met. The silence Hector broke: His dreadful plumage nodded as he spoke;

"Enough, O son of Peleus! Troy has view'd Her walls thrice circled, and her chief pursued But now some god within me bids me try Thine, or my fate: I kill thee, or I die. Yet on the verge of battle let us stay, And for a moment's space suspend the day; Let Heaven's high powers be call'd to arbitrate The just conditions of this stern debate (Eternal witnesses of all below, And faithful guardians of the treasured vow)! To them I swear; if, victor in the strife, Jove by these hands shall shed thy noble life, No vile dishonor shall thy corse pursue; Stripp'd of its arms alone (the conqueror's due) The rest to Greece uninjured I'll restore: Now plight thy mutual oath, I ask no more."*

*[Footnote: It meant more to an ancient Greek to have his body given up to his family, that it might be buried with proper rite's, than it does to a modern soldier, for the Greeks believed that the soul could not find rest until the body was properly buried. This makes the refusal of Achilles to agree to Hector's request seem all the more cruel.]

"Talk not of oaths" (the dreadful chief replies, While anger flash'd from his disdainful eyes), "Detested as thou art, and ought to be, Nor oath nor pact Achilles plights with thee: Such pacts as lambs and rabid wolves combine, Such leagues as men and furious lions join, To such I call the gods! one constant state Of lasting rancor and eternal hate:

No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life. Rouse then my forces this important hour, Collect thy soul, and call forth all thy power. No further subterfuge, no further chance; Tis Pallas,* Pallas gives thee to my lance. Each Grecian ghost, by thee deprived of breath, Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy death."

*[Footnote: Pallas was another name for Minerva.]

He spoke, and launch'd his javelin at the foe; But Hector shunn'd the meditated blow: He stoop'd, while o'er his head the flying spear, Sang innocent, and spent its force in air. Minerva watch'd it falling on the land, Then drew, and gave to great Achilles' hand, Unseen of Hector, who, elate with joy, Now shakes his lance, and braves the dread of Troy.

"The life you boasted to that javelin given, Prince! you have miss'd. My fate depends on Heaven. To thee, presumptuous as thou art, unknown, Or* what must prove my fortune, or thy own. Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind, And with false terrors sink another's mind. But know, whatever fate I am to try, By no dishonest wound shall Hector die. I shall not fall a fugitive at least, My soul shall bravely issue from my breast. But first, try thou my arm; and may this dart End all my country's woes, deep buried in thy heart."

*[Footnote: Or is here used instead of either.]

The weapon flew, its course unerring held, Unerring, but the heavenly* shield repell'd The mortal dart; resulting with a bound From off the ringing orb it struck the ground. Hector beheld his javelin fall in vain, Nor other lance, nor other hope remain; He calls Deiphobus, demands a spear— In vain, for no Deiphobus was there. All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh: "'Tis so—Heaven wills it, and my hour is nigh! I deem'd Deiphobus had heard my call, But he secure lies guarded in the wall. A god deceived me: Pallas, 'twas thy deed, Death and black fate approach; 'tis I must bleed. No refuge now, no succor from above. Great Jove deserts me, and the son of Jove,* Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome fate! 'Tis true I perish, yet I perish great: Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire, Let future ages hear it, and admire!"

*[Footnote: The armor of Achilles had been made for him by Vulcan, god of fire.] *[Footnote: This reference is to Apollo.]