Part 33

Soon the slow and sullen sounds of the great church bell chilled with awe the hearts of the assembled crowd; and before long the Grand Master, preceded by a stately retinue, approached his throne. Behind him came Brian de Bois-Guilbert, armed cap-a-pie in bright armour, but looking ghastly pale. A long procession followed, and next a guard of warders on foot, in sable livery, amidst whom might be seen the pale form of the accused maiden. All her ornaments had been removed, and a coarse white dress, of the simplest form, had been substituted for her Oriental garments; yet there was such an exquisite mixture of courage and resignation in her look that even in this garb, and with no other ornament than her long black tresses, each eye wept that looked upon her.

The unfortunate Jewess was conducted to a black chair placed near the pile; and soon after a loud and long flourish of trumpets announced that the court were seated for judgment.

There was a dead pause of many minutes.

"No champion appears for the appellant," said the Grand Master.

Another pause succeeded; and then the knights whispered to each other that it was time to declare the pledge of Rebecca forfeited. At this instant a knight, urging his horse to speed, appeared on the plain advancing towards the lists. A hundred voices exclaimed, "A champion! A champion!" and amidst a ringing cheer the knight rode into the tilt-yard, although his horse appeared to reel from fatigue.

To the summons of the herald, who demanded his rank, his name, and purpose, the stranger answered, raising his helmet as he spoke, "I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe."

"I will not fight with thee at present," said Bois-Guilbert. "Get thy wounds healed."

"Ha! proud Templar," said Ivanhoe, "hast thou forgotten that twice didst thou fall before this lance? I will proclaim thee a coward in every court in Europe unless thou do battle without farther delay."

"Dog of a Saxon!" said the Templar, "take thy lance, and prepare for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!"

At once each champion took his place, the trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full career. The wearied horse of Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, went down, as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and vigorous steed of the Templar. But although the spear of Ivanhoe did but touch the shield of Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment of all who beheld it, reeled in his saddle, lost his stirrups, and fell in the lists.

Ivanhoe was soon on foot, hastening to mend his fortune with his sword; but his antagonist arose not. Wilfred, placing his foot on his breast, and the sword's point to his throat, commanded him to yield him, or die on the spot. Bois-Guilbert returned no answer.

"Slay him not, sir knight," cried the Grand Master. "We allow him vanquished."

He descended into the lists, and commanded them to unhelm the conquered champion. His eyes were closed; the dark red flush was still on his brow. As they looked on him in astonishment the eyes opened, but they were fixed and glazed. The flush passed from his brow, and gave way to the pallid hue of death.

Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had died a victim to the violence of his own contending passions.

"This is indeed the judgment of God," said the Grand Master, looking upwards; "Thy will be done!"

Turning then to Wilfred of Ivanhoe, he said, "I pronounce the maiden free and guiltless. The arms and the body of the deceased knight are at the will of the victor."

His further speech was interrupted by a clattering of horses' feet, and the Black Knight, followed by a numerous band of men- at-arms, galloped into the lists.

At a glance he saw how matters stood. "Bohun," he said, addressing one of his attendant knights, "do thine office."

The officer stepped forward, and, laying his hand on the shoulder of Albert de Malvoisin, said, "I arrest thee of high treason."

"Who dares to arrest a Knight of the Temple in my presence?" said the Grand Master; "and by whose authority is this bold outrage offered?"

"By my authority," said the king, raising his visor, "and by the order of Richard Plantagenet who stands before you."

While he spoke the royal standard of England was seen to float over the towers of the preceptory instead of the Temple banner; and before long the followers of the king were in complete possession of the entire castle.

Meanwhile Rebecca, giddy and almost senseless at the rapid change of circumstances, was locked in the arms of her aged father; and shortly after the two retreated hurriedly from the lists.

Not many days passed before the nuptials of Wilfred and the fair Rowena were celebrated in the noble minster of York, attended by the king in person.

On the second morning after this happy bridal Rebecca was shown into the apartment of the Lady of Ivanhoe. She had come, she said, to pay the debt of gratitude which she owed to Wilfred, and to ask his wife to transmit to him her grateful farewell. She prayed that God might bless their union, and, as she rose to leave, she handed Rowena a casket filled with most precious jewels. "Accept them, lady," she said; "to me they are valueless; I will never wear jewels more. My father and I, we are going to a far country where at least we shall dwell in liberty. He to whom I dedicate my future life will be my Comforter if I do His will. Say this to thy lord should he chance to inquire after the fate of her whose life he saved." She then hastened to bid Rowena adieu, and glided from the apartment.

Wilfred lived long and happily with his bride, for they were attached to each other by the bonds of early affection, and they loved each other the more from the recollection of the obstacles which had so long impeded their union.

GUY MANNERING

Retold by Sir Edward Sullivan

The Castle of Ellangowan was an old and massive structure, situated by the seashore in the southwestern part of Scotland. It had been for many years the dwelling-place of a family named Bertram, each of whom had in succession borne the title of the Laird of Ellangowan. They had once been people of wealth and importance in the neighbourhood; but through lack of prudence and other misfortunes, they had, one after another, lost much of the greatness and prosperity which had belonged to them in better days. One of their number became at last so poor that he could no longer maintain the old family residence; so he contented himself with occupying a much smaller house which he had himself built, from the windows of which he could still look out on the ancient abode of his forefathers, as it dwindled year by year to the condition of a neglected ruin.

At the time that our story commences, one Godfrey Bertram was the Laird of Ellangowan, and the owner of the now diminished estates. He was a good-tempered, easy-going kind of man, and became, in consequence, very popular with all the poorer people of the district, and especially with the gipsies, a large number of whom were at all times to be found in the neighbourhood.

His wife had brought him a little money when he married; and he and she continued to lead a quiet and not unhappy life in their new home. Amongst Mr. Bertram's most intimate companions in his retirement was one Abel Sampson, a tall and awkward-looking man, with a harsh voice and huge feet, who was known to the people around as "the dominie." He was a man who spoke but little, and generally used very long words when he did; but he had a kindly and good-natured heart. He was for a time the parish schoolmaster at the village of Kippletringan, which was close to Ellangowan, and was employed now and then as a kind of clerk by the laird.

The village of Kippletringan was situated a little distance from the sea; and although the neighbourhood was dignified by the possession of a customhouse, the place was still the favourite haunt of a large body of desperate and determined smugglers, who, it was supposed, were assisted by many of the small shopkeepers of the locality in disposing of the contraband goods which were surreptitiously brought from foreign parts.

One cloudy November evening, a young traveller, Guy Mannering by name, just come from the University of Oxford, was making his way with difficulty over the wild and lonely moorland which extended for many miles on the outskirts of the village. He had lost the road to Kippletringan, whither he was bound, but was lucky enough to find a guide to conduct him there before he had gone completely astray; and late at night he arrived at Godfrey Bertram's house, where he was hospitably welcomed by the owner. Supper was got ready, a good bottle of wine was opened, and the laird and the dominic and Guy Mannering were enjoying themselves comfortably, when the conversation was interrupted by the shrill voice of someone coming upstairs.

"It's Meg Merrilies, the gipsy, as sure as I'm a sinner," said Mr. Bertram; and, as the door opened, a tall woman, full six feet high, with weather-beaten features and hair as black as midnight, stepped into the room.

Her appearance was altogether of so strange a kind, that it made Mannering start. After some conversation with the laird, the gipsy woman informed him that she had come to tell the fortune of his little son, who was born that night, and asked to be told the exact hour of his birth.

Now Guy Mannering himself, amongst other accomplishments, possessed a knowledge of the stars; and on learning the time at which young Bertram was born, he went outside to study the heavens, with a view to foretelling what the future of the child would be.

The sky had become beautifully clear, for the rising wind had swept away the clouds with which it had been previously overcast, and the observer was enabled to note carefully the positions of the principal planets, from which he made out that three periods of the infant's life would be attended by great danger to him, namely, his fifth, his tenth, and his twenty-first year.

On the morning following, Mannering strolled out towards the old castle, thinking to himself whether he should tell Mr. Bertram what he had learned from the stars respecting his young son's future life. The castle was merely a ruin at this time, and as he wandered amidst the gloomy remnants of the ancient structure, his attention was arrested by the voice of the gipsy whom he had seen the night before. He soon found an opening in one of the walls through which he could observe Meg Merrilies without himself being seen.

She was sitting on a broken stone, in a strange, wild dress, and engaged in spinning a thread drawn from wool of three different colours. She was at the same time half singing and half muttering a kind of charm, which seemed to have reference to the child which had been born the night before; and as she finished, Mannering heard her murmur something about the thread of life being three times broken and three times mended, and distinctly heard her say: "He'll be a lucky lad an he win through wi't." [Footnote: "He will be a lucky lad if he lives through it."]

He was about to speak to the gipsy, when he heard a hoarse voice calling to her in angry tones from outside, and in a moment after, a man, who was apparently a sea-captain, came in to where Meg Merrilies was seated.

He was short in height, but prodigiously muscular, strong, and thick-set, with a surly and savage scowl upon his unpleasant features. He spoke with a foreign accent, and upbraided the gipsy for keeping him waiting so long, ordering her, with a curse, to come and bless his ship before it set out on its voyage. While still addressing the gipsy, he caught sight of Guy Mannering, and was about to draw a weapon against him, when she told him that he was a friend of Mr. Bertram's. He then introduced himself to Mannering, and said his name was Dirck Hatteraick, the captain of the vessel that was lying off the shore. Mannering wished him good-day shortly after, and as he saw him embarking in a small boat, he was convinced, from his conversation and appearance, that the captain was a smuggler.

On returning to the new house at Ellangowan, Mannering learned from Mr. Bertram that this Dirck Hatteraick was the terror of all the excise and custom-house cruisers, with which he had had many a fierce fight.

Before Guy Mannering took his departure from Ellangowan, Mr. Bertram asked him the result of his studying the stars on the preceding night, and, in reply, was handed a paper by Mannering, which he was told he should keep in a sealed envelope for five whole years.

When the visitor had gone, Mrs. Bertram, the mother of the baby boy, was very anxious to read the paper, for she was a superstitious lady; but after a struggle with her curiosity, she contented herself with making a small velvet bag, into which she sewed the paper, and the whole was then hung as a charm round the neck of her young child.

Time rolled on, and when little Harry Bertram grew to be four years old, he was already a great favourite with Dominie Sampson, who had acted as his tutor and was his constant companion. But just about this time the Laird of Ellangowan was appointed one of the magistrates of the county; and shortly after his appointment he began, little by little, to become very unpopular with the gipsies, with whom he had before been such a favourite. He thought it his duty now to punish and exterminate all amongst them who were poachers and trespassers, and caused even the poor beggars at his door to be sent to the workhouse.

One tribe of these gipsies, amongst whom Meg Merrilies was a kind of queen, had lived for a long time unmolested in a few huts in a glen upon the estate of Ellangowan, at a place called Derncleugh. It was a miserable and squalid village, but for all that Mr. Bertram was determined to evict them and all their poor belongings. He was no doubt doing as the law directed him, but, as far as concerned the inhabitants of Derncleugh, he was acting with great harshness, for Meg Merrilies had all along shown a strong affection for his boy, little Harry Bertram.

The day of eviction came at length, and a large body of men under the direction of Frank Kennedy, a custom-house officer, made their way to the miserable village, and on the gipsies refusing to leave peaceably, proceeded to unroof their cottages and pull down the wretched doors and windows. There was no resistance, and when the work was ended, the now homeless tribe gathered together the remnants of their property, and set forth with sullen and revengeful thoughts to look for a new settlement.

Mr. Bertram had been some distance from home on the day of the eviction; but on returning in the evening he met the troop of gipsies. Some of the men muttered angry remarks as he passed them on the road, but he thought it best to make no answer. Meg Merrilies had, however, lagged behind the rest, and was standing alone on a high bank above the road as the laird went by. Her dress was even stranger than usual, and her black hair hung loose about her, while her dark eyes flashed angrily. She had a light sapling in her hand, and as the laird looked up to where she stood, she said to him:

"Ride your ways, Laird of Ellangowan! ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram! This day have ye quenched seven smoking hearths--see if your own fire burn the blither for that. Ye have riven the roof off seven cottar houses--look if your own roof-tree stand the faster. Ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram! what do ye glower after our folk for? There's thirty hearts there that would have spent their life-blood ere ye had scratched your finger. Yes, there's thirty yonder, from the old wife of an hundred to the babe that was born last week, that ye have turned out o' their houses, to sleep with the black-cock in the moors! Ride your ways, Ellan- gowan! Our bairns are hanging at our weary backs; look that your braw cradle at home be the fairer spread up. Not that I am wishing ill to little Harry, God forbid! So ride your way, for these are the last words ye'll ever hear Meg Merrilies speak, and this is the last twig that I'll ever cut in the bonny woods of Ellangowan."

And having uttered this dark and threatening speech, she turned contemptuously from him, to join her comrades in misfortune.

Meanwhile, the smugglers under their captain, Dirck Hatteraick, had been carrying on their lawless trade as usual, and the Laird of Ellangowan was as determined to put them down as he had been to get rid of the gipsies. He was actively assisted in his endeavours against them by the same Frank Kennedy who had carried out the eviction of Meg Merrilies and her companions, and the smugglers had sworn to be revenged upon their enemy.

On the day that young Harry Bertram was five years old, Dirck Hatteraick's ship was in the bay outside the village of Kippletringan. A sloop of war in the king's service was pursuing it in order to seize the smuggled goods which were on board, when Frank Kennedy, looking out, saw that Hatteraick was likely to escape, as he had got his vessel round a headland called Warroch Point, where it was concealed from the sloop, unless someone went down to the Point and made a signal to the pursuers.

He accordingly mounted his horse and galloped off. On his way he happened to meet little Bertram, who was walking with the dominie, and as he had often promised to give the child a ride, he took him up on his nag, and rode off towards the Point.

Shortly afterwards the discharges of several cannon were heard, and after an interval a still louder explosion, as of a vessel blown up.

As evening came on, Mr. and Mrs. Bertram were expecting little Harry to come home, and as he did not return, became very uneasy about him. After waiting for him in anxiety for some time, the news came in that Kennedy's horse had come back riderless to its stable.

All was now bustle at Ellangowan. The laird and his servants rushed away to the wood of Warroch; but they searched long and in vain for any trace of Kennedy or the boy. It was already growing dark, when a shrill and piercing shout was heard from the sea- shore under the wood, and on hurrying to the place, Mr. Bertram was horrified to see the dead body of Frank Kennedy lying on the beach, right under a high precipice of rocks.

In his wild dismay and terror for his child, and remembering the words of Meg Merrilies, the laird hurried away to Derncleugh, hoping to get some news of him from any of the gipsies who might still be lingering round the place. He wandered amongst the ruins of the cottages, where he found no one, although he noticed the remains of a fire in one of the huts. After a little, one of his servants came running to him and told him to come home at once-- that Mrs. Bertram was dying. Half stupefied, he went back; but only to find that his wife was dead, that a little daughter had been born to him, and that his boy was gone.

The sheriff of the county arrived next morning and opened an inquiry. The wood was again searched, with the result that traces of a struggle were found near the top of the cliff, over the place where Kennedy's body was found lying. Footprints of men and of a small boy were seen here and there. Witnesses who were examined said that they had seen the smuggler's ship grounding, and taking fire, and finally blowing up with a great explosion; but no one could say what had become of its crew. The gipsies were suspected, and Meg Merrilies was arrested; but when questioned she denied that she had been at the place. They found, however, a cut upon her arm; and on removing the handkerchief with which she had it bounda it was found to be marked with the name of Harry Bertram.

No further evidence could be procured of her guilt, and she was at length set free, under sentence of banishment from the county.

For many years after this Mr. Bertram continued to live a solitary and mournful life at Ellangowan. The poor dominie never ceased to blame himself for the loss of the boy, as Harry was in his charge on the day on which he had disappeared; but he still lived with the laird as before, and was chiefly employed in teaching Bertram's daughter, little Lucy, who was now growing up into a gentle and bonny girl.

The laird had been always a bad man of business, and after his wife's death he got into the hands of a scheming and dishonest attorney named Glossin, who in the end craftily succeeded in making himself rich at the expense of his employer.

The debts of the laird became at length so many that the property at Ellangowan had to be mortgaged, and things ultimately went so badly with the poor owner, that the men to whom he owed so much money determined to insist on the estate being sold, together with the house and all the furniture.

It was rumoured, too, amongst the country-folk that Glossin was the man, of all others, who was most eager to turn the Bertrams out of their house, in order that he might buy the property himself, and become the Laird of Ellangowan.

Now the property in Ellangowan had been what is called "settled" in such a way that it could not be sold if Mr. Bertram had a son living. It was therefore likely to be disposed of very cheap, as no one knew for certain that young Bertram was dead; while if he should happen to be alive, there was still a chance of his coming back and claiming the estates.

When Glossin, the attorney, found that there was no more to be got out of his client in the way of money, he commenced openly to show the wickedness of his bad and cruel nature; and the very sight of him became hateful to the unhappy Godfrey Bertram.

So things went on until Lucy Bertram was seventeen years old, and her father had become a weak and poor old man, and then Glossin determined to play his last card.

The estates of Ellangowan were advertised to be sold to the highest bidder, and a day was fixed for the auction.

Before describing how the sale took place, it will be necessary to tell something of Guy Mannering, who, as will be remembered, had left Ellangowan shortly after the day that young Harry Bertram was born.