While the trumpets sounded, while the heralds strained
their voices in proclaiming honour to the brave and
glory to the victor —–while ladies
waved their silken kerchiefs and embroidered veils,
and while all ranks joined in a clamorous shout of
exultation, the marshals conducted the Disinherited
Knight across the lists to the foot of that throne
of honour which was occupied by the Lady Rowena.
On the lower step of this throne the champion was
made to kneel down. Indeed his whole action since
the fight had ended, seemed rather to have been upon
the impulse of those around him than from his own
free will; and it was observed that he tottered as
they guided him the second time across the lists.
Rowena, descending from her station with a graceful
and dignified step, was about to place the chaplet
which she held in her hand upon the helmet of the
champion, when the marshals exclaimed with one voice,
“It must not be thus—–his head
must be bare.” The knight muttered faintly
a few words, which were lost in the hollow of his
helmet, but their purport seemed to be a desire that
his casque might not be removed.
Whether from love of form, or from curiosity, the
marshals paid no attention to his expressions of reluctance,
but unhelmed him by cutting the laces of his casque,
and undoing the fastening of his gorget. When
the helmet was removed, the well-formed, yet sun-burnt
features of a young man of twenty-five were seen,
amidst a profusion of short fair hair. His countenance
was as pale as death, and marked in one or two places
with streaks of blood.
Rowena had no sooner beheld him than she uttered a
faint shriek; but at once summoning up the energy
of her disposition, and compelling herself, as it
were, to proceed, while her frame yet trembled with
the violence of sudden emotion, she placed upon the
drooping head of the victor the splendid chaplet which
was the destined reward of the day, and pronounced,
in a clear and distinct tone, these words: “I
bestow on thee this chaplet, Sir Knight, as the meed
of valour assigned to this day’s victor:”
Here she paused a moment, and then firmly added, “And
upon brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry
never be placed!”
The knight stooped his head, and kissed the hand of
the lovely Sovereign by whom his valour had been rewarded;
and then, sinking yet farther forward, lay prostrate
at her feet.
There was a general consternation. Cedric, who
had been struck mute by the sudden appearance of his
banished son, now rushed forward, as if to separate
him from Rowena. But this had been already accomplished
by the marshals of the field, who, guessing the cause
of Ivanhoe’s swoon, had hastened to undo his
armour, and found that the head of a lance had penetrated
his breastplate, and inflicted a wound in his side.
CHAPTER XIII
“Heroes, approach!” Atrides thus aloud,
“Stand forth distinguish’d from the circling
crowd,
Ye who by skill or manly force may claim,
Your rivals to surpass and merit fame.
This cow, worth twenty oxen, is decreed,
For him who farthest sends the winged reed.”
Iliad
