“I shall deliver to the knight your defiance,”
answered the sewer; “meanwhile I leave you to
your food.”
The challenge of Athelstane was delivered with no
good grace; for a large mouthful, which required the
exercise of both jaws at once, added to a natural
hesitation, considerably damped the effect of the
bold defiance it contained. Still, however, his
speech was hailed by Cedric as an incontestible token
of reviving spirit in his companion, whose previous
indifference had begun, notwithstanding his respect
for Athelstane’s descent, to wear out his patience.
But he now cordially shook hands with him in token
of his approbation, and was somewhat grieved when Athelstane
observed, “that he would fight a dozen such men
as Front-de-Boeuf, if, by so doing, he could hasten
his departure from a dungeon where they put so much
garlic into their pottage.” Notwithstanding
this intimation of a relapse into the apathy of sensuality,
Cedric placed himself opposite to Athelstane, and
soon showed, that if the distresses of his country
could banish the recollection of food while the table
was uncovered, yet no sooner were the victuals put
there, than he proved that the appetite of his Saxon
ancestors had descended to him along with their other
qualities.
The captives had not long enjoyed their refreshment,
however, ere their attention was disturbed even from
this most serious occupation by the blast of a horn
winded before the gate. It was repeated three
times, with as much violence as if it had been blown
before an enchanted castle by the destined knight,
at whose summons halls and towers, barbican and battlement,
were to roll off like a morning vapour. The Saxons
started from the table, and hastened to the window.
But their curiosity was disappointed; for these outlets
only looked upon the court of the castle, and the
sound came from beyond its precincts. The summons,
however, seemed of importance, for a considerable degree
of bustle instantly took place in the castle.
CHAPTER XXII
My daughter—–O my ducats—–O my daughter!
------------O my Christian ducats!
Justice—–the Law—–my ducats, and my daughter!
Merchant of Venice
Leaving the Saxon chiefs to return to their banquet
as soon as their ungratified curiosity should permit
them to attend to the calls of their half-satiated
appetite, we have to look in upon the yet more severe
imprisonment of Isaac of York. The poor Jew had
been hastily thrust into a dungeon-vault of the castle,
the floor of which was deep beneath the level of the
ground, and very damp, being lower than even the moat
itself. The only light was received through one
or two loop-holes far above the reach of the captive’s
hand. These apertures admitted, even at mid-day,
only a dim and uncertain light, which was changed
for utter darkness long before the rest of the castle
had lost the blessing of day. Chains and shackles,
which had been the portion of former captives, from
whom active exertions to escape had been apprehended,
hung rusted and empty on the walls of the prison,
and in the rings of one of those sets of fetters there
remained two mouldering bones, which seemed to have
been once those of the human leg, as if some prisoner
had been left not only to perish there, but to be
consumed to a skeleton.
