“Daughter,” answered Cedric, much embarrassed,
“my time in this castle will not permit me to
exercise the duties of mine office —–I
must presently forth—–there is life
and death upon my speed.”
“Yet, father, let me entreat you by the vow
you have taken on you,” replied the suppliant,
“not to leave the oppressed and endangered without
counsel or succour.”
“May the fiend fly away with me, and leave me
in Ifrin with the souls of Odin and of Thor!”
answered Cedric impatiently, and would probably have
proceeded in the same tone of total departure from
his spiritual character, when the colloquy was interrupted
by the harsh voice of Urfried, the old crone of the
turret.
“How, minion,” said she to the female
speaker, “is this the manner in which you requite
the kindness which permitted thee to leave thy prison-cell
yonder?—–Puttest thou the reverend
man to use ungracious language to free himself from
the importunities of a Jewess?”
“A Jewess!” said Cedric, availing himself
of the information to get clear of their interruption,—–“Let
me pass, woman! stop me not at your peril. I
am fresh from my holy office, and would avoid pollution.”
“Come this way, father,” said the old
hag, “thou art a stranger in this castle, and
canst not leave it without a guide. Come hither,
for I would speak with thee.—–And
you, daughter of an accursed race, go to the sick
man’s chamber, and tend him until my return;
and woe betide you if you again quit it without my
permission!”
Rebecca retreated. Her importunities had prevailed
upon Urfried to suffer her to quit the turret, and
Urfried had employed her services where she herself
would most gladly have paid them, by the bedside of
the wounded Ivanhoe. With an understanding awake
to their dangerous situation, and prompt to avail herself
of each means of safety which occurred, Rebecca had
hoped something from the presence of a man of religion,
who, she learned from Urfried, had penetrated into
this godless castle. She watched the return of
the supposed ecclesiastic, with the purpose of addressing
him, and interesting him in favour of the prisoners;
with what imperfect success the reader has been just
acquainted.
Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate,
But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin?
Thy deeds are proved—–thou know’st
thy fate;
But come, thy tale—–begin—–begin.
* * * * *
But I have griefs of other kind,
Troubles and sorrows more severe;
Give me to ease my tortured mind,
Lend to my woes a patient ear;
And let me, if I may not find
A friend to help—–find one to hear.
Crabbe’s Hall of Justice
