“My father!—­my father!” said Ivanhoe, prostrating himself at Cedric’s feet, “grant me thy forgiveness.”

“Thou hast it, my son,” said Cedric, raising him up.  “The son of Hereward knows how to keep his word, even when it has been passed to a Norman.  Thou art about to speak, and I guess the topic.  The Lady Rowena must complete two years mourning as for a betrothed husband.  The ghost of Athelstane himself would stand before us to forbid such dishonour to his memory were it otherwise.”

Scarce had Cedric spoken than the door flew open, and Athelstane, arrayed in the garments of the grave, stood before them, pale, haggard, and like something arisen from the dead!

“In the name of God,” said Cedric, starting back, “if thou art mortal, speak!  Living or dead, noble Athelstane, speak to Cedric!”

“I will,” said the spectre, very composedly, “when I have collected breath.  Alive, saidst thou?  I am as much alive as he can be who has fed on bread and water for three days.  I went down under the Templar’s sword, stunned, indeed, but unwounded, for the blade struck me flatlings, being averted by the good mace with which I warded the blow.  Others, of both sides, were beaten down and slaughtered above me, so that I never recovered my senses until I found myself in a coffin—­an open one, by good luck—­placed before the altar in church.  But that villain Abbot has kept me a prisoner for three days and he shall hang on the top of this castle of Coningsburgh, in his cope and stole.  I will be king in my own domains, and nowhere else.  Cedric, I rise from the tomb a wiser man than I descended.”

“My ward, Rowena,” said Cedric—­“you do not intend to desert her?”

“Father Cedric,” said Athelstane, “be reasonable.  The Lady Rowena cares not for me—­she loves the little finger of my kinsman Wilfred’s glove better than my whole person.  There she stands to avouch it—­nay, blush not, kinswoman, there is no shame in loving a courtly knight better than a country thane,—­and do not laugh neither, Rowena, for grave-clothes and a thin visage are, God knows, no matter of merriment.  Nay, as thou wilt needs laugh, I will find thee a better jest—­Give me thy hand, or, rather, lend it me, for I but ask it in the way of friendship.  Here, cousin Wilfred of Ivanhoe, in thy favour I renounce and abjure—­Hey! our cousin Wilfred hath vanished!”

Ivanhoe had disappeared, and King Richard had gone also.

Ivanhoe hastened away at a secret message to fight once more with Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who had abducted a Jewish maiden named Rebecca, and spurned by Rebecca, Bois-Guilbert only escaped condemnation by the Grand Master of the Templars for his offence by admitting Rebecca to be a sorceress, and by challenging to mortal combat all who should dare to champion the high-souled and hapless Hebrew maid.

Bois-Guilbert fell in the lists as Ivanhoe approached, and, unscathed by the lance of his enemy, died a victim to the violence of his own contending passions.