“My cousin Athelstane will protect thee,” said Ivanhoe, with profound emotion, as the tears trickled down his basenet; and bestowing a chaste salute upon the steel-clad warrior, Rowena modestly said “she hoped his Highness would be so kind.”

Then Ivanhoe’s trumpet blew:  then Rowena waved her pocket-handkerchief:  then the household gave a shout:  then the pursuivant of the good Knight, Sir Wilfrid the Crusader, flung out his banner (which was argent, a gules cramoisy with three Moors impaled sable):  then Wamba gave a lash on his mule’s haunch, and Ivanhoe, heaving a great sigh, turned the tail of his war-horse upon the castle of his fathers.

As they rode along the forest, they met Athelstane the Thane powdering along the road in the direction of Rotherwood on his great dray-horse of a charger.  “Good-by, good luck to you, old brick,” cried the Prince, using the vernacular Saxon.  “Pitch into those Frenchmen; give it ’em over the face and eyes; and I’ll stop at home and take care of Mrs. I.”

“Thank you, kinsman,” said Ivanhoe—­looking, however, not particularly well pleased; and the chiefs shaking hands, the train of each took its different way—­Athelstane’s to Rotherwood, Ivanhoe’s towards his place of embarkation.

The poor knight had his wish, and yet his face was a yard long and as yellow as a lawyer’s parchment; and having longed to quit home any time these three years past, he found himself envying Athelstane, because, forsooth, he was going to Rotherwood:  which symptoms of discontent being observed by the witless Wamba, caused that absurd madman to bring his rebeck over his shoulder from his back, and to sing—­

“ATRA Cura.

     “Before I lost my five poor wits,
     I mind me of a Romish clerk,
     Who sang how Care, the phantom dark,
     Beside the belted horseman sits. 
     Methought I saw the griesly sprite
     Jump up but now behind my Knight.”

“Perhaps thou didst, knave,” said Ivanhoe, looking over his shoulder; and the knave went on with his jingle: 

     “And though he gallop as he may,
     I mark that cursed monster black
     Still sits behind his honor’s back,
     Tight squeezing of his heart alway. 
     Like two black Templars sit they there,
     Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.

     “No knight am I with pennoned spear,
     To prance upon a bold destrere: 
     I will not have black Care prevail
     Upon my long-eared charger’s tail,
     For lo, I am a witless fool,
     And laugh at Grief and ride a mule.”

And his bells rattled as he kicked his mule’s sides.