Athelstane was anxious about his game—­Rowena was anxious about her son.  The former swore that he would hunt his deer in spite of all Norman tyrants—­the latter asked, should she give up her boy to the ruffian who had murdered his own nephew?* The speeches of both were brought to the King at York; and, furious, he ordered an instant attack upon Rotherwood, and that the lord and lady of that castle should be brought before him dead or alive.

     See Hume, Giraldus Cambrensis, The Monk of Croyland, and
     Pinnock’s Catechism.

Ah, where was Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, the unconquerable champion, to defend the castle against the royal party?  A few thrusts from his lance would have spitted the leading warriors of the King’s host:  a few cuts from his sword would have put John’s forces to rout.  But the lance and sword of Ivanhoe were idle on this occasion.  “No, be hanged to me!” said the knight, bitterly, “This is a quarrel in which I can’t interfere.  Common politeness forbids.  Let yonder ale-swilling Athelstane defend his—­ha, ha—­wife; and my Lady Rowena guard her—­ha, ha, ha—­son.”  And he laughed wildly and madly; and the sarcastic, way in which he choked and gurgled out the words “wife” and “son” would have made you shudder to hear.

When he heard, however, that, on the fourth day of the siege, Athelstane had been slain by a cannon-ball, (and this time for good, and not to come to life again as he had done before,) and that the widow (if so the innocent bigamist may be called) was conducting the defence of Rotherwood herself with the greatest intrepidity, showing herself upon the walls with her little son, (who bellowed like a bull, and did not like the fighting at all,) pointing the guns and encouraging the garrison in every way—­better feelings returned to the bosom of the Knight of Ivanhoe, and summoning his men, he armed himself quickly and determined to go forth to the rescue.

He rode without stopping for two days and two nights in the direction of Rotherwood, with such swiftness and disregard for refreshment, indeed, that his men dropped one by one upon the road, and he arrived alone at the lodge-gate of the park.  The windows were smashed; the door stove in; the lodge, a neat little Swiss cottage, with a garden where the pinafores of Mrs. Gurth’s children might have been seen hanging on the gooseberry-bushes in more peaceful times, was now a ghastly heap of smoking ruins:  cottage, bushes, pinafores, children lay mangled together, destroyed by the licentious soldiery of an infuriate monarch!  Far be it from me to excuse the disobedience of Athelstane and Rowena to their sovereign; but surely, surely this cruelty might have been spared.

Gurth, who was lodge-keeper, was lying dreadfully wounded and expiring at the flaming and violated threshold of his lately picturesque home.  A catapult and a couple of mangonels had done his business.  The faithful fellow, recognizing his master, who had put up his visor and forgotten his wig and spectacles in the agitation of the moment, exclaimed, “Sir Wilfrid! my dear master—­praised be St. Waltheof—­there may be yet time—­my beloved mistr—­master Athelst . . .”  He sank back, and never spoke again.