University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Enter Isaac and Miriam.
Isaac.
O Jacob! what a losing venture's this!

Miriam.
But, uncle,—

Isaac.
O, my gold, my food! my fire!
My light! my raiment!

Miriam.
Yet you gave the coin
To Prince John freely.

Isaac.
My gold! Is't not my child? Child of my toil?
My comfort in adversity, my joy
In prosperous hours,—pillow of my rest,
Companion of my day? Shall I not weep?

Miriam.
Take comfort to thee yet;
The loss is not so great.

Isaac.
The loss not great?
Fifty zecchins!—not great! By Jacob's staff,
I'd rather they should suck so many drops
Of blood from these old veins, that ill can spare them,
Than e'en the tenth division of that sum.

Miriam.
Think of this, uncle, as the merchant does,
Who flings his precious venture to the waves
To save his bark from sinking.

Isaac.
Talk not, child;
Talk not to me, my spirit is too sad.

Miriam.
Shall I sing to you? you were wont to love the melody of song.

Isaac.
Do what you list,
But offer me no comfort—I am sad—
Sad even to weeping.

Isaac sits down.
BALLAD—Miriam.

Isaac.
I do bethink me now,
There is another loss; the goodly steed
And the rich armour, lent to that young knight
Who did protect me in the Saxon's hall,
Who can he be? and wherefore thus disguis'd
In Palmer's gear? But what is that to me?
My lendings—the brave horse—the armour too—
'Tis they that I should think of.

Miriam.
Do not doubt.
He was an honest youth; his voice was truth.

Isaac.
It may be so; I think it is; and yet
'Tis a large venture; one that makes me poor
E'en to suppose its loss.

Miriam.
'Twill not be lost.

Isaac.
But if it should—A bad race are these Christians;
Gold in their hands is snow; it melts away
In their hot grasp to water;—Well; well; well;
'Tis a good youth; he us'd the poor old Jew
With gentle words, and gentler action;—yet
I would my lendings were safe home again.

The Palmer enters in armour.
Palmer.
My friend!

Isaac.
The Palmer.

Palmer.
Nay, the Palmer Knight,
Since I have put on armour.

Isaac.
Miriam!—Go—
(Exit Miriam.
Well; and how art thou?—Is mine armour safe?
My good horse too?—O, 'twas a cruel fight!
Heav'ns! what a crash!—Mine ears ring with it still!
Good youth—for my sake do not put thy life
Unto such fearful peril—pray you now.

Palmer.
I thank thy kindness, and now list my speech.
I was the victor.

Isaac.
Ay, you were!—You were—
You dash'd them to the earth as ocean flings
The sea-weed on the rock.

Palmer.
I've sold the spoils,
As is our use.

Isaac.
You come to pay the loan
Of the good steed and armour.

Palmer.
Even so.

Isaac.
Gold—pure, bright gold—and yet—no—

Palmer.
Why is this?

Isaac.
Take it again; in my hands 'twould be lead,
And weigh me to the earth—You need its use;
I have enough—What did I say?—I'm poor—
Believe it, youth, most miserably poor—
But keep it—keep it—you did peril life
To save this worthless body!—Oh, my heart
Warms to thee, and—and—when the old man dies,
Perhaps you'll drop a tear upon his grave.

Enter Rebecca.
Rebecca.
Tubal would speak with you; his bus'ness craves
An instant answer.

Isaac.
Tarry thou awhile
Till my return.

(Exit Isaac.
Palmer.
Fair lady, lend your ear;
I am the friend of Ivanhoe.

Rebecca.
Indeed—
Does he still love. (Aside)
Forbid it maiden pride—
Does he still love his country?

Palmer.
How! so cold!

Rebecca.
You anwer not—or is he still unchang'd?

Palmer.
No, lady.

Rebecca.
No!

Palmer.
No, lady; care with him
Has done the work of time. His youth is old.

Rebecca.
I spoke not of the outward form.

Palmer.
Alas!
When unripe blossoms lose their outward show,
Is't not because the worm within is busy,
Working like change.

Rebecca.
Be freer of thy speech.

Palmer.
Lady—lady, his heart is well nigh broke:
The blood is seething in his veins, more hot
Than the hot sands the desert flings in scorn
Against his face.

Rebecca.
Oh, alas!
This sorrow is too great! My tears will flow.

Palmer.
Sorrow! you know it not: a few salt tears
That fall and are forgotten are not sorrow.
It is not thus he grieves; with hollow eyes,
With famished cheeks, with nightly groans, he lifts
The voice of his despair to Heaven—tears!
The desert has no tears; and, where grief is,
There is a desert.

Rebecca.
Palmer, you speak this
Too well, and yet too ill.

Palmer.
My jealous doubt—
I do conjure you, answer that I ask:
Or if that maiden modesty deny
The lips' confession, to a stranger ear—
Then give that scarf, and it shall be a sign
Thy love is still to Ivanhoe.

Rebecca.
(aside)
There is
A soft seduction in his speech that steals
With magic influence to the heart,
As odours on the senses.

Palmer.
Wilt thou not
Wilt thou not give the scarf?

Rebecca.
Stranger! 'tis thine.

Palmer.
And Ivanhoe is thine;—I know his heart.

Rebecca.
Stranger, who art thou?—Oh, I do suspect—

Palmer.
I've sworn an oath, and on the holy cross,
Not to divulge me unless force compel,
'Till he, who bound, unloose the oath.

Rebecca.
Thy hand.

Palmer.
Thou hast it, maid.

Rebecca.
The ring—you are,—

Palmer.
Thine,—ever thine.

Rebecca.
Is't real?—Is it not a dream?—No, no—
I feel my heart is throbbing 'gainst thy hand—
I have thee,—hold thee—ne'er to part again.

Miriam, Enters.
Miriam.
Mine uncle calls.
Trumpet.

Palmer.
And hark, the trumpet calls me to the Tourney.

Rebecca.
Yet stay,
If still thy father's wrath pursue us.

Palmer.
I will appeal unto a father's heart.

Rebecca.
But if it fail—

Palmer.
To heaven and my sword.

Miriam.
You know this stranger?

Rebecca.
I.

Miriam.
It seems so.

Rebecca.
Come.

Miriam.
Your cheek is pale—

Rebecca.
'Tis nothing, 'twill away
The breath of morn grows warm and sickly here,
I scarce respire—O let me drink the air.

(Exit.

SCENE II.

—A Forest. Robin Hood, Scarlet, and Foresters, seated round a fire.

GLEE.

Scarlet.
How swift the time has fled: the length of night
Has seem'd but as an hour—nay, scarce so much.
What thinks our Captain, noble Robin Hood?

Robin Hood.
I think, friend Scarlet, 'tis good time we chang'd
The goblet for the bow—I'faith the morn
Is blushing at our pranks.

Scarlet.
Good sooth now,
Her worship is too modest—

Robin Hood.
You forget;
You must be quick, an you have any will
To this day's tournament.—Your bows, my friends.

(Exeunt all but Robin Hood and Scarlet.
Robin Hood.
May our brother Saxons gain,
As they did yesterday, the prize of valor.

Scarlet.
And most the Palmer Knight!
He shew'd himself a right one.

Robin Hood.
Aye: an he strike to-day as he did yesterday—
St. George! The Normans dropt before his blows,
Like mellow fruit before the winds of autumn.
Didst see how Prince John writh'd his nether lip?
St. Withold's curse upon him!—

Scarlet.
'Tis a churl!

Robin Hood.
Would that our Richard were safe home again!
He, though a Norman, is a king for Saxons—
Poor Isaac, too—

Scarlet.
Why yes, the Prince drank deep
Of Isaac's purse—but that is little matter;
The Jew is but a Jew

Robin Hood.
He's an open heart,
Though somewhat a close hand. When I lay ill,
Fest'ring with wounds, a price upon my head,
He wasted gold on my necessities;
While his fair daughter, kind Rebecca, was
The surgeon to my sickness.

Scarlet.
People say,
Her skill is borrow'd of the devil—

Robin Hood.
Tush.

Scarlet.
Laugh as you will; I'm partly of their faith
Who say she is a witch.

Robin Hood.
More fool art thou;
The Jew's a kind old soul, who loves his coin
Perhaps too much, yet works withal more good
Than those of better name. I say again,
He nurs'd my sickness, fed my need with gold—
How many Christians, think you, had done so?

Scarlet.
Not one of my acquaintance—Well; I've heard
The Jews were skilful doctors—tis, indeed,
Their quality of fame—but this—in faith,
You must allow my wonder.

Wamba enters hastily.
Robin Hood.
Whither so fast, good fool?

Wamba.
Out of the way of nuncle Cedric—Such news—
First the Jew turn'd out to be Ivanhoe—
No—Ivanhoe turn'd out to be the Jew—
No, I don't mean that—

Robin Hood.
Gramercy, fool; thou tell'st thy story well—

Wamba.
First, Prince John took Isaac's purse from him, as he did yesterday,
Whereat the Jew march'd off from the tourney.

Robin Hood.
But your Palmer Knight—

Wamba.

The Palmer Knight proves to be Ivanhoe,
and his kind papa, Cedric, no sooner finds him to be
his son, than off he flies, growling and cursing by
all the Saints in the Calendar. Oh, 'tis rare sport.
And now young Ivanhoe is fighting for the tourney's
prize with Brian; and, I'faith, yonder is nuncle Cedric
—I am off.

(Wamba hurries out.
Robin Hood.

Come, Scarlet, to the fray. A
curse upon these Normans.

(Exit.