University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—The garden belonging to Miriam's house— Ivanhoe and Rebecca seated.
Ivanhoe.
Oh! would this hour were long as it is sweet!
Then would it never end.

Rebecca.
But why, my friend,
This brow of sadness? Trust me now, it seems
To chide my happier thought—Is't sickness clouds
Thy better self?

Ivanhoe.
Thanks to thy loving care,
My wounds are whole—I would not make thee blush
With thine own praise, yet sooth thy healing skill
Exceeds the surgeon's art no marvel, fame
Taxes thee, Love, with witchcraft—true indeed
There's witchcraft in thine eye.

Rebecca.
This flatt'ring strain
Shows more like mirth, and therefore I'll not chide it.
But how could I do less, when love for me
Had clos'd against thy need a father's door?

Ivanhoe.
Talk not of him—Rebecca. I must leave thee.

Rebecca.
You go with us to York—This very hour
We leave mine uncle on our journey home.

Ivanhoe.
Thou shalt know all—King Richard is return'd,
At whose command I came to try the land,
For fame told many stories of dark plots
Laid by his brother 'gainst his life and throne.
His will now bids me join him—Therefore list:
Sev'n years I've lov'd you—lov'd as few have lov'd—
Nor frown of friends, nor time, nor distance, nor
The thousand forms of beauty, e'er have made
My love forgetful of its first-born vow.
Now, then, reward that love—let marriage join
Our hands, whose hearts have been so long but one.

Rebecca.
Oh! not for worlds would I bring on thy head
A father's curse.

Enter Cedric—Ivanhoe kneels.
Ivanhoe.
To see thee here is joy
Beyond my hope.

Rebecca.
(aside)
Why do I tremble? I
Have done no wrong.

Cedric.
What skills thy bended knee?
Bend thy proud stubborn heart—Arise, young man.
Arise, I say—I would not ought but Heav'n
Should witness Cedric's race upon the knee.

Ivanhoe.
Your pardon first.

Cedric.
Arise, I say, and list.
I wish'd to hate thee; but this foolish heart
Plays false with reason, and I come to sue,
To beg of mine own son—Fly from this witch—

Rebecca.
(aside).
Be still, proud heart.

Ivanhoe.
She sav'd my life.

Cedric.
'Twere better you had died, than so been sav'd.
But I'll not waste more speech—My hand is rais'd—
Speak—shall it bless or curse thee?

Rebecca.
Let me speak—
I've lov'd your son—have dearly, truly lov'd him—
And oh, must love him still; but from this hour
Mine eye shall be a stranger to his sight.

Ivanhoe.
Rebecca!

Rebecca.
Thou'lt forgive him?

Cedric.
Hypocrite!
Thou wilt not leave him—'tis the gloss of cunning.

Rebecca.
Believe the humble duty of my love,
That bows to earth to do thee fitting homage—
Believe my adjuration of yon Heaven,
That now I call in witness of my truth—
Believe—my tears.

Cedric.
Arise—I trust thee not.
And yet so like to truth—but no—arise.

Rebecca.
Then, Ivanhoe—thy hand—Is it not mine?

Ivanhoe.
Thine—ever thine—and bless'd that it is thine.

Rebecca.
Then thus I give it where it most belongs.
Will you not take it—'Tis a proud rich gift
From one so poor.

Cedric.
I am all wonder—

Rebecca.
Ay!
Thy wonder makes me wonder—Let it go—
I am a willing sacrifice; and when
Sorrow grows wild beyond my strength to suffer,
I'll think upon this hour, and then my heart
Will not quite break—will not quite break.

(Exit Rebecca
Cedric.
My son—
I do not chide thy grief—the maid is worth
An honourable sorrow—Pity 'tis
She comes of Jewish race.

Ivanhoe
(half aside.)
She shall be mine.
I will not yield her for the price of worlds.

Cedric.
Wake not a father's wrath—its fire wil scathe thee;
Blight thy youth's freshness as the lightning drinks
The verdure of the oak. Wilt leave the maid?

Ivanhoe.
Shall I be false to gratitude—to love—
To mine own vows?

Cedric.
Wilt not obey me?

Ivanhoe.
My father!

Cedric.
Wilt leave the maiden?

Ivanhoe.
Never.

Cedric.
Henceforth be
A stranger to my home, my heart, my race.
I banish thee for ever—Mark—for ever.
(Exit Cedric.

Ivanhoe.
My father—Stay—He's gone, and will not hear me—
But yet there is good hope—ay, more than hope—
My royal master, Richard—He has pow'r,
And to that pow'r the will to do me service—
A word from him will force my father yield.
No doubts—no fears—I'll join the King,
E'en as he bids me—Fortune, I defy thee.
(Exit Ivanhoe.

SCENE II.

—Prince John's Tent: Prince John and Brian enter.
Brian.
Talk on; I love Rebecca.

Prince John.
Faith, your heart
Must be the merest touchwood!—as I think,
You saw her for the first time at the tourney.

Brian.
'Tis even so.

Prior.
Were she of any other race—But she—
An infidel!

Brian.
By this blest light,
He is an infidel, who would not yield
Faith, honour, country, life, for those rich lips,
Those eyes where pleasure languishes, that breast
Where love might feed, and appetite increase
E'en by indulgence.

Prince John.
Well, but your Templar's vow
Forbids all thought of marriage.

Brian.
Marriage!
I only talk'd of love—and I will have her,
Despite her father.

Prince John.
Were that all, there's none
Would blame the deed; but Ivanhoe, our friend;—
He loves the maid.

Brian.
Hell's curse upon the stripling.
In love, in arms, in ev'ry thing, her foils me—
But come what will, the maiden shall be mine;
Ay, and this Jewish dog shall find my hand
Can reach him, spite of Ivanhoe.—The fool—
I meant no ill, but to his purse—but now—
Baffled and mock'd—a day will come—
'Tis not far off.

Prince John.
Well—well—e'en as you will.
The Jew is not within the pale of law;
And as for Ivanhoe—King Richard's minion—
I should not grieve if he were dead—but mind,
I neither sanction nor deny your act.
(Exit Prince John.

Brian.
Because you dare do neither.

De Bracy enters.
De Bracy.
News, my friend.
Fortune is kinder than thy utmost hope
Could fashion her.

Brian.
But how?

De Bracy.
Ay, marry, how?
The Jew and fair Rebecca travel on
For York to night—Your castle's near,
My followers prepar'd. Beauty and gold
Are your's, if you dare seize them.

Brian.
If I dare;
What is it I dare not? You mock me, friend.—
But, speed our back! Occasion's wind blows fair,
And must be us'd, or its inconstant breath
Will fall again, and leave our vessel drifting.

(Brian and De Bracy go out.

SCENE III.

—The outside of Copmanhurst Hermitage.— Ivanhoe enters.
Ivanhoe.
Farewell my noble steed! the kites and crows
Will be thy monument. I needs must rest;
My fresh scars ache with weariness. And yet
King Richard's mandate was most urgent. Well,
To-morrow I may join him. Ho—within.

He knocks at the door.
Clerk
(within.)
Pass on; disturb not in his prayers
St. Dunstan's servant.

Ivanhoe.
Holy father mine,
St. Dunstan is a kind good-natur'd saint,
And I'll be sworn can better lack your prayers
Than I your hospitality.

Clerk
(within.)
Pass on.

Ivanhoe.
Pray you point out the road.

The Clerk of Copmanhurst opens the window and looks out.
Clerk.
Pray you pass on.
One pater and two credos you have marr'd
Already.

Ivanhoe.
I am weary.

Clerk.
Rest thee then;
'Tis a soft bed, the green sward.

Ivanhoe.
Yes, indeed,
Rather too soft; 'tis soak'd with rain; besides,
The night-wind's bleak: I pray thee let me in.

Clerk.
An thou art weary, as thou say'st thou art,
Thou wilt sleep soundly; he who soundly sleeps
Feels neither wind nor rain.

Ivanhoe.
Good rhetoric!
Yet 'twill not coax me to rest under Heaven
While you sleep under shelter.

Clerk.
Aye, in troth!
How wilt then help thyself?

Ivanhoe.
By breaking down
Thy churlish door.

Clerk.
Well said! but wilt thou do it?

Ivanhoe.
Ay, by St. Julian will I.

Clerk.
Have thy will then.
But an I like thee not the better; mark—
I warn thee now—thou'lt find some little cause
To rue my courtesy. Now, then, walk in.

Ivanhoe enters the Hermitage.

SCENE IV.

—Interior of Copmanhurst Hermitage.—The Clerk and Ivanhoe enter.
Ivanhoe.
Shelter at least. Now for my bed and supper.
What says your holiness?

Clerk.
Your bed is there,
In yonder nook: for supper—'tis before you.

Ivanhoe.
A bed of straw, and supper of dry peas!
What splendid fare! and wholesome too, or you
Had never grown so stout on it. For drink?

Clerk.
There's plenty in St. Dunstan's well; his name
Be blessed for it.

Ivanhoe.
Umph! you call yourself—

Clerk.
The Clerk of Copmanhurst; the holy clerk,
As some do add; but I stand not on that,
As being little worthy of the honour.

Ivanhoe.
Exceeding modest! But the cupboard there?
'Twas built for something.

Clerk.
I keep relics in it.

Ivanhoe.
The relics of cold ven'son it may be.

Clerk.
Now I think on't, the keeper of the forest
Did leave a ven'son pasty.

He goes to the cupboard and brings out a pasty.
Ivanhoe.
So I thought.
'Tis excellent! he left some wine too?—Yes.

Clerk.
I cannot recollect it.

Ivanhoe.
'Tis indeed
A trifle most unworthy to hold place
In your most holy brain; but search that crypt;
It may be you will find my guess is right.

The Clerk goes to the cupboard and brings out a bottle of wine.
Clerk.
Ay, by St. Dunstan is it!—Mighty strange.

Ivanhoe.
Oh! very strange! Drink hael—But, holy clerk,
Had I thy legs and such a brawny arm,
I'd walk by moonlight, pattering my pray'rs,
And ever and anon let fly a shaft
Among the deer—What think you of it now?
Were't not a pretty pastime?

Clerk.
You see the trinkets here?

He opens a little armoury, of bows, cross-bows, &c.
Ivanhoe.
I thank thee well,
And make no farther question.

Clerk.
Heaven's faith!
I do suspect thy valour as thy wit:
But you're my guest; sing, if you cannot fight,—
Do something to amuse me.

Ivanhoe.
I've no voice.

Clerk.
Nor fight, nor sing! and call yourself a Knight!
Thou dost not know thy craft, man.

Knocking without.
Ivanhoe.
More guests.

Clerk.
Help! Help! Sir Knight!
I would not for my cowl they found me thus;
The knaves might term this hospitable feast
Debauchery, a vice I most abhor.

Ivanhoe.
Vile slanderers of virtue!

Robin Hood.
(without)
Open quick:
Open to Robin Hood!

Ivanhoe.
Mort de ma vie!
The King of Sherwood forest and mad Tuck!
Now by my holy dame, a braver king
And more anointed priest, my travel ne'er
Has met withal.

Robin Hood and Foresters enter.
Robin Hood.
How! Ivanhoe!

Tuck.
St. Dunstan!
You know him then?

Robin Hood.
'Tis little strange, I know
The gallant Knight who won the tourney's prize;
But quick, mad clerk; do off thy frock of grey,
And don thy Lincoln green; we've work in hand.
Brave Knight, we need your aid.

Ivanhoe.
I grieve my hours
Are number'd to a purpose that admits
Of no delay.

Tuck.
I'm ready for your work.

Robin Hood.
Attend: your father, Cedric; the rich Jew,
His daughter, fair Rebecca,—

Ivanhoe.
What of her?
She should be now at York.

Robin Hood.
Their way, indeed,
Was thither, when Sir Brian bore them off;
Chance made me witness of the deed.

Ivanhoe.
My arms!—

Robin Hood.
Ay, now you speak it in a soldier's note.

Ivanhoe.
Come on, brave friends! No pity—no remorse,
Till vict'ry, new launch'd, float on a sea
Of crimson water mid the shouts of triumph.

Robin Hood.
Nay, while we talk, the time for deed grows cold.

Ivanhoe.
To Brian's castle! Wrap the walls in fire!
Nought's for the coward!—all is for the brave!

(Exeunt omnes.

SCENE IV.

—A Prison in the Turret of Brian's Castle; in one Corner is a wide Fire-place, fronted with rusty Bars of Iron. Isaac lies in the corner on a Bundle of Straw.
Isaac.
When will it come? the last strong fearful wrench,
That tears the struggling spirit from the flesh?
Sick! Sick! And life had still such hoarded sweets
For time to reap,—the kiss of infant love—
The smiles of social joy—the thousand hopes
That fourscore years had twin'd about my heart:—
And I must die—must rot in the cold grave;
And stranger feet will rest them in my home!
And stranger joys will laugh around my hearth.

Enter Brian and Saracens.
Brian.
Up, Jewish dog! Up, infidel!

Isaac.
Good Knight,
Be merciful!

Brian.
Thou art my pris'ner, Jew;
If freedom be a jewel of high carat,
Thou'lt not deny its purchase at my price,—
A thousand silver marks.

Isaac.
There never was,—
There never will be, such a sum; a hill,—
A mountain 'tis, of silver.

Brian.
Is it? Well;
I will be gentle, and if silver's scant,—

Isaac.
It is, it is.

Brian.
Then I'll take gold.

Isaac.
Gold! gold!
Where shall I find it? In the earth or sea?
The coffers of my tribe hold not the sum.

Brian.
The fire flame roars,—What think you of your bed?
For your's it will be, if you yield not soon
To that I ask.

Isaac.
You do not mean it?—No;
The father of all good ne'er made a heart
Of so much cruelty, and yet he made
The serpent and the wolf.

Brian.
Be wise, old man;
That fire will bite more sharply than the wolf;
That flame will grasp thee in its burning coil,
More fiercely than the serpent. Take thy choice.

Isaac.
I have no choice;
I lack the money.

Brian.
False, and vain as false.
I'll have thy gold; first, as I need its use;
Next, to thy grief, and in it my revenge,
For that thou sought'st a friend in him I hate.

Isaac.
Look on my pains! Send forth thy angel, death!
Return me to the dust, that earth may feel
No more than earth.

Brian.
Nay, come; thy answer, Jew;
Hark! how the flames are roaring for their prey.

Isaac.
Would I were dead!

Brian.
Hast ever felt the pain
Of fire but in thy finger? Think of that,
And tremble.

Isaac.
Flesh cannot bear the pang!
I'll give—I've not the gold—have mercy—mercy—

Brian.
Dost think thy cries can move me? I have seen
The sack of cities, when a thousand flames,
As hot as these, have gone forth to devour
Men, women, children—aye, bed-ridden age
And puling infancy—and deem'st thou then
The screaming of a single, wretched Jew,
Can shake my purpose? Hope it not, old man;
Wilt give the money?

Isaac.
I will; you'll set
My daughter free; she'll borrow of our tribe
That dwell in York, and thou shall have the coin
Weigh'd to thee on this floor.

Brian.
No, Isaac, no.

Isaac.
How else shall I provide it?

Brian.
That's your care;
But for your black-eye'd daughter, she shall be
My handmaid in the fashion of the tribes
Of Israel—a good example, Jew,
If wisely followed,

Isaac.
Art indeed a man?
Oh take what you've ask'd;
Take ten times more—take all—make me a beggar,
Let me feed in the highway with the dogs—
But spare my child, my sweet, my guiltless child.

Brian.
Hope it not, Isaac; mine she is, and shall be.

Isaac.
The horse leech, Sorrow, fix upon thy heart,
And gripe it 'till 'tis bloodless—Oh the maw
Of dogs be tomb for thee.

Brian.
(coolly)
Thy curses wound not—
But has thy flesh a charm 'gainst steel and flames?

Isaac.
My child! my child!—I do defy thee, else.
Tear me with pincers; let fire gnaw the flesh
From off these bones, with tooth that wounds but kills not,
That life may look upon its own decay,—
Still I defy thee.

Brian.
To the trial then!
Shouts are heard without: clash of swords.
Yet hold! what sound is that?
He leaps upon the table and looks out of the grated loop hole.
Besieg'd! besieg'd!
The arrows fly in showers!—Ha! I'm struck.

De Bracy.
(without)
What, Brian ho! the castle is beset.

Brian plucks the Arrow from his breast, and falls into the arms of the Saracens: while they are busy in staunching the wound, &c. Isaac speaks.
Isaac.
Triumph!—he falls!—How,—do my curses wound?
Dost thou not feel them griping at thy heart?
Christian, dost thou hear me?
Thine was the eagle's flight,—high,—high in air!
Thou look'st upon the sun, and in thy pride
Made it no shame to tear with rav'nous beak,
The birds of humbler quarry!—What! thy wing
Is broken, flapping bloodily in dust—
May it ne'er heal again to bear thee up,
Where thou may'st souse upon the weaker things
That fly beneath thee—no—shame, Isaac—shame
List to his groans—list to the bubbling blood—
How his limbs quiver—Christian—I forgive thee.