University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—An open space before the burning ruins of Brian's castle; The trees and hills are covered with snow; Robin Hood, Ivanhoe, and a party of Foresters, are sitting on the ground.
Robin Hood.
Well, sirs, what think ye? Did e'er monarch feast
Upon so wide a table, or beneath
A canopy so rich, or 'fore a hearth
That burns with such a fire?

Ivanhoe.
In faith, 'twould warm
Poor old December with his locks of snow,
And comfort his blue nose.—A boon, my friend!

Robin Hood.
'Tis thine ere ask'd.

Ivanhoe.
When first flames wrapt yon walls,
They lit me to Rebecca. To be brief,
I bore her to a cottage from the aim
And blank of danger, leaving her in guard
Of faithful Gurth; and back return'd, to save
A father's life!

Robin Hood.
But to your boon.

Ivanhoe.
'Tis this;
See her safe hence to York;—the task were mine,
But that a bus'ness of no common poise
Calls me another way.

Robin Hood.
It shall be done
E'en to your wish.

Ivanhoe.
Her father, I much fear,
Has perish'd in the tumult. If he live,
Call him my friend, and let him find that name
His safety.

Robin Hood.
Though he stood in my worst hate,
No harm should touch a hair upon his head.

Ivanhoe.
Your hand,—my father comes; you know your part.

Cedric enters with Foresters.
Cedric.
I thank you for my safety.

Robin Hood.
Thank this Knight;
But for his skill that led our hands, yon walls
Had burnt no jubilee for your release.

Cedric.
I thank him well; yet wordy thanks are poor—
An unseal'd bond, if deeds stamp not thereon
The sign of value: ask then what thou wilt—
'Tis thine if it be Cedric's.

Robin Hood.
Fairly said.

Ivanhoe.
I take thee at thy word—Forgive thy son!

Cedric.
Were that you ask the purchase of my life,
I'd die ere yield it; but my word is past;
I pardon Ivanhoe.

Ivanhoe.
He's at thy feet.

Cedric.
How? Dost thou dare?

Robin Hood.
Saxon! your plighted word.

Cedric.
'Tis true; and yet—

Ivanhoe.
Father!

Cedric.
Thou hast o'ercome!
Rise—to my heart.

Ivanhoe.
This magic hour makes sweet
The bitterness of years; yet even now,
While joy smiles on me as a new-trimm'd bride,
And would be clipt, I must perforce away,
Her virgin sweets untasted—'Tis honour calls!

Cedric.
Then go, my son. Were I now dying, none
So near to close mine eyes, thou shouldst not stay
'Gainst honour's call—My blessing with thee—Go!

(Exit Ivanhoe.
Cedric.
And now to York!

(Exeunt omnes.