Travellers
were welcome at Rotherwood that brought news from the camp of the good
King: and I warrant me that the knight listened with all his might when
Father Drono, the chaplain, read in the St. James's Chronykyll (which
was the paper of news he of Ivanhoe took in) of "another glorious
triumph"--"Defeat of the French near Blois"--"Splendid victory at Epte,
and narrow escape of the French King:" the which deeds of arms the
learned scribes had to narrate.
However such tales might excite him during the reading, they left the
Knight of Ivanhoe only the more melancholy after listening: and the more
moody as he sat in his great hall silently draining his Gascony wine.
Silently sat he and looked at his coats-of-mail hanging vacant on the
wall, his banner covered with spider-webs, and his sword and axe rusting
there. "Ah, dear axe," sighed he (into his drinking-horn)--"ah, gentle
steel! that was a merry time when I sent thee crashing into the pate of
the Emir Abdul Melik as he rode on the right of Saladin. Ah, my sword,
my dainty headsman? my sweet split-rib? my razor of infidel beards! is
the rust to eat thine edge off, and am I never more to wield thee in
battle? What is the use of a shield on a wall, or a lance that has a
cobweb for a pennon? O Richard, my good king, would I could hear once
more thy voice in the front of the onset! Bones of Brian the Templar?
would ye could rise from your grave at Templestowe, and that we might
break another spear for honor and--and--" .
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