Ivanhoe spurred on his horse Bavieca madly up the chestnut avenue. The
castle was before him; the western tower was in flames; the besiegers
were pressing at the southern gate; Athelstane's banner, the bull
rampant, was still on the northern bartizan. "An Ivanhoe, an Ivanhoe!"
he bellowed out, with a shout that overcame all the din of battle:
"Nostre Dame a la rescousse!" And to hurl his lance through the midriff
of Reginald de Bracy, who was commanding the assault--who fell howling
with anguish--to wave his battle-axe over his own head, and cut off
those of thirteen men-at-arms, was the work of an instant. "An Ivanhoe,
an Ivanhoe!" he still shouted, and down went a man as sure as he said
"hoe!"
"Ivanhoe! Ivanhoe!" a shrill voice cried from the top of the northern
bartizan. Ivanhoe knew it.
"Rowena my love, I come!" he roared on his part. "Villains! touch but a
hair of her head, and I . . ."
Here, with a sudden plunge and a squeal of agony, Bavieca sprang forward
wildly, and fell as wildly on her back, rolling over and over upon the
knight. All was dark before him; his brain reeled; it whizzed; something
came crashing down on his forehead. St. Waltheof and all the saints of
the Saxon calendar protect the knight! . . .
When he came to himself, Wamba and the lieutenant of his lances were
leaning over him with a bottle of the hermit's elixir.
Pages:
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491