"Death is better than dishonor!" cried the child, rolling on the
blood-stained marble pavement. "I--I spit upon thee, dog of a
Christian!" and with this, and with a savage laugh, she fell back and
died.
"Bear back this news, Jew, to the Alfaqui," howled the Don, spurning the
beauteous corpse with his foot. "I would not have ransomed her for all
the gold in Barbary!" And shuddering, the old Jew left the apartment,
which Ivanhoe quitted likewise.
When they were in the outer court, the knight said to the Jew, "Isaac of
York, dost thou not know me?" and threw back his hood, and looked at the
old man.
The old Jew stared wildly, rushed forward as if to seize his hand, then
started back, trembling convulsively, and clutching his withered
hands over his face, said, with a burst of grief, "Sir Wilfrid of
Ivanhoe!--no, no!--I do not know thee!"
"Holy mother! what has chanced?" said Ivanhoe, in his turn becoming
ghastly pale; "where is thy daughter--where is Rebecca?"
"Away from me!" said the old Jew, tottering. "Away Rebecca is--dead!"
*****
When the Disinherited Knight heard that fatal announcement, he fell to
the ground senseless, and was for some days as one perfectly distraught
with grief. He took no nourishment and uttered no word. For weeks he
did not relapse out of his moody silence, and when he came partially to
himself again, it was to bid his people to horse, in a hollow voice, and
to make a foray against the Moors.
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