And who is it that comes out of the house--trembling--panting--with
her arms out--in a white dress--with her hair down--who is it but dear
Rebecca? Look, they rush together, and Master Wamba is waving an immense
banner over them, and knocks down a circumambient Jew with a ham, which
he happens to have in his pocket. . . . As for Rebecca, now her head
is laid upon Ivanhoe's heart, I shall not ask to hear what she is
whispering, or describe further that scene of meeting; though I declare
I am quite affected when I think of it. Indeed I have thought of it
any time these five-and-twenty years--ever since, as a boy at school, I
commenced the noble study of novels--ever since the day when, lying on
sunny slopes of half-holidays, the fair chivalrous figures and beautiful
shapes of knights and ladies were visible to me--ever since I grew to
love Rebecca, that sweetest creature of the poet's fancy, and longed to
see her righted.
That she and Ivanhoe were married, follows of course; for Rowena's
promise extorted from him was, that he would never wed a Jewess, and a
better Christian than Rebecca now was never said her catechism. Married
I am sure they were, and adopted little Cedric; but I don't think they
had any other children, or were subsequently very boisterously happy.
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