The assistants, taking their directions more from the baron’s eye and hand than his tongue, once more stepped forward, laid hands on the unfortunate Isaac, plucked him up from the ground, and holding him between them, waited the hard-hearted baron’s further signal. The unhappy man eyed their countenances and that of Front-de-Boeuf in the hope of discovering some symptoms of softening; but that of the baron showed the same cold, half-sullen, half-sarcastic smile, which had been the prelude to his cruelty; and the savage eyes of the Saracens, rolling gloomily under their dark brows, evinced rather the secret pleasure which they expected from the approaching scene than any reluctance to be its agents. The Jew then looked at the glowing furnace, over which he was presently to be stretched, and, seeing no chance of his tormentor’s relenting, his resolution gave way.
“I will pay,” he said, “the thousand pounds of silver—that is, I will pay it with the help of my brethren, for I must beg as a mendicant at the door of our synagogue ere I make up so unheard-of a sum. When and where must it be delivered?” he inquired with a sigh.
“Here,” replied Front-de-Boeuf. “Weighed it must be—weighed and told down on this very dungeon floor. Thinkest thou I will part with thee until thy ransom is secure?”
“Then let my daughter Rebecca go forth to York,” said Isaac, “with your safe conduct, noble knight, and so soon as man and horse can return, the treasure—” Here he groaned deeply, but added, after the pause of a few seconds,—“the treasure shall be told down on this floor.”
“Thy daughter!” said Front-de-Boeuf, as if surprised. “By Heavens, Isaac, I would I had known of this! I gave yonder black-browed girl to Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, to be his prisoner. She is not in my power.”
The yell which Isaac raised at this unfeeling communication made the very vault to ring, and astounded the two Saracens so much that they let go their hold of the victim. He availed himself of his freedom to throw himself on the pavement and clasp the knees of Front-de-Boeuf.
“Take all that you have asked,” said he—“take ten times more—reduce me to ruin and to beggary, if thou wilt—nay, pierce me with thy poniard, broil me on that furnace, but spare my daughter! Will you deprive me of my sole remaining comfort in life?”
“I would,” said the Norman, somewhat relenting, “that I had known of this before. I thought you loved nothing but your money-bags.”
“Think not so vilely of me,” returned Isaac, eager to improve the moment of apparent sympathy. “I love mine own, even as the hunted fox, the tortured wildcat loves its young.”
“Be it so,” said Front-de-Boeuf; “but it aids us not now. I cannot help what has happened or what is to follow. My word is passed to my comrade in arms that he shall have the maiden as his share of the spoil, and I would not break it for ten Jews and Jewesses to boot. Take thought instead to pay me the ransom thou hast promised, or woe betide thee!”