With patient courage, Rebecca again took post at the lattice.
“What dost thou see?” demanded the wounded knight.
“Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes and hide the bowmen who shoot them.”
“That cannot endure,” remarked Ivanhoe. “If they press not on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the sable knight and see how he bears himself, for as the leader is, so will his followers be.”
“I see him not,” said Rebecca.
“Foul craven!” exclaimed Ivanhoe; “does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest?”
“He blenches not! he blenches not!” cried Rebecca. “I see him now; he heads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They pull down the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. They have made a breach in the barriers—they rush in—they are thrust back! Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. Have mercy, God!”
She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible.
“Look forth again, Rebecca,” urged Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring; “the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again; there is less danger.”
Rebecca again looked forth and almost immediately exclaimed: “Holy prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand in the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the strife.” She then uttered a loud shriek, “He is down! he is down!”