“Who is down?” cried Ivanhoe; “tell me which has fallen?”
“The Black Knight,” answered Rebecca, faintly; then shouted with joyful eagerness, “But no—the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed!—he is on foot again and fights as if there were twenty men’s strength in his single arm. His sword is broken—he snatches an ax from a yeoman—he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow. The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of a woodsman—he falls—he falls!”
“Front-de-Boeuf?” exclaimed Ivanhoe.
“Front-de-Boeuf!” answered the Jewess. “His men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar—their united force compels the champion to pause—they drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls.”
“The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?” Ivanhoe eagerly queried.
“They have! they have!” answered Rebecca; “and they press the besieged hard on the outer wall. Some plant ladders, some swarm like bees and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other. Down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees on their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places. Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren!”
“Think not of that,” said Ivanhoe. “This is no time for such thoughts. Who yield—who push their way?”
“The ladders are thrown down,” replied Rebecca, shuddering; “the soldiers lie groveling under them like crushed reptiles; the besieged have the better.”
“Saint George strike for us!” exclaimed the knight; “do the false yeomen give way?”
“No,” exclaimed Rebecca, “they bear themselves right yeomanly—the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge ax—the thundering blows he deals you may hear above all the din of the battle. Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold champion—he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or feathers!”