“Go to the barbican,” said the victor, in a tone of authority, “and there wait my further orders.”
“Yet first, let me say,” said De Bracy, “what it imports thee to know. Wilfred of Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the burning castle without present help.”
“Wilfred of Ivanhoe!” exclaimed the Black Knight—“prisoner, and perish!—The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if a hair of his head be singed—Show me his chamber!”
“Ascend yonder winding stair,” said De Bracy; “it leads to his apartment—Wilt thou not accept my guidance?” he added, in a submissive voice.
“No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders. I trust thee not, De Bracy.”
During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at the head of a body of men, among whom the Friar was conspicuous, had pushed across the bridge as soon as they saw the postern open, and drove back the dispirited and despairing followers of De Bracy, of whom some asked quarter, some offered vain resistance, and the greater part fled towards the court-yard. De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and cast a sorrowful glance after his conqueror. “He trusts me not!” he repeated; “but have I deserved his trust?” He then lifted his sword from the floor, took off his helmet in token of submission, and, going to the barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom he met by the way.
As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the chamber, where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He had been awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle; and his attendant, who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself at the window to watch and report to him the fate of the attack, was for some time prevented from observing either, by the increase of the smouldering and stifling vapour. At length the volumes of smoke which rolled into the apartment—the cries for water, which were heard even above the din of the battle made them sensible of the progress of this new danger.
“The castle burns,” said Rebecca; “it burns!—What can we do to save ourselves?”
“Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life,” said Ivanhoe, “for no human aid can avail me.”
“I will not fly,” answered Rebecca; “we will be saved or perish together—And yet, great God!—my father, my father—what will be his fate!”