“I will not dispute my title with thee, noble Thane,” said Richard, calmly; “but I will bid thee look around thee, and see where thou wilt find another to be put into the scale against it.”
“And hast thou wandered hither, Prince, to tell me so?” said Cedric—“To upbraid me with the ruin of my race, ere the grave has closed o’er the last scion of Saxon royalty?”—His countenance darkened as he spoke.—“It was boldly—it was rashly done!”
“Not so, by the holy rood!” replied the King; “it was done in the frank confidence which one brave man may repose in another, without a shadow of danger.”
“Thou sayest well, Sir King—for King I own thou art, and wilt be, despite of my feeble opposition.—I dare not take the only mode to prevent it, though thou hast placed the strong temptation within my reach!”
“And now to my boon,” said the King, “which I ask not with one jot the less confidence, that thou hast refused to acknowledge my lawful sovereignty. I require of thee, as a man of thy word, on pain of being held faithless, man-sworn, and ‘nidering’, [581] to forgive and receive to thy paternal affection the good knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe. In this reconciliation thou wilt own I have an interest—the happiness of my friend, and the quelling of dissension among my faithful people.”
“And this is Wilfred!” said Cedric, pointing to his son.
“My father!—my father!” said Ivanhoe, prostrating himself at Cedric’s feet, “grant me thy forgiveness!”
“Thou hast it, my son,” said Cedric, raising him up. “The son of Hereward knows how to keep his word, even when it has been passed to a Norman. But let me see thee use the dress and costume of thy English ancestry—no short cloaks, no gay bonnets, no fantastic plumage in my decent household. He that would be the son of Cedric, must show himself of English ancestry.—Thou art about to speak,” he added, sternly, “and I guess the topic. The Lady Rowena must complete two years’ mourning, as for a betrothed husband—all our Saxon ancestors would disown us were we to treat of a new union for her ere the grave of him she should have wedded—him, so much the most worthy of her hand by birth and ancestry—is yet closed. The ghost of Athelstane himself would burst his bloody cerements and stand before us to forbid such dishonour to his memory.”
It seemed as if Cedric’s words had raised a spectre; for, scarce had he uttered them ere the door flew open, and Athelstane, arrayed in the garments of the grave, stood before them, pale, haggard, and like something arisen from the dead! [59]
The effect of this apparition on the persons present was utterly appalling. Cedric started back as far as the wall of the apartment would permit, and, leaning against it as one unable to support himself, gazed on the figure of his friend with eyes that seemed fixed, and a mouth which he appeared incapable of shutting. Ivanhoe crossed himself, repeating prayers in Saxon, Latin, or Norman-French, as they occurred to his memory, while Richard alternately said, “Benedicite”, and swore, “Mort de ma vie!”