Isaac," said Front-de-Boeuf, "the range of iron bars above
that glowing charcoal? On that warm couch thou shalt lie, stripped of
thy clothes as if thou wert to rest on a bed of down. One of these
slaves shall maintain the fire beneath thee, while the other shall
anoint thy wretched limbs with oil, lest the roast should burn. Now
choose betwixt such a scorching bed and the payment of a thousand pounds
of silver; for, by the head of my father, thou hast no other [v]option."

"It is impossible," exclaimed the miserable Isaac; "it is impossible
that your purpose can be real! The good God of nature never made a heart
capable of exercising such cruelty!"

"Trust not to that, Isaac," said Front-de-Boeuf; "it were a fatal error.
Dost thou think that I who have seen a town sacked, in which thousands
perished by sword, by flood, and by fire, will blench from my purpose
for the outcries of a single wretch? Be wise, old man; discharge thyself
of a portion of thy superfluous wealth; repay to the hands of a
Christian a part of what thou hast acquired by [v]usury. Thy cunning may
soon swell out once more thy shriveled purse, but neither leech nor
medicine can restore thy scorched hide and flesh wert thou once
stretched on these bars. Tell down thy [v]ransom, I say, and rejoice
that at such a rate thou canst redeem thyself from a dungeon, the
secrets of which few have returned to tell. I waste no more words with
thee. Choose between thy [v]dross and thy flesh and blood, and as thou
choosest so shall it be."

"So may Abraham and all the fathers of our people assist me!" said
Isaac; "I cannot make the choice because I have not the means of
satisfying your [v]exorbitant demand!"

"Seize him and strip him, slaves," said the knight.

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 Je