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!"

"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!"

"By Saint John of Acre," cried Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his
couch,