ath thou hast drawn upon thee!"

"Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?" said Ivanhoe.

"I may not deny what thou hast challenged," said the Grand Master,
"provided the maiden accepts thee as her champion. Yet I would thou
wert in better plight to do battle. An enemy of our Order hast thou ever
been, yet would I have thee honourably met with."

"Thus--thus as I am, and not otherwise," said Ivanhoe; "it is the
judgment of God--to his keeping I commend myself.--Rebecca," said he,
riding up to the fatal chair, "dost thou accept of me for thy champion?"

"I do," she said--"I do," fluttered by an emotion which the fear of
death had been unable to produce, "I do accept thee as the champion whom
Heaven hath sent me. Yet, no--no--thy wounds are uncured--Meet not that
proud man--why shouldst thou perish also?"

But Ivanhoe was already at his post, and had closed his visor, and
assumed his lance. Bois-Guilbert did the same; and his esquire remarked,
as he clasped his visor, that his face, which had, notwithstanding the
variety of emotions by which he had been agitated, continued during the
whole morning of an ashy paleness, was now become suddenly very much
flushed.

The herald, then, seeing each champion in his place, uplifted his voice,
repeating thrice--"Faites vos devoirs, preux chevaliers!" After the
third cry, he withdrew to one side of the lists, and again proclaimed,
that none, on peril of instant death, should dare, by word, cry, or
action, to interfere with or disturb this fair field of combat. The
Grand Master, who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca's glove,
now threw it into the lists, and pronounced the fatal signal words,
"Laissez aller".

The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full career.
The wearied horse of Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, went
down, as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and vigorous
steed of the Templar. This issue of the combat all had foreseen; but
although the spear of Ivanhoe did but, in comparison, touch the shield
of Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment of all who beheld
it reeled in his saddle, lost his stirrups, and fell in the lists.

Ivanhoe, extricating himself from his fallen horse, was soon on foot,
hastening to mend his fortune with his sword; but his antagonist arose
not. Wilfred, placing his foot on his breast, and the sword's point
to his throat, commanded him to yield him, or die on the spot.
Bois-Gu