ht yeomanly--the Black
Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe--the thundering blows
which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts 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," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his
couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a
deed!"

"The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes--it is
splintered by his blows--they rush in--the outwork is won--Oh,
God!--they hurl the defenders from the battlements--they throw them
into the moat--O men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no
longer!"

"The bridge--the bridge which communicates with the castle--have they
won that pass?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.

"No," replied Rebecca, "The Templar has destroyed the plank on which
they crossed--few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle--the
shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others--Alas!--I
see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle."

"What do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; "look forth yet again--this is
no time to faint at bloodshed."

"It is over for the time," answered Rebecca; "our friends strengthen
themselves within the outwork which they have mastered, and it affords
them so good a shelter from the foemen's shot, that the garrison only
bestow a few bolts on it from interval to interval, as if rather to
disquiet than effectually to injure them."

"Our friends," said Wilfred, "will surely not abandon an enterprise so
gloriously begun and so happily attained.--O no! I will put my faith
in the good knight whose axe hath rent heart-of-oak and bars of
iron.--Singular," he again muttered to himself, "if there be two who can
do a deed of such derring-do! [37]--a fetterlock, and a shacklebolt on
a field sable--what may that mean?--seest thou nought else, Rebecca, by
which the Black Knight may be distinguished?"

"Nothing," said the Jewess; "all about him is black as the wing of the
night raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him further--but having
once seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know
him again among a thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray as if he were
summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength, there seems as
if the whole soul and spirit of the champion were given to every
blow which he deals u