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CHAPTER XXXIX

O maid, unrelenting and cold as thou art, 
My bosom is proud as thine own.

Seward.

It was in the twilight of the day when her trial, if it could be called such, had taken place, that a low knock was heard at the door of Rebecca's prison-chamber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then engaged in the evening prayer recommended by her religion, and which concluded with a hymn we have ventured thus to translate into English.

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 
Out of the land of bondage came, 
Her father's God before her moved, 
An awful guide, in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonish'd lands 
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands 
Return'd the fiery column's glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise, 
And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, 
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays, 
With priest's and warrior's voice between. 
No portents now our foes amaze,
Forsaken Israel wanders lone;
Our fathers would not know Thy ways, 
And Thou hast left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen; 
When brightly shines the prosperous day, 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 
To temper the deceitful ray.
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 
In shade and storm the frequent night, 
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 
A burning, and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams, 
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; 
No censer round our altar beams, 
And mute our timbrel, trump, and horn. 
But Thou hast said, the blood of goat, 
The flesh of rams, I will not prize; 
A contrite heart, and humble thought, 
Are mine accepted sacrifice.

When the sounds of Rebecca's devotional hymn had died away in silence, the low knock at the door was again renewed. ``Enter,'' she said, ``if thou art a friend; and if a foe, I have not the means of refusing thy entrance.''

``I am,'' said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, entering the apartment, ``friend or foe, Rebecca, as the event of this interview shall make me.''

Alarmed at the sight of this man, whose licentious passion she considered as the root of her misfortunes, Rebecca drew backward with a cautious and alarmed, yet not a timorous demeanour, into the farthest corner of the apartment, as if determined to retreat as far as she could, but to stand her ground when retreat became no longer possible. She drew herself into an attitude not of defiance, but of resolution, as one that would avoid provoking assault, yet was resolute to repel it, being offered, to the utmost of her power.

``You have no reason to fear me, Rebecca,'' said the Templar; ``Or if I must so qualify my speech, you have at least now no reason to fear me.''

``I fear you not, Sir Knight,'' replied Rebecca, although her short-drawn breath seemed to belie the heroism of her accents my trust is strong, and I fear thee not.''

``You have no cause,'' answered Bois-Guilbert, gravely; ``my former frantic attempts you have not now to dread. Within your call are guards, over whom I have no authority. They are designed to conduct you to death, Rebecca, yet would not suffer you to be insulted by any one, even by me, were my frenzy---for frenzy it is---to urge me so far.''

``May Heaven be praised!'' said the Jewess; ``death is the least of my apprehensions in this den of evil.''

``Ay,'' replied the Templar, ``the idea of death is easily received by the courageous mind, when the road to it is sudden and open. A thrust with a lance, a stroke with a sword, were to me little--- To you, a spring from a dizzy battlement, a stroke with a sharp poniard, has no terrors, compared with what either thinks disgrace. Mark me---I say this---perhaps mine own sentiments of honour are not less fantastic, Rebecca, than thine are; but we know alike how to die for them.''

``Unhappy man,'' said the Jewess; ``and art thou condemned to expose thy life for principles, of which thy sober judgment does not acknowledge the solidity? Surely this is a parting with your treasure for that which is not bread---but deem not so of me. Thy resolution may fluctuate on the wild and changeful billows of human opinion, but mine is anchored on the Rock of Ages.''

``Silence, maiden,'' answered the Templar; ``such discourse now avails but little. Thou art condemned to die not a sudden and easy death, such as misery chooses, and despair welcomes, but a slow, wretched, protracted course of torture, suited to what the diabolical bigotry of these men calls thy crime.''

``And to whom---if such my fate---to whom do I owe this?'' said Rebecca ``surely only to him, who, for a most selfish and brutal cause, dragged me hither, and who now, for some unknown purpose of his own, strives to exaggerate the wretched fate to which he exposed me.''

``Think not,'' said the Templar, ``that I have so exposed thee; I would have bucklered thee against such danger with my own bosom, as freely as ever I exposed it to the shafts which had otherwise reached thy life.''

``Had thy purpose been the honourable protection of the innocent,'' said Rebecca, ``I had thanked thee for thy care---as it is, thou hast claimed merit for it so often, that I tell thee life is worth nothing to me, preserved at the price which thou wouldst exact for it.''

``Truce with thine upbraidings, Rebecca,'' said the Templar; ``I have my own cause of grief, and brook not that thy reproaches should add to it.''

``What is thy purpose, then, Sir Knight?'' said the Jewess; ``speak it briefly.---If thou hast aught to do, save to witness the misery thou hast caused, let me know it; and then, if so it please you, leave me to myself---the step between time and eternity is short but terrible, and I have