“Dreams, Rebecca⁠—dreams,” answered the Templar; “idle visions, rejected by the wisdom of your own wiser Sadducees. Hear me, Rebecca,” he said, proceeding with animation; “a better chance hast thou for life and liberty than yonder knaves and dotard dream of. Mount thee behind me on my steed⁠—on Zamor, the gallant horse that never failed his rider. I won him in single fight from the Sultan of Trebizond ⁠—mount, I say, behind me⁠—in one short hour is pursuit and enquiry far behind⁠—a new world of pleasure opens to thee⁠—to me a new career of fame. Let them speak the doom which I despise, and erase the name of Bois-Guilbert from their list of monastic slaves! I will wash out with blood whatever blot they may dare to cast on my scutcheon.”

“Tempter,” said Rebecca, “begone!⁠—Not in this last extremity canst thou move me one hair’s-breadth from my resting place⁠—surrounded as I am by foes, I hold thee as my worst and most deadly enemy⁠—avoid thee, in the name of God!”