“Thou shalt not choose, Rebecca⁠—once didst thou foil me, but never mortal did so twice.”

So saying, he seized on the terrified maiden, who filled the air with her shrieks, and bore her out of the room in his arms in spite of her cries, and without regarding the menaces and defiance which Ivanhoe thundered against him. “Hound of the Temple⁠—stain to thine Order⁠—set free the damsel! Traitor of Bois-Guilbert, it is Ivanhoe commands thee!⁠—Villain, I will have thy heart’s blood!”

“I had not found thee, Wilfred,” said the Black Knight, who at that instant entered the apartment, “but for thy shouts.”

“If thou be’st true knight,” said Wilfred, “think not of me⁠—pursue yon ravisher⁠—save the Lady Rowena⁠—look to the noble Cedric!”

“In their turn,” answered he of the Fetterlock, “but thine is first.”

And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him off with as much ease as the Templar had carried off Rebecca, rushed with him to the postern, and having there delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, he again entered the castle to assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.

One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from window and shot-hole. But in other parts, the great thickness of the walls and the vaulted roofs of the apartments, resisted the progress of the flames, and there the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce more dreadful element held mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued the defenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and satiated in their blood the vengeance which had long animated them against the soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the garrison resisted to the uttermost⁠—few of them asked quarter⁠—none received it. The air was filled with groans and clashing of arms⁠—the floors were slippery with the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.