It seemed as if Cedric’s words had raised a spectre; for, scarce had he uttered them ere the door flew open, and Athelstane, arrayed in the garments of the grave, stood before them, pale, haggard, and like something arisen from the dead! 60

The effect of this apparition on the persons present was utterly appalling. Cedric started back as far as the wall of the apartment would permit, and, leaning against it as one unable to support himself, gazed on the figure of his friend with eyes that seemed fixed, and a mouth which he appeared incapable of shutting. Ivanhoe crossed himself, repeating prayers in Saxon, Latin, or Norman-French, as they occurred to his memory, while Richard alternately said, Benedicite, and swore, Mort de ma vie!

In the meantime, a horrible noise was heard below stairs, some crying, “Secure the treacherous monks!”⁠—others, “Down with them into the dungeon!”⁠—others, “Pitch them from the highest battlements!”

“In the name of God!” said Cedric, addressing what seemed the spectre of his departed friend, “if thou art mortal, speak!⁠—if a departed spirit, say for what cause thou dost revisit us, or if I can do aught that can set thy spirit at repose.⁠—Living or dead, noble Athelstane, speak to Cedric!”

“I will,” said the spectre, very composedly, “when I have collected breath, and when you give me time⁠—Alive, saidst thou?⁠—I am as much alive as he can be who has fed on bread and water for three days, which seem three ages⁠—Yes, bread and water, Father Cedric! By Heaven, and all saints in it, better food hath not passed my weasand for three livelong days, and by God’s providence it is that I am now here to tell it.”

“Why, noble Athelstane,” said the Black Knight, “I myself saw you struck down by the fierce Templar towards the end of the storm at Torquilstone, and as I thought, and Wamba reported, your skull was cloven through the teeth.”