strife—Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the captive!” She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, “He is down!—he is down!”
“Who is down?” cried Ivanhoe; “for our dear Lady’s sake, tell me which has fallen?”
“The Black Knight,” answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness—“But no—but no!—the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed!—he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men’s strength in his single arm—His sword is broken—he snatches an axe from a yeoman—he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow—The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman—he falls—he falls!”
“Front-de-Boeuf?” exclaimed Ivanhoe.
“Front-de-Boeuf!” answered the Jewess; “his men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar—their united force compels the champion to pause—They drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls.”