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