All hail to the lordlings of high degree, Who live not more happy, though greater than we! Our pastimes to see, Under every green tree, In all the gay woodland, right welcome ye be.
The newcomers were Wilfred of Ivanhoe, on the Prior of Botolph’s palfrey, and Gurth, who attended him, on the Knight’s own warhorse. The astonishment of Ivanhoe was beyond bounds, when he saw his master besprinkled with blood, and six or seven dead bodies lying around in the little glade in which the battle had taken place. Nor was he less surprised to see Richard surrounded by so many silvan attendants, the outlaws, as they seemed to be, of the forest, and a perilous retinue therefore for a prince. He hesitated whether to address the King as the Black Knight-errant, or in what other manner to demean himself towards him. Richard saw his embarrassment.
“Fear not, Wilfred,” he said, “to address Richard Plantagenet as himself, since thou seest him in the company of true English hearts, although it may be they have been urged a few steps aside by warm English blood.”
“Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe,” said the gallant Outlaw, stepping forward, “my assurances can add nothing to those of our sovereign; yet, let me say somewhat proudly, that of men who have suffered much, he hath not truer subjects than those who now stand around him.”
“I cannot doubt it, brave man,” said Wilfred, “since thou art of the number—But what mean these marks of death and danger? these slain men, and the bloody armour of my Prince?”
“Treason hath been with us, Ivanhoe,” said the King; “but, thanks to these brave men, treason hath met its meed—But, now I bethink me,