“It were sin to doubt it, maiden,” replied Ivanhoe; “and I repose myself on thy skill without further scruple or question, well trusting you will enable me to bear my corslet on the eighth day. And now, my kind leech, let me enquire of the news abroad. What of the noble Saxon Cedric and his household?⁠—what of the lovely Lady⁠—” He stopped, as if unwilling to speak Rowena’s name in the house of a Jew⁠—“Of her, I mean, who was named Queen of the tournament?”

“And who was selected by you, Sir Knight, to hold that dignity, with judgment which was admired as much as your valour,” replied Rebecca.

The blood which Ivanhoe had lost did not prevent a flush from crossing his cheek, feeling that he had incautiously betrayed a deep interest in Rowena by the awkward attempt he had made to conceal it.

“It was less of her I would speak,” said he, “than of Prince John; and I would fain know somewhat of a faithful squire, and why he now attends me not?”