“He calls me dear Rebecca,” said the maiden to herself, “but it is in the cold and careless tone which ill suits the word. His warhorse⁠—his hunting hound, are dearer to him than the despised Jewess!”

“My mind, gentle maiden,” continued Ivanhoe, “is more disturbed by anxiety, than my body with pain. From the speeches of those men who were my warders just now, I learn that I am a prisoner, and, if I judge aright of the loud hoarse voice which even now dispatched them hence on some military duty, I am in the castle of Front-de-Boeuf⁠—If so, how will this end, or how can I protect Rowena and my father?”