But Ivanhoe was like the warhorse of that sublime passage, glowing with impatience at his inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in the affray of which these sounds were the introduction. “If I could but drag myself,” he said, “to yonder window, that I might see how this brave game is like to go⁠—If I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or battle-axe to strike were it but a single blow for our deliverance!⁠—It is in vain⁠—it is in vain⁠—I am alike nerveless and weaponless!”

“Fret not thyself, noble knight,” answered Rebecca, “the sounds have ceased of a sudden⁠—it may be they join not battle.”

“Thou knowest nought of it,” said Wilfred, impatiently; “this dead pause only shows that the men are at their posts on the walls, and expecting an instant attack; what we have heard was but the instant muttering of the storm⁠—it will burst anon in all its fury.⁠—Could I but reach yonder window!”