“Saint George strike for us!” exclaimed the knight; “do the false yeomen give way?”

“No!” exclaimed Rebecca, “they bear themselves right yeomanly⁠—the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe⁠—the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle⁠—Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold champion⁠—he regards them no more than if they were thistledown or feathers!”

“By Saint John of Acre ,” said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch, “methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed!”

“The postern gate shakes,” continued Rebecca; “it crashes⁠—it is splintered by his blows⁠—they rush in⁠—the outwork is won⁠—Oh, God!⁠—they hurl the defenders from the battlements⁠—they throw them into the moat⁠—O men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer!”