“Now, the saints forbid,” said the Prior, “that the son of the Saxon Cedric should leave our convent ere his wounds were healed! It were shame to our profession were we to suffer it.”

“Nor would I desire to leave your hospitable roof, venerable father,” said Ivanhoe, “did I not feel myself able to endure the journey, and compelled to undertake it.”

“And what can have urged you to so sudden a departure?” said the Prior.

“Have you never, holy father,” answered the Knight, “felt an approaching evil, for which you in vain attempted to assign a cause?—Have you never found your mind darkened, like the sunny landscape, by the sudden cloud which augurs a coming tempest?—and thinkest thou not that such impulses are deserving of attention, as being the hints of our guardian spirits, that danger is impending?”

“I may not deny,” said the Prior, crossing himself, “that such things have been, and have been of Heaven; but then such communications have had a visibly useful scope and tendency. But thou, wounded as thou art, what avails it thou shouldst follow the steps of him whom thou couldst not aid, were he to be assaulted?”

“Prior,” said Ivanhoe, “thou dost mistake.—I am stout enough to exchange buffets with any who will challenge me to such a traffic.—But were it otherwise, may I not aid him were he in danger, by other means than by force of arms? It is but too well known that the Saxons love not the Norman race, and who knows what may be the issue, if he break in upon them when their hearts are irritated by the death of Athelstane, and their heads heated by the carousal in which they will indulge themselves? I hold his entrance among them at such a moment most perilous, and I am resolved to share or avert the danger; which, that I may the better do, I would crave of thee the use of some palfrey whose pace may be softer than that of my destrier.”¹

“Surely,” said the worthy churchman; “you shall have mine own ambling jennet, and I would it ambled as easy for your sake as that of the Abbot of St. Albans. Yet this will I say for Malkin, for so I call her, that unless you were to borrow a ride on the juggler’s steed that paces a hornpipe amongst the eggs, you could not go a journey on a creature so gentle and smooth-paced. I have composed many a homily on her back, to the edification of my brethren of the convent, and many poor Christian souls.”

“I pray you, Reverend Father,” said Ivanhoe, “let Malkin be got ready instantly, and bid Gurth attend me with mine arms.”

“Nay, but, fair sir,” said the Prior, “I pray you to remember that Malkin hath as little skill in arms as her master, and that I warrant not her enduring the sight or weight of your full panoply. Oh, Malkin, I promise you, is a beast of judgment, and will contend against any undue weight.—I did but borrow the Fructus Temporum from the priest of St. Bees, and I promise you she would not stir from the gate until I had exchanged the huge volume for my little breviary.”

“Trust me, holy father,” said Ivanhoe, “I will not distress her with too much weight; and if she calls a combat with me, it is odds but she has the worst.”

This reply was made while Gurth was buckling on the Knight’s heels a pair of large gilded spurs, capable of convincing any restive horse that his best safety lay in being conformable to the will of his rider.

The deep and sharp rowels with which Ivanhoe’s heels were now armed began to make the worthy Prior repent of his courtesy, and ejaculate—“Nay, but, fair sir, now I bethink me, my Malkin abideth not the spur.—Better it were that you tarry for the mare of our manciple down at the Grange, which may be had in little more than an hour, and cannot but be tractable, in respect that she draweth much of our winter firewood, and eateth no corn.”