Had there been painters in those days capable to execute such a subject,

the Jew, as he bent his withered form, and expanded his chilled and

trembling hands over the fire, would have formed no bad emblematical

personification of the Winter season. Having dispelled the cold, he

turned eagerly to the smoking mess which was placed before him, and

ate with a haste and an apparent relish, that seemed to betoken long

abstinence from food.

Meanwhile the Abbot and Cedric continued their discourse upon hunting;

the Lady Rowena seemed engaged in conversation with one of her attendant

females; and the haughty Templar, whose eye wandered from the Jew to

the Saxon beauty, revolved in his mind thoughts which appeared deeply to

interest him.

"I marvel, worthy Cedric," said the Abbot, as their discourse proceeded,

"that, great as your predilection is for your own manly language, you do

not receive the Norman-French into your favour, so far at least as the

mystery of wood-craft and hunting is concerned. Surely no tongue is so

rich in the various phrases which the field-sports demand, or furnishes

means to the experienced woodman so well to express his jovial art."

"Good Father Aymer," said the Saxon, "be it known to you, I care not

for those over-sea refinements, without which I can well enough take my

pleasure in the woods. I can wind my horn, though I call not the blast

either a 'recheate' or a 'morte'--I can cheer my dogs on the prey, and

I can flay and quarter the animal when it is brought down, without using

the newfangled jargon of 'curee, arbor, nombles', and all the babble of

the fabulous Sir Tristrem." [14]

"The French," said the Templar, raising his voice with the presumptuous

and authoritative tone which he used upon all occasions, "is not only

the natural language of the chase, but that of love and of war, in which

ladies should be won and enemies defied."

"Pledge me in a cup of wine, Sir Templar," said Cedric, "and fill

another to the Abbot, while I look back some thirty years to tell you

another tale. As Cedric the Saxon then was, his plain English tale

needed no garnish from French troubadours, when it was told in the ear

of beauty; and the field of Northallerton, upon the day of the Holy

Standard, could tell whether the Saxon war-cry was not heard as far

within the ranks of the Scottish host as the 'cri de guerre' of

the boldest Norman baron. To the memory of the brave who fought

there!--Pledge me, my guests." He drank deep, and went on with

increasing warmth. "Ay, that was a day of cleaving of shields, when a

hundred banners were bent forwards over the heads of the valiant, and

blood flowed round like water, and death was held better than flight.

A Saxon bard had called it a feast of the swords--a gathering of the

eagles to the prey--the clashing of bills upon shield and helmet, the

shouting of battle more joyful than the clamour of a bridal. But our

bards are no more," he said; "our deeds are lost in those of another

race--our language--our very name--is hastening to decay, and none

mourns for it save one solitary old man--Cupbearer! knave, fill the

goblets--To the strong in arms, Sir Templar, be their race or language

what it will, who now bear them best in Palestine among the champions of

the Cross!"




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