But Athelstane was without armour, and a silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade.  So trenchant was the Templar’s weapon that it levelled the ill-fated Saxon to the earth.

Taking advantage of the dismay which was spread by the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, “Those who would save themselves, follow me!” the Templar pushed across the drawbridge, and then galloped off with his followers.

And now the towering flames surmounted every obstruction, and rose to the evening skies one huge and burning beacon.  Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof and rafter, and the combatants were driven from the courtyard.

When the last turret gave way, the voice of Robin Hood was heard, “Shout, yeomen!—­the den of tyrants is no more!  Let each bring his spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous, and there at break of day will be made just partition among our own bands, together with our allies in this great deed of vengeance.”

Cedric, ere he departed, earnestly entreated the Black Knight to accompany him to Rotherwood, “not as a guest, but as a son or brother.”

“To Rotherwood will I come, brave Saxon,” said the Knight, “and that speedily.  Peradventure, when I come, I will ask such a boon as will put even thy generosity to the test.”

“It is granted already,” said Cedric, “were it to affect half my fortune.  But my heart is oppressed with sadness, for the noble Athelstane is no more.  I have but to say,” he added, “that during the funeral rites I shall inhabit his castle of Coningsburgh—­which will be open to all who choose to partake of the funeral banqueting.”

Rowena waved a graceful adieu to the Black Knight, the Saxon bade God speed him, and on they moved through a wide glade of the forest.

IV.—­Ivanhoe’s Wedding

At the castle of Coningsburgh all was a scene of busy commotion when the Black Knight, attended by Ivanhoe, who had muffled his face in his mantle, entered and was welcomed gravely by Cedric—­by common consent the chief of the distinguished Saxon families present.

“I crave to remind you, noble Thane,” said the Knight, “that when we last parted, you promised, for the service I had the fortune to render you, to grant me a boon.”

“It is granted ere named, noble Knight,” said Cedric; “yet, at this sad moment——­”

“Of that also,” said the Knight, “I have bethought me—­but my time is brief—­neither does it seem to me unfit that, in the grave of the noble Athelstane, we should deposit certain prejudices and hasty opinions.”

“Sir Knight,” said Cedric, colouring, “in that which concerns the honour of my house, it is scarce fitting a stranger should mingle.”

“Nor do I wish to mingle,” said the Knight, mildly, “unless you will admit me to have an interest.  As yet you have known me but as the Black Knight—­know me now as Richard Plantagenet, King of England.  And now to my boon.  I require of thee, as a man of thy word, to forgive and receive to thy paternal affection the good Knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe.”