“Take 200,000 dirhems,” cried the Jew; “more!—­anything!  The Alfaqui will give his life for his child!”

“Come hither, Zutulbe!—­come hither, thou Moorish pearl!” yelled the ferocious warrior; “come closer, my pretty black-eyed houri of heathenesse!  Hast heard the name of Beltran de Espada y Trabuco?”

“There were three brothers of that name at Alarcos, and my brothers slew the Christian dogs!” said the proud young girl, looking boldly at Don Beltran, who foamed with rage.

“The Moors butchered my mother and her little ones, at midnight, in our castle of Murcia,” Beltran said.

“Thy father fled like a craven, as thou didst, Don Beltran!” cried the high-spirited girl.

“By Saint Jago, this is too much!” screamed the infuriated nobleman; and the next moment there was a shriek, and the maiden fell to the ground with Don Beltran’s dagger in her side.

“Death is better than dishonor!” cried the child, rolling on the blood-stained marble pavement.  “I—­I spit upon thee, dog of a Christian!” and with this, and with a savage laugh, she fell back and died.

“Bear back this news, Jew, to the Alfaqui,” howled the Don, spurning the beauteous corpse with his foot.  “I would not have ransomed her for all the gold in Barbary!” And shuddering, the old Jew left the apartment, which Ivanhoe quitted likewise.

When they were in the outer court, the knight said to the Jew, “Isaac of York, dost thou not know me?” and threw back his hood, and looked at the old man.

The old Jew stared wildly, rushed forward as if to seize his hand, then started back, trembling convulsively, and clutching his withered hands over his face, said, with a burst of grief, “Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe!—­no, no!—­I do not know thee!”

“Holy mother! what has chanced?” said Ivanhoe, in his turn becoming ghastly pale; “where is thy daughter—­where is Rebecca?”

“Away from me!” said the old Jew, tottering.  “Away Rebecca is—­dead!”

*****

When the Disinherited Knight heard that fatal announcement, he fell to the ground senseless, and was for some days as one perfectly distraught with grief.  He took no nourishment and uttered no word.  For weeks he did not relapse out of his moody silence, and when he came partially to himself again, it was to bid his people to horse, in a hollow voice, and to make a foray against the Moors.  Day after day he issued out against these infidels, and did nought but slay and slay.  He took no plunder as other knights did, but left that to his followers; he uttered no war-cry, as was the manner of chivalry, and he gave no quarter, insomuch that the “silent knight” became the dread of all the Paynims of Granada and Andalusia, and more fell by his lance than by that of any the most clamorous captains of the troops in arms against them.  Thus the tide of battle turned, and the Arab historian, El Makary, recounts how, at the great battle of Al Akab, called by the Spaniards Las Navas, the Christians retrieved their defeat at Alarcos, and absolutely killed half a milllion of Mahometans.  Fifty thousand of these, of course, Don Wilfrid took to his own lance; and it was remarked that the melancholy warrior seemed somewhat more easy in spirits after that famous feat of arms.