sense　of　duty；　and　contracted　a　second　matrimonial　engagement。
  That　Athelstane　was　the　man；　I　suppose　no　reader　familiar　with
  life；　and　novels　which　are　a　rescript　of　life；　and　are　all　strictly
  natural　and　edifying；　can　for　a　moment　doubt。　　Cardinal　Pandulfo
  tied　the　knot　for　them：　and　lest　there　should　be　any　doubt　about
  Ivanhoe's　death　（for　his　body　was　never　sent　home　after　all；　nor
  seen　after　Wamba　ran　away　from　it）；　his　Eminence　procured　a　Papal
  decree　annulling　the　former　marriage；　so　that　Rowena　became　Mrs。
  Athelstane　with　a　clear　conscience。　　And　who　shall　be　surprised；　if
  she　was　happier　with　the　stupid　and　boozy　Thane　than　with　the
  gentle　and　melancholy　Wilfrid？　　Did　women　never　have　a　predilection
  for　fools；　I　should　like　to　know；　or　fall　in　love　with　donkeys；
  before　the　time　of　the　amours　of　Bottom　and　Titania？　　Ah！　Mary；　had
  you　not　preferred　an　ass　to　a　man；　would　you　have　married　Jack
  Bray；　when　a　Michael　Angelo　offered？　　Ah！　Fanny；　were　you　not　a
  woman；　would　you　persist　in　adoring　Tom　Hiccups；　who　beats　you；　and
  comes　home　tipsy　from　the　Club？　　Yes；　Rowena　cared　a　hundred　times
  more　about　tipsy　Athelstane　than　ever　she　had　done　for　gentle
  Ivanhoe；　and　so　great　was　her　infatuation　about　the　former；　that
  she　would　sit　upon　his　knee　in　the　presence　of　all　her　maidens；　and
  let　him　smoke　his　cigars　in　the　very　drawing…room。
  This　is　the　epitaph　she　caused　to　be　written　by　Father　Drono　（who
  piqued　himself　upon　his　Latinity）　on　the　stone　commemorating　the
  death　of　her　late　lord：
  Hic　est　Guilfridus；　belli　dum　vixit　avidus：
  Cum　gladio　et　lancea；　Normania　et　quoque　Francia
  Verbera　dura　dabat：　per　Turcos　multum　equitabat：
  Guilbertum　occidit：　atque　Hierosolyma　vidit。
  Heu！　nunc　sub　fossa　sunt　tanti　militis　ossa；
  Uxor　Athelstani　est　conjux　castissima　Thani。
  And　this　is　the　translation　which　the　doggerel　knave　Wamba　made　of
  the　Latin　lines：
  〃REQUIESCAT。
  〃Under　the　stone　you　behold；
  Buried；　and　coffined；　and　cold；
  Lieth　Sir　Wilfrid　the　Bold。
  〃Always　he　marched　in　advance；
  Warring　in　Flanders　and　France；
  Doughty　with　sword　and　with　lance。
  〃Famous　in　Saracen　fight；
  Rode　in　his　youth　the　good　knight；
  Scattering　Paynims　in　flight。
  〃Brian　the　Templar　untrue；
  Fairly　in　tourney　he　slew；
  Saw　Hierusalem　too。
  〃Now　he　is　buried　and　gone；
  Lying　beneath　the　gray　stone：
  Where　shall　you　find　such　a　one？
  〃Long　time　his　widow　deplored；
  Weeping　the　fate　of　her　lord；
  Sadly　cut　off　by　the　sword。
  〃When　she　was　eased　of　her　pain；
  Came　the　good　Lord　Athelstane；
  When　her　ladyship　married　again。〃
  Athelstane　burst　into　a　loud　laugh；　when　he　heard　it；　at　the　last
  line；　but　Rowena　would　have　had　the　fool　whipped；　had　not　the　Thane
  interceded；　and　to　him；　she　said；　she　could　refuse　nothing。
  CHAPTER　IV。
  IVANHOE　REDIVIVUS。
  I　trust　nobody　will　suppose；　from　the　events　described　in　the　last
  chapter；　that　our　friend　Ivanhoe　is　really　dead。　　Because　we　have
  given　him　an　epitaph　or　two　and　a　monument；　are　these　any　reasons
  that　he　should　be　really　gone　out　of　the　world？　　No：　as　in　the
  pantomime；　when　we　see　Clown　and　Pantaloon　lay　out　Harlequin　and
  cry　over　him；　we　are　always　sure　that　Master　Harlequin　will　be　up
  at　the　next　minute　alert　and　shining　in　his　glistening　coat；　and；
  after　giving　a　box　on　the　ears　to　the　pair　of　them；　will　be　taking
  a　dance　with　Columbine；　or　leaping　gayly　through　the　clock…face；　or
  into　the　three…pair…of…stairs'　window：so　Sir　Wilfrid；　the
  Harlequin　of　our　Christmas　piece；　may　be　run　through　a　little；　or
  may　make　believe　to　be　dead；　but　will　assuredly　rise　up　again　when
  he　is　wanted；　and　show　himself　at　the　right　moment。
  The　suspicious…looking　characters　from　whom　Wamba　ran　away　were　no
  cut…throats　and　plunderers；　as　the　poor　knave　imagined；　but　no
  other　than　Ivanhoe's　friend；　the　hermit；　and　a　reverend　brother　of
  his；　who　visited　the　scene　of　the　late　battle　in　order　to　see　if
  any　Christians　still　survived　there；　whom　they　might　shrive　and　get
  ready　for　heaven；　or　to　whom　they　might　possibly　offer　the　benefit
  of　their　skill　as　leeches。　　Both　were　prodigiously　learned　in　the
  healing　art；　and　had　about　them　those　precious　elixirs　which　so
  often　occur　in　romances；　and　with　which　patients　are　so　miraculously
  restored。　　Abruptly　dropping　his　master's　head　from　his　lap　as　he
  fled；　poor　Wamba　caused　the　knight's　pate　to　fall　with　rather　a
  heavy　thump　to　the　ground；　and　if　the　knave　had　but　stayed　a　minute
  longer；　he　would　have　heard　Sir　Wilfrid　utter　a　deep　groan。　　But
  though　the　fool　heard　him　not；　the　holy　hermits　did；　and　to
  recognize　the　gallant　Wilfrid；　to　withdraw　the　enormous　dagger　still
  sticking　out　of　his　back；　to　wash　the　wound　with　a　portion　of　the
  precious　elixir；　and　to　pour　a　little　of　it　down　his　throat；　was
  with　the　excellent　hermits　the　work　of　an　instant：　which　remedies
  being　applied；　one　of　the　good　men　took　the　knight　by　the　heels　and
  the　other　by　the　head；　and　bore　him　daintily　from　the　castle　to
  their　hermitage　in　a　neighboring　rock。　　As　for　the　Count　of　Chalus；
  and　the　remainder　of　the　slain；　the　hermits　were　too　much　occupied
  with　Ivanhoe's　case　to　mind　them；　and　did　not；　it　appears；　give　them
  any　elixir：　so　that；　if　they　are　really　dead；　they　must　stay　on　the
  rampart　stark　and　cold；　or　if　otherwise；　when　the　scene　closes　upon
  them　as　it　does　now；　they　may　get　up；　shake　themselves；　go　to　the
  slips　and　drink　a　pot　of　porter；　or　change　their　stage…clothes　and
  go　home　to　supper。　　My　dear　readers；　you　may　settle　the　matter　among
  yourselves　as　you　like。　　If　you　wish　to　kill　the　characters　really
  off；　let　them　be　dead；　and　have　done　with　them：　but；　entre　nous；　I
  don't　believe　they　are　any　more　dead　than　you　or　I　are；　and
  sometimes　doubt　whether　there　is　a　single　syllable　of　truth　in　this
  whole　story。
  Well；　Ivanhoe　was　taken　to　the　hermits'　cell；　and　there　doctored　by
  the　holy　fathers　for　his　hurts；　which　were　of　such　a　severe　and
  dangerous　order；　that　he　was　under　medical　treatment　for　a　very
  considerable　time。　　When　he　woke　up　from　his　delirium；　and　asked
  how　long　he　had　been　ill；　fancy　his　astonishment　when　he　heard　that
  he　had　been　in　the　fever　for　six　years！　　He　thought　the　reverend
  fathers　were　joking　at　first；　but　their　profession　forbade　them
  from　that　sort　of　levity；　and　besides；　he　could　not　possibly　have
  got　well　any　sooner；　because　the　story　would　have　been　sadly　put
  out　had　he　appeared　earlier。　　And　it　proves　how　good　the　fathers
  were　to　him；　and　how　very　nearly　that　scoundrel　of　a　Roger　de
  Backbite's　dagger　had　finished　him；　that　he　did　not　get　well　under
  this　great　length　of　time；　during　the　whole　of　which　the　fathers
  tended　him　without　ever　thinking　of　a　fee。　　I　know　of　a　kind
  physician　in　this　town　who　does　as　much　sometimes；　but　I　won't　do
  him　the　ill　service　of　mentioning　his　name　here。
  Ivanhoe；　being　now　quickly　pronounced　well；　trimmed　his　beard；
  which　by　this　time　hung　down　considerably　below　his　knees；　and
  calling　for　his　suit　of　chain…armor；　which　before　had　fitted　his
  elegant　person　as　tight　as　wax；　now　put　it　on；　and　it　bagged　and
  hung　so　loosely　about　him；　that　even　the　good　friars　laughed　at　his
  absurd　appearance。　　It　was　impossible　that　he　should　go　about　the
  country　in　such　a　garb　as　that：　the　very　boys　would　laugh　at　him：
  so　the　friars　gave　him　one　of　their　old　gowns；　in　which　he
  disguised　himself；　and　after　taking　an　affectionate　farewell　of　his
  friends；　set　forth　on　his　return　to　his　native　country。　　As　he　went
  along；　he　learned　that　Richard　was　dead；　that　John　reigned；　that
  Prince　Arthur　had　been　poisoned；　and　was　of　course　made　acquainted
  with　various　other　facts　of　public　importance　recorded　in　Pinnock's
  Catechism　and　the　Historic　Page。
  But　these　subjects　did　not　interest　him　near　so　much　as　his　own
  private　affairs；　and　I　can　fancy　that　his　legs　trembled　under　him；
  and　his　pilgrim's　staff　shook　with　emotion；　as　at　length；　after
  many　perils；　he　came　in　sight　of　his　paternal　mansion　of
  Rotherwood；　and　saw　once　more　the　chimneys　smoking；　the　shadows　of
  the　oaks　over　the　grass　in　the　sunset；　and　the　rooks　winging　over
  the　trees。　　He　heard　the　supper　gong　sounding：　he　knew　his　way　to
  the　door　well　enough；　he　entered　the　familiar　hall　with　a
  benedicite；　and　without　any　more　words　took　his　place。
  。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。
  You　might　have　thought　for　a　moment　that　the　gray　friar　trembled
  and　his　shrunken　cheek　looked　deadly　pale；　but　he　recovered　himself
  presently：　nor　could　you　see　his　pallor　for　the　cowl　which　covered
  his　face。
  A　little　boy　was　playing　on　Athelstane's　knee；　Rowena　smiling　and
  patting　the　Saxon　Thane　fondly　on　his　broad　bullhead；　filled　him　a
  h