No one, of course, but Wamba knows Ivanhoe, who roams about the country, melancholy,--as he of course would be,--charitable,--as he perhaps might be,--for we are specially told that he had a large fortune and nothing to do with it, and slaying robbers wherever he met them;--but sad at heart all the time. Then there comes a little burst of the author's own feelings, while he is burlesquing. "Ah my dear friends and British public, are there not others who are melancholy under a mask of gaiety, and who in the midst of crowds are lonely! Liston was a most melancholy man; Grimaldi had feelings; and then others I wot of. But psha!--let us have the next chapter." In all of which there was a touch of earnestness. Ivanhoe's griefs were enhanced by the wickedness of king John, under whom he would not serve. "It was Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, I need scarcely say, who got the Barons of England to league together and extort from the king that famous instrument and palladium of our liberties, at present in the British Museum, Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury,--The Magna Charta." Athelstane also quarrels with the king, whose orders he disobeys, and Rotherwood is attacked by the royal army. No one was of real service in the way of fighting except Ivanhoe,--and how could he take up that cause? "No; be hanged to me," said the knight bitterly. "This is a quarrel in which I can't interfere. Common politeness forbids. Let yonder ale-swilling Athelstane defend his,--ha, ha!--_wife_; and my Lady Rowena guard her,--ha, ha!--_son_!" and he laughed wildly and madly. But Athelstane is killed,--this time in earnest,--and then Ivanhoe rushes to the rescue. He finds Gurth dead at the park-lodge, and though he is all alone,--having outridden his followers,--he rushes up the chestnut avenue to the house, which is being attacked. "An Ivanhoe! an Ivanhoe!" he bellowed out with a shout that overcame all the din of battle;--"Notre Dame a la recousse?" and to hurl his lance through the midriff of Reginald de Bracy, who was commanding the assault,--who fell howling with anguish,--to wave his battle-axe over his own head, and to cut off those of thirteen men-at-arms, was the work of an instant. "An Ivanhoe! an Ivanhoe!" he still shouted, and down went a man as sure as he said "hoe!" Nevertheless he is again killed by multitudes, or very nearly,--and has again to be cured by the tender nursing of Wamba. But Athelstane is really dead, and Rowena and the boy have to be found. He does his duty and finds them,--just in time to be present at Rowena's death. She has been put in prison by king John, and is in extremis when her first husband gets to her. "Wilfrid, my early loved,"[6] slowly gasped she removing her gray hair from her furrowed temples, and gazing on her boy fondly as he nestled on Ivanhoe's knee,--"promise me by St. Waltheof of Templestowe,--promise me one boon!"