es, Israelite?" asked the Norman sternly. "Hast thy
flesh and blood a charm against heated iron and scalding oil?"

"I care not!" replied the Jew, rendered desperate by paternal affection;
"my daughter is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a thousand times than
those limbs thy cruelty threatens. No silver will I give thee unless I
were to pour it molten down thy [v]avaricious throat--no, not a silver
penny will I give thee, [v]Nazarene, were it to save thee from the deep
damnation thy whole life has merited. Take my life, if thou wilt, and
say that the Jew, amidst his tortures, knew how to disappoint the
Christian."

"We shall see that," said Front-de-Boeuf; "for by the blessed [v]rood
thou shalt feel the extremities of fire and steel! Strip him, slaves,
and chain him down upon the bars."

In spite of the feeble struggles of the old man, the Saracens had
already torn from him his upper garment and were proceeding totally to
disrobe him, when the sound of a bugle, twice winded without the castle,
penetrated even to the recesses of the dungeon. Immediately after voices
were heard calling for Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf. Unwilling to be
found engaged in his hellish occupation, the savage baron gave the
slaves a signal to restore Isaac's garment; and, quitting the dungeon
with his attendants, he left the Jew to thank God for his own
deliverance or to lament over his daughter's captivity, as his personal
or parental feelings might prove the stronger.

III

When the bugle sounded, De Bracy was engaged in pressing his suit with
the Saxon heiress Rowena, whom he had carried off under the impression
that she would speedily surrender to his rough wooing. But he found her
[v]obdurate as well as tearful and in no humor to listen to his
professions of devotion. It was, therefore, with some relief that the
free-lance heard the summons at the barbican. Going into the hall of
the castle, De Bracy was presently joined by Bois-Guilbert.

"Where is Front-de-Boeuf!" the latter asked.

"He is [v]negotiating with the Jew, I suppose," replied De Bracy,
coolly; "probably the howls of Isaac have drowned the blast of the
bugle. But we will make the [v]vassals call him."

They were soon after joined by Front-de-Boeuf, who had only tarried to
give some necessary directions.

"Let us see the cause of this cursed clamor," he said. "Here is a letter
which has just been brought in, and, if I mistake not, it is in Saxon."

He looked at it,