"How the fellow must have howled!" "My love!" said Rowena, interposing tenderly, and putting a pretty white finger on his lip.
"I would have liked to see it too," cried the boy.
"That's my own little Cedric, and so thou shalt.

And, friar, didst see my poor kinsman Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe?
They say he fought well at Chalus!" "My sweet lord," again interposed Rowena, "mention him not." "Why?
Because thou and he were so tender in days of yore--when you could not bear my plain face, being all in love with his pale one ?" "Those times are past now, dear Athelstane," said his affectionate wife, looking up to the ceiling.
"Marry, thou never couldst forgive him the Jewess, Rowena." "The odious hussy! don't mention the name of the unbelieving creature," exclaimed the lady.
"Well, well, poor Wil was a good lad--a thought melancholy and milksop though.

Why, a pint of sack fuddled his poor brains." "Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe was a good lance," said the friar.

"I have heard there was none better in Christendom.

He lay in our convent after his wounds, and it was there we tended him till he died.