The castle was before him; the western tower was in flames; the besiegers were pressing at the southern gate; Athelstane's banner, the bull rampant, was still on the northern bartizan.

"An Ivanhoe, an Ivanhoe!" he bellowed out, with a shout that overcame all the din of battle: "Nostre Dame a la rescousse!" 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 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!" "Ivanhoe! Ivanhoe!" a shrill voice cried from the top of the northern bartizan.

Ivanhoe knew it.
"Rowena my love, I come!" he roared on his part.

"Villains! touch but a hair of her head, and I.