 Family Theatre presents McDonald-Carrie and Hans Conreed. From Hollywood, the mutual network in cooperation with Family Theatre Incorporated brings you McDonald-Carrie and Hans Conreed in Sir Walter Scott's immortal Ivan Ho. To introduce the drama, your host and narrator, McDonald-Carrie. Thank you, Gene Baker. I suppose that most of us have our favorite author. I know that I have mine, and he's been so ever since that day long ago when I first picked up the most exciting, intriguing and romantic historical novel I've ever read. Once I started it, I couldn't put it down any more than I can put it down to day if I as much as open it to the first page. This favorite author of mine is Sir Walter Scott, and the novel is his famous historical classic, Ivan Ho. That is why it is such a pleasure for me to tell it to you tonight on Family Theatre. Hans Conreed will portray the famous knight errant of its title. Come with us then, back to the days when knighthood was in flower. The romantic, chivalrous days of Sir Walter Scott's unforgettable Ivan Ho. The storm that raged that night around the castle of Rotherford, the castle of Cedric the Saxon, was no more tempestuous or violent than were the times. For England was a nation divided. Her arrogant Norman Conquerors rode roughshod over her proud and resentful Saxon people. And her king, Richard the Lion-hearted, was captive in the far-off holy lands while his feared and hated brother Prince John occupied his throne. I, the storm that raged that night around the rugged battlements of the castle of Cedric, reflected well the tempestuous temper of the times. But let me take you now, within those castle walls, into the huge rafter dining hall. Cedric the Saxon is offering hospitality to several travelers who have sought shelter from the storm. I pray that one day I may return thy hospitality, Sir Cedric. Then we shall drink good Norman wine, which I warrant shall forever turn thy tongue against this rough Saxon brew. There spoke Sir Brian de Bois Gilbert, arrogant, hearty Norman knight, but recently returned from the Crusades. One of the travelers given shelter this night. I trust Sir Brian that she'll not measure the extent of my hospitality by the limitations of thy personal likes and dislikes. While you remain here, all within these walls is yours to command. And there spoke rough Hewen and honest Cedric the Saxon, overlord of Rotherford, host to the motley gathering. My deepest thanks, Sir Cedric, for opening thy gates to a wet and weary merchant. May you and yours be forever blessed for this charitable deed. There is elderly Isaac of York, whose high square yellow cap of peculiar fashion assigned by law proclaimed his religion for all to see. But what is this, Sir Cedric? Is a defender of the Holy Sepulchre to be forced to abide the presence of this dog of an unbeliever? It is well that my guardian's castle does not reserve its hospitality for only those who meet with thy Norman approval, Sir Brian. Else even those of true Saxon interest might not enter here. And there spoke the lovely Lady Rowena, Cedric's ward, whose beauty and warmth of spirit could have charmed the flinty heart of the Prince of Evil himself. I have no wish to cause discomfort to thee and thy guests, Sir Cedric, I can well withdraw. That shall not be necessary, Isaac. There is room here at the fireplace beside me and food and warmth to appease thy hunger and dry thy clothes. Pick thy place then here, beside me. And thus speaks the last of the traitors, a young pilgrim but recently returned from the Holy Land whose black cloak with large collar and hood effectively conceals his features. And as Isaac thankfully seats himself at the fire beside the pilgrim, talk at the main table turns to other things. You are traveling then, Sir Brian, to the passage of arms at Ashby? Aye, Sir Cedric. There to test the strength of my lance against all comers. And I pledge thee that if it not be I who wins the Chaplet of Honor, it shall be another Norman knight. I beg your leave, Sir Brian, to state that Saxon chivalry comes second to none, either in tawny or in battle. Surely you yourself can attest to that, or have you forgotten so soon the passage of arms at darker? Plague take thee, pilgrim, for such a memory. What means the pilgrim by that, Sir Brian? He refers to a turnee held by King Richard, where my beast of a horse stumbled and caused my falling before the lance of a Saxon knight. A knight of Saxon blood, you say, Sir Brian? Aye. And one of little birth and less renown, my lady. He is the knight of Ivanhoe. Ivanhoe? Leave me on it, guests. I must enjoin you from ever mentioning that name in me presence again. It is forbidden within the walls of the castle of Rotherford. It is shortly after Sir Cedric's startling announcement that the pilgrim makes his way toward the quarters of Simon. Then, from a side passage, a lovely girl emerges to halt the hooded figure's progress. May I speak with thee a moment, Sir Pilgrim? I met thy service, Lady Ruina. You mentioned this evening a noble Saxon knight, the knight of Ivanhoe. Please, in the name of heaven, if you have any inkling as to where he may be now, I beg thee, send him urgent word not to set foot on this land. Your tone bespeaks much concern for this Ivanhoe, Lady Ruina. Yet without more to judge by, I can scarce feel that the knight would listen. Not even if it were known that Prince John and his followers and foremost among them being Sir Briand de Bois Gilbert have sworn death to all loyal followers of King Richard. For a man who has but little personal reason for living me, lady, such a warning might serve only as a challenge. Why do you say a little personal reason for living, Sir Pilgrim? I have heard that Ivanhoe was banished from his father's domain because of love for thee, Lady Ruina. That is true. His father, my guardian, Sir Cedric, wishes me to wed royal Saxon blood. When Ivanhoe professed his love for me despite this, his father banished him. Then what joy in life for Ivanhoe unless he knows that this love of his be returned, the lady? What message canst thou send him concerning this? Only that I pray he does not risk return to this land. But if he should, then I also pray he be here in time to bear arms at Ashby. For I fear that only a champion of Saxony could alter Sir Cedric's intention to wed me to someone else. A marriage which would forever bar happiness from either of us. It is early the next morning when Isaac of York makes his solitary way through the poston gate and rides off into Sherwood Forest. A scarce as the castle of Brothaford disappeared from his sight when flying, whos rapidly overtake the elderly merchants. The blessings of a new day upon thee, Isaac of York. Sir Pilgrim, I had not thought that I was the only one forsaking the hospitable walls that fitted this early hour. I, too, was up and about but times, Isaac. Unfortunate for thee that I was, for I overheard Sir Brion de Braguilbert charge his Saracen slaves with the task of seizing thee near Ashby and taking the captive to his castle of Toquilstone. But twice, sir Pilgrim, why this intended seizure of my person? One might hazard that his coffers are in need of gold, Isaac, and he intends using the alchemy of torture to ring it out of a poor soul who would have but little redress. It is not enough, then, that such as he must scorn and despise us. Our worldly possessions, our very blood and bodies, must be theirs to command also. Is it we, then, Sir Pilgrim, who are inhuman? In the eyes of God, Isaac, all men are brothers. And so, I have warned thee. And I, with my personal concern, have not even thanked thee for thy gracious mission. I wish for naught for this poor favor done, Isaac. For naught, Sir Pilgrim? Not even for a goodly steed, a firm lance and a suit of the finest armor. And what fiend prompted that, yes, Isaac? No fiend, but only the glint of firelight last evening upon the night's chain and spurs of gold that are hidden beneath that pilgrim's gown. So, with eyes as keen as thine, there is little that I can say. True, Sir Pilgrim. But there is much that you can do. I beg thee to take this scroll to a kinsman of mine in Leicester. He hath six harnesses of Milan armor and ten goodly steeds. The choice of these shall be thine. And if I were to avail myself of this, large-ass good Isaac, then may the blessings of our father be upon thee. And may thy lance at the tourney of Ashby be as powerful as the rod of Moses. It is color that sets the mood on the day of the tourney at Ashby the proud colors of the penins of the combatant knights, the gay and lovely colors of the gowns of their beloved ladies and the rich green of the thick turf upon the field of honor soon to be stained with the red of proud blood as honor-clad knights clash in mortal combat for glory and the favored smile of their ladies there. These then are the colors of the lists at Ashby. Look upon the penins of those who have so far been victorious this day. Frantibeuf, Mavousin, Soprion de Bourguibet, Normans all. Are there no Saxons left with the courage and will to contest the field with such as these? I once knew of such a night, Sir Cedric, one who could indeed have brought honor to the fair name of Saxon England and to your house. Silence, Lady Rowena. On this subject I'll hear you not. I shall speak no more of it, Sir Cedric. Oh, but look there, settling in the lower stands. It is the merchant Isaac of York. And what a beautiful maiden with him. I wonder who she looked like. It is not likely to revel in such bloody sport as is here displayed, Father. Now do I find it in my heart to enjoy it, Rebecca? Then why remain? From what the pilgrims said your very life is in danger from that arrogant Norman knight upon the field. In my humble way, child, I have endeavored to repay the pilgrims' kindness by furthering his wishes. Whether I have succeeded should be borne out on that field today. I wish to be witness to it. But unless more challengers write out shortly, the turn is shall be over. And Sir Briand de Bourguibet crowned champion. What then? But you see, Rebecca, another challenger is entering the field. And judging by the strange device upon his shield, whatever risks I may have taken shall soon be amply repaid. It is the strange device upon the shield of the challenger. A young oak tree uprooted. And the Spanish word, destichada, inscribed across it. Disinherited. And now the disinherited knight guides his fiery black steed toward the pavilions of the Norman knights, whose shields hang defiantly from the pennant staffs. Straight to the pavilion of Sir Briand de Bourguibet, the deal bear he rides with the tip of his lance rudely strikes the proud shield of the ground. No challenge, Sir Knight. Your skill at arms had best be more polished. It is customary to answer a challenge with pointed lance rather than dulled words, Sir Briand. And well it shall be answered, Sir Knight. Too well for thy liking. Take thy place in the lists and look thy last upon the sun. Two knights ride to opposite ends of the green field, bring their animals around and pounce their lances. An ominous hush falls over the lists as the two armored giants face each other. And the trumpets give the signal for combat to begin. Then challenger and challenger start toward each other relentlessly. The horses first to the walk, then a truck, a canter, and then the hooves pound furiously against the turf as their masters bend low in their saddles. The steels are held high, the points of their lances aimed like arrows toward each other's breasts, and then with the explosive force of a thunderbolt, they meet. The Briand de Bois-Guilbert has been unhorsed. A lucky hit of the lance, Sir Knight. I challenge thee to dismount and see if thy luck still holds with cold steel. I doubt me, Sir Briand, that your sword can do as well against a true Saxon blade as you boast that it did against the Saracen. You'll bespeak yourself boldly for one who fights not of holy land or service to crown? If thou thinkst, sir, then let his blade show thee how infidel and traitorous knight shall fare before the banners of Richard of all... Yield, then, or else thy life before fit. I... I yield to thee, sir disinherited. I yield. And so it was that the great passage of arms at Ashby came to an end. And shortly after, the disinherited knight, his visor still closed, approached the appointed queen of love and beauty, the Lady Ruiné, to receive the prized chaplet of victory from her hands. Brave knight, thy valorous deeds have earned thee well this chaplet of honor. But before I be stowed upon thee, is it not meat that thy identity become known? I beg of thee, fair lady, allow me to receive the chaplet still helmeted and unknown. For me house and lineage matter not, hath it not been said that by a man's deeds so shall ye not... so shall ye not... Sir Cedric, I must be badly heard. Calm thyself, Lady Ruiné. I'll have his helmet removed in a trice. There, now we may... Sir Cedric, the disinherited knight, our Saxon champion is... Aye, Ruiné, he is my son, the son who for love of thee I banished from his sight forever. Ivanhoe. Thus is falling our Sherwood forest as the revenue of Sir Cedric through the leafy clades bound homeward toward the castle of Rothithord. At its head rides frowning, dour-visaged Sir Cedric. Beside him the pale Lady Ruiné. I tell thee, Lady Ruiné, I'll have none of him. Let those leech his wounds for whose sake he suffered them. And for whose sake? But not for England's. Does thou believe his wounds were suffered, my lord? Surely not for those of Saxon blood. Else why did he wear the armour why did he not proclaim his identity as a true champion of his people should? What's thou have him then flaunt his banishment in thy face? What's thou have him made open target for those who seek his life as the right hand of King Richard of the Lionheart? Aye. I must in truth admit that thy words have somewhat of sense, Lady Ruiné. And so you leave him, so are wounded by Sir Breon's lance to be tended by Isaac and Rebecca. Leave him! Sir Cedric, I besiege thy aid. It is the merchant, Isaac. Thy aid, noble Saxon, for the sake of our children, thy aid, Sir Cedric. Children, Ivanhoe and Rebecca, watch transpired man speak quickly. Two hours ago, the Saracen slaves of Sir Breon attacked my party in these woods. They have abducted my daughter Rebecca to hold her for ransom. And Ivanhoe, what of him, Isaac? So wounded as he was, he rode after them to rescue my daughter, scarcely able to bear the weight of armor who sit upright in the saddle. Oh, no! They must be going to Sir Breon's castle then, that of Torquilstone. And with two hours' start before us, I fear me, Isaac, that our children are lost to us forever. Last brown battlements of the castle Torquilstone loom large and forbidding in the dull half-light of a sunless dawn. An armored knight, reeling in his saddle, rains up his horse and winds his horn in defiant challenge before the barred iron of her portcullis. A message from him is taken within. A challenge to the overlord of Torquilstone for trial by combat under the laws of chivalry. The prize? The fair person of the maiden, Rebecca. And shortly after, out from the castle walls and across the drawbridge, armed and mounted for mortal battle, rides the ominous, powerful figure of Sir Breon de Bois Gilbert. Enter the field of combat for one such as Rebecca is indeed a fool's challenge. And to do battle with the wounds you suffered at Ashby by my lance is but to invite certain death. My wounds at Saracen hands did not deter me from unhorsing you on the holy land, Sir Breon. And if memory serves, it was you who yielded to me at Ashby despite the hurts to which you refer. I'll be at them, dog of a Saxon. Take thy lance and prepare for the death you invite. And so, once again, arrogant Norman and brave Saxon face each other with couched lances across the green turf of a field of honor. Once again they move toward each other with mortal intent, flying hooves pounding the turf like drums of doom. And once again they meet with the fury of the Thunderbolt. They're shocked, they're stunned and still upon the turf lies Ivanhoe. But then he stirs, staggers to his feet, draws his blade and with the lion's heart's own battle cry, Saint George and Mary England. He does battle against the furious attack of the still-mounted Norman. I see there remain strength in this wish, you senseless fool. The edge of my steel shall bring my end to pass most quickly. Death to King Richard! Visor of thy helmet is open, Subriam. Medagher pointers at thy throat. Yield ye now, or else I... So... so be it, proud Norman. You have yielded them to a far greater power than I. Rages round the castle of Rotherford, the castle of Cedric, the Saxon. But within its huge rafter dining hall, weary travellers are given warming shelter at the massive heart. The measure of me hospitality is limited not. All within these walls is yours to command. There spoke rough-hewn, honest Cedric, overlord of Rotherford. My heart is filled to overflowing, Sir Cedric, for what you and yours have done for me and mine. And surely thou knowest that my prayers echo those of my father. May heaven bless thee forever. And there spoke Isaac of York and his fair daughter, Rebecca, who here have found some momentary surcease from the tragic persecution of their kind. Nay, Rebecca, Isaac, rather let us thank thee, for if not for you, he who is now my betrothed would not this day be alive. There, the lovely Lady Rowena, lovelier than ever now, as she turns to gaze at the tall stalwart knight beside her. Aye, and the thanks of thy liege, Lord, Richard of the Lionheart go out to thee too. For my mission here in England to scout out his enemies could nare been otherwise accomplished. And thus speaks he whose tale now has been told. Pilgrim, disinherited one, chivalrous son of Saxony and flower of knights errant, Sir Ivanhoe. And we leave him now as he and those he loves in the castle of Rotherford toast their brave challenge to the storm raging outside and to the storm of their tempestuous times. To St. George and Mary England. To St. George and Mary England. Here's something I think will interest you. During the past two and a half years, many of the stars have appeared on Family Theatre. Many of them several times. That's quite a record. And one we're all proud of. And why do we enjoy being on Family Theatre? Because its ideals and objectives seem important to us and necessary. It brings us a weekly reminder that individuals and families can obtain God's help by praying for it humbly and sincerely. Many of Family Theatre's regular listeners have written to tell us that they feel as we do. That they enjoy the program and approve its ideals. We're always glad to receive your critical reactions to Family Theatre. Why not drop us a note and perhaps mention a story you'd like to hear on our program. We'd like to have the opportunity of bringing it to you if we can. And with it to send you a reminder that the family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. From Hollywood, Family Theatre has brought to you McDonnell, Kerry and Hans Conreed in Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhole. Others in our cast were Gene Bates, Tudor Owen, William Conrad, Lillian Bayef and Walter Burke. Our adaptation was written by Sydney Marshall with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman and was directed for Family Theatre by Jaime Del Valle. This series of Family Theatre broadcasts is made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this type of program, by the mutual network which has responded to this need and by the hundreds of stars of stage, screen and radio who have so unselfishly given of their time and talent to appear on our Family Theatre stage. This is Gene Baker inviting you to join us next week at this time when your Family Theatre will present Anne Blythe and Sterling Holloway in George Lathrop's rollicking comedy in each other's shoes. Join us, won't you? Family Theatre is heard in Canada through the facilities of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation and is broadcast to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. This is the world's largest network, the Mutual Broadcasting System.