[Illustration]




The Brethren

by H. Rider Haggard


Contents

 Dedication
 AUTHOR’S NOTE.
 PROLOGUE

 Chapter I. By The Waters of Death Creek
 Chapter II. Sir Andrew D’Arcy
 Chapter III. The Knighting of the Brethren
 Chapter IV. The Letter of Saladin
 Chapter V. The Wine Merchant
 Chapter VI. The Christmas Feast at Steeple
 Chapter VII. The Banner of Saladin
 Chapter VIII. The Widow Masouda
 Chapter IX. The Horses Flame and Smoke
 Chapter X. On Board the Galley
 Chapter XI. The City of Al-Je-Bal
 Chapter XII. The Lord of Death
 Chapter XIII. The Embassy
 Chapter XIV. The Combat on the Bridge
 Chapter XV. The Flight to Emesa
 Chapter XVI. The Sultan Saladin
 Chapter XVII. The Brethren Depart from Damascus
 Chapter XVIII. Wulf Pays for the Drugged Wine
 Chapter XIX. Before the Walls of Ascalon
 Chapter XX. The Luck of the Star of Hassan
 Chapter XXI. What Befell Godwin
 Chapter XXII. At Jerusalem
 Chapter XXIII. Saint Rosamund
 Chapter XXIV. The Dregs of the Cup




Dedication


R.M.S. Mongolia, 12th May, 1904 Mayhap, Ella, here too distance lends
its enchantment, and these gallant brethren would have quarrelled over
Rosamund, or even had their long swords at each other’s throat. Mayhap
that Princess and heroine might have failed in the hour of her trial
and never earned her saintly crown. Mayhap the good horse “Smoke” would
have fallen on the Narrow Way, leaving false Lozelle a victor, and
Masouda, the royal-hearted, would have offered up a strangely different
sacrifice upon the altars of her passionate desire.

Still, let us hold otherwise, though we grow grey and know the world
for what it is. Let us for a little time think as we thought while we
were young; when faith knew no fears for anything and death had not
knocked upon our doors; when you opened also to my childish eyes that
gate of ivory and pearl which leads to the blessed kingdom of Romance.

At the least I am sure, and I believe that you, my sister, will agree
with me, that, above and beyond its terrors and its pitfalls,
Imagination has few finer qualities, and none, perhaps, more helpful to
our hearts, than those which enable us for an hour to dream that men
and women, their fortunes and their fate, are as we would fashion them.

H. Rider Haggard.

To Mrs. Maddison Green.




“_Two lovers by the maiden sate,
Without a glance of jealous hate;
The maid her lovers sat between,
With open brow and equal mien;—
It is a sight but rarely spied,
Thanks to man’s wrath and woman’s pride._”
— Scott




AUTHOR’S NOTE:


Standing a while ago upon the flower-clad plain above Tiberius, by the
Lake of Galilee, the writer gazed at the double peaks of the Hill of
Hattin. Here, or so tradition says, Christ preached the Sermon on the
Mount—that perfect rule of gentleness and peace. Here, too—and this is
certain—after nearly twelve centuries had gone by, Yusuf Salah-ed-din,
whom we know as the Sultan Saladin, crushed the Christian power in
Palestine in perhaps the most terrible battle which that land of blood
has known. Thus the Mount of the Beatitudes became the Mount of
Massacre.

Whilst musing on these strangely-contrasted scenes enacted in one place
there arose in his mind a desire to weave, as best he might, a tale
wherein any who are drawn to the romance of that pregnant and
mysterious epoch, when men by thousands were glad to lay down their
lives for visions and spiritual hopes, could find a picture, however
faint and broken, of the long war between Cross and Crescent waged
among the Syrian plains and deserts. Of Christian knights and ladies
also, and their loves and sufferings in England and the East; of the
fearful lord of the Assassins whom the Franks called Old Man of the
Mountain, and his fortress city, Masyaf. Of the great-hearted, if at
times cruel Saladin and his fierce Saracens; of the rout at Hattin
itself, on whose rocky height the Holy Rood was set up as a standard
and captured, to be seen no more by Christian eyes; and of the Iast
surrender, whereby the Crusaders lost Jerusalem forever.

Of that desire this story is the fruit.




PROLOGUE


Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, the king Strong to Aid,
Sovereign of the East, sat at night in his palace at Damascus and
brooded on the wonderful ways of God, by Whom he had been lifted to his
high estate. He remembered how, when he was but small in the eyes of
men, Nour-ed-din, king of Syria, forced him to accompany his uncle,
Shirkuh, to Egypt, whither he went, “like one driven to his death,” and
how, against his own will, there he rose to greatness. He thought of
his father, the wise Ayoub, and the brethren with whom he was brought
up, all of them dead now save one; and of his sisters, whom he had
cherished. Most of all did he think of her, Zobeide, who had been
stolen away by the knight whom she loved even to the loss of her own
soul—yes, by the English friend of his youth, his father’s prisoner,
Sir Andrew D’Arcy, who, led astray by passion, had done him and his
house this grievous wrong. He had sworn, he remembered, that he would
bring her back even from England, and already had planned to kill her
husband and capture her when he learned her death. She had left a
child, or so his spies told him, who, if she still lived, must be a
woman now—his own niece, though half of noble English blood.

Then his mind wandered from this old, half-forgotten story to the woe
and blood in which his days were set, and to the last great struggle
between the followers of the prophets Jesus and Mahomet, that
_Jihad_[1] for which he made ready—and he sighed. For he was a merciful
man, who loved not slaughter, although his fierce faith drove him from
war to war.

 [1] Holy War


Salah-ed-din slept and dreamed of peace. In his dream a maiden stood
before him. Presently, when she lifted her veil, he saw that she was
beautiful, with features like his own, but fairer, and knew her surely
for the daughter of his sister who had fled with the English knight.
Now he wondered why she visited him thus, and in his vision prayed
Allah to make the matter clear. Then of a sudden he saw this same woman
standing before him on a Syrian plain, and on either side of her a
countless host of Saracens and Franks, of whom thousands and tens of
thousands were appointed to death. Lo! he, Salah-ed-din, charged at the
head of his squadrons, scimitar aloft, but she held up her hand and
stayed him.

“What do you here, my niece?” he asked.

“I am come to save the lives of men through you,” she answered;
“therefore was I born of your blood, and therefore I am sent to you.
Put up your sword, King, and spare them.”

“Say, maiden, what ransom do you bring to buy this multitude from doom?
What ransom, and what gift?”

“The ransom of my own blood freely offered, and Heaven’s gift of peace
to your sinful soul, O King.” And with that outstretched hand she drew
down his keen-edged scimitar until it rested on her breast.

Salah-ed-din awoke, and marvelled on his dream, but said nothing of it
to any man. The next night it returned to him, and the memory of it
went with him all the day that followed, but still he said nothing.

When on the third night he dreamed it yet again, even more vividly,
then he was sure that this thing was from God, and summoned his holy
Imauns and his Diviners, and took counsel with them. These, after they
had listened, prayed and consulted, spoke thus:

“O Sultan, Allah has warned you in shadows that the woman, your niece,
who dwells far away in England, shall by her own nobleness and
sacrifice, in some time to come, save you from shedding a sea of blood,
and bring rest upon the land. We charge you, therefore, draw this lady
to your court, and keep her ever by your side, since if she escape you,
her peace goes with her.”

Salah-ed-din said that this interpretation was wise and true, for thus
also he had read his dream. Then he summoned a certain false knight who
bore the Cross upon his breast, but in secret had accepted the Koran, a
Frankish spy of his, who came from that country where dwelt the maiden,
his niece, and from him learned about her, her father, and her home.
With him and another spy who passed as a Christian palmer, by the aid
of Prince Hassan, one of the greatest and most trusted of his Emirs, he
made a cunning plan for the capture of the maiden if she would not come
willingly, and for her bearing away to Syria.

Moreover—that in the eyes of all men her dignity might be worthy of her
high blood and fate—by his decree he created her, the niece whom he had
never seen, Princess of Baalbec, with great possessions—a rule that her
grandfather, Ayoub, and her uncle, Izzeddin, had held before her. Also
he purchased a stout galley of war, manning it with proved sailors and
with chosen men-at-arms, under the command of the Prince Hassan, and
wrote a letter to the English lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, and to his
daughter, and prepared a royal gift of jewels, and sent them to the
lady, his niece, far away in England, and with it the Patent of her
rank. Her he commanded this company to win by peace, or force, or
fraud, as best they might, but that without her not one of them should
dare to look upon his face again. And with these he sent the two
Frankish spies, who knew the place where the lady lived, one of whom,
the false knight, was a skilled mariner and the captain of the ship.

These things did Yusuf Salah-ed-din, and waited patiently till it
should please God to accomplish the vision with which God had filled
his soul in sleep.




Chapter I.
By The Waters of Death Creek


From the sea-wall on the coast of Essex, Rosamund looked out across the
ocean eastwards. To right and left, but a little behind her, like
guards attending the person of their sovereign, stood her cousins, the
twin brethren, Godwin and Wulf, tall and shapely men. Godwin was still
as a statue, his hands folded over the hilt of the long, scabbarded
sword, of which the point was set on the ground before him, but Wulf,
his brother, moved restlessly, and at length yawned aloud. They were
beautiful to look at, all three of them, as they appeared in the
splendour of their youth and health. The imperial Rosamund, dark-haired
and eyed, ivory skinned and slender-waisted, a posy of marsh flowers in
her hand; the pale, stately Godwin, with his dreaming face; and the
bold-fronted, blue-eyed warrior, Wulf, Saxon to his finger-tips,
notwithstanding his father’s Norman blood.

At the sound of that unstifled yawn, Rosamund turned her head with the
slow grace which marked her every movement.

“Would you sleep already, Wulf, and the sun not yet down?” she asked in
her rich, low voice, which, perhaps because of its foreign accent,
seemed quite different to that of any other woman.

“I think so, Rosamund,” he answered. “It would serve to pass the time,
and now that you have finished gathering those yellow flowers which we
rode so far to seek, the time—is somewhat long.”

“Shame on you, Wulf,” she said, smiling. “Look upon yonder sea and sky,
at that sheet of bloom all gold and purple—”

“I have looked for hard on half an hour, Cousin Rosamund; also at your
back and at Godwin’s left arm and side-face, till in truth I thought
myself kneeling in Stangate Priory staring at my father’s effigy upon
his tomb, while Prior John pattered the Mass. Why, if you stood it on
its feet, it is Godwin, the same crossed hands resting on the sword,
the same cold, silent face staring at the sky.”

“Godwin as Godwin will no doubt one day be, or so he hopes—that is, if
the saints give him grace to do such deeds as did our sire,”
interrupted his brother.

Wulf looked at him, and a curious flash of inspiration shone in his
blue eyes.

“No, I think not,” he answered; “the deeds you may do, and greater, but
surely you will lie wrapped not in a shirt of mail, but with a monk’s
cowl at the last—unless a woman robs you of it and the quickest road to
heaven. Tell me now, what are you thinking of, you two—for I have been
wondering in my dull way, and am curious to learn how far I stand from
truth? Rosamund, speak first. Nay, not all the truth—a maid’s thoughts
are her own—but just the cream of it, that which rises to the top and
should be skimmed.”

Rosamund sighed. “I? I was thinking of the East, where the sun shines
ever and the seas are blue as my girdle stones, and men are full of
strange learning—”

“And women are men’s slaves!” interrupted Wulf. “Still, it is natural
that you should think of the East who have that blood in your veins,
and high blood, if all tales be true. Say, Princess”—and he bowed the
knee to her with an affectation of mockery which could not hide his
earnest reverence—“say, Princess, my cousin, granddaughter of Ayoub and
niece of the mighty monarch, Yusuf Salah-ed-din, do you wish to leave
this pale land and visit your dominions in Egypt and in Syria?”

She listened, and at his words her eyes seemed to take fire, the
stately form to erect itself, the breast to heave, and the thin
nostrils to grow wider as though they scented some sweet, remembered
perfume. Indeed, at that moment, standing there on the promontory above
the seas, Rosamund looked a very queen.

Presently she answered him with another question.

“And how would they greet me there, Wulf, who am a Norman D’Arcy and a
Christian maid?”

“The first they would forgive you, since that blood is none so ill
either, and for the second—why, faiths can be changed.”

Then it was that Godwin spoke for the first time.

“Wulf, Wulf,” he said sternly, “keep watch upon your tongue, for there
are things that should not be said even as a silly jest. See you, I
love my cousin here better than aught else upon the earth—”

“There, at least, we agree,” broke in Wulf.

“Better than aught else on the earth,” repeated Godwin; “but, by the
Holy Blood and by St. Peter, at whose shrine we are, I would kill her
with my own hand before her lips kissed the book of the false prophet.”

“Or any of his followers,” muttered Wulf to himself, but fortunately,
perhaps, too low for either of his companions to hear. Aloud he said,
“You understand, Rosamund, you must be careful, for Godwin ever keeps
his word, and that would be but a poor end for so much birth and beauty
and wisdom.”

“Oh, cease mocking, Wulf,” she answered, laying her hand lightly on the
tunic that hid his shirt of mail. “Cease mocking, and pray St. Chad,
the builder of this church, that no such dreadful choice may ever be
forced upon you, or me, or your beloved brother—who, indeed, in such a
case would do right to slay me.”

“Well, if it were,” answered Wulf, and his fair face flushed as he
spoke, “I trust that we should know how to meet it. After all, is it so
very hard to choose between death and duty?”

“I know not,” she replied; “but oft-times sacrifice seems easy when
seen from far away; also, things may be lost that are more prized than
life.”

“What things? Do you mean place, or wealth, or—love?”

“Tell me,” said Rosamund, changing her tone, “what is that boat rowing
round the river’s mouth? A while ago it hung upon its oars as though
those within it watched us.”

“Fisher-folk,” answered Wulf carelessly. “I saw their nets.”

“Yes; but beneath them something gleamed bright, like swords.”

“Fish,” said Wulf; “we are at peace in Essex.” Although Rosamund did
not look convinced, he went on: “Now for Godwin’s thoughts— what were
they?”

“Brother, if you would know, of the East also—the East and its wars.”

“Which have brought us no great luck,” answered Wulf, “seeing that our
sire was slain in them and naught of him came home again save his
heart, which lies at Stangate yonder.”

“How better could he die,” asked Godwin, “than fighting for the Cross
of Christ? Is not that death of his at Harenc told of to this day? By
our Lady, I pray for one but half as glorious!”

“Aye, he died well—he died well,” said Wulf, his blue eyes flashing and
his hand creeping to his sword hilt. “But, brother, there is peace at
Jerusalem, as in Essex.”

“Peace? Yes; but soon there will be war again. The monk Peter—he whom
we saw at Stangate last Sunday, and who left Syria but six months
gone—told me that it was coming fast. Even now the Sultan Saladin,
sitting at Damascus, summons his hosts from far and wide, while his
priests preach battle amongst the tribes and barons of the East. And
when it comes, brother, shall we not be there to share it, as were our
grandfather, our father, our uncle, and so many of our kin? Shall we
rot here in this dull land, as by our uncle’s wish we have done these
many years, yes, ever since we were home from the Scottish war, and
count the kine and plough the fields like peasants, while our peers are
charging on the pagan, and the banners wave, and the blood runs red
upon the holy sands of Palestine?”

Now it was Wulf’s turn to take fire.

“By our Lady in Heaven, and our lady here!”—and he looked at Rosamund,
who was watching the pair of them with her quiet thoughtful eyes—“go
when you will, Godwin, and I go with you, and as our birth was one
birth, so, if it is decreed, let our death be one death.” And suddenly
his hand that had been playing with the sword-hilt gripped it fast, and
tore the long, lean blade from its scabbard and cast it high into the
air, flashing in the sunlight, to catch it as it fell again, while in a
voice that caused the wild fowl to rise in thunder from the Saltings
beneath, Wulf shouted the old war-cry that had rung on so many a
field—“_A D’Arcy! a D’Arcy! Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!_” Then he sheathed
his sword again and added in a shamed voice, “Are we children that we
fight where no foe is? Still, brother, may we find him soon!”

Godwin smiled grimly, but answered nothing; only Rosamund said:

“So, my cousins, you would be away, perhaps to return no more, and that
will part us. But”—and her voice broke somewhat—“such is the woman’s
lot, since men like you ever love the bare sword best of all, nor
should I think well of you were it otherwise. Yet, cousins, I know not
why”—and she shivered a little—“it comes into my heart that Heaven
often answers such prayers swiftly. Oh, Wulf! your sword looked very
red in the sunlight but now: I say that it looked very red in the
sunlight. I am afraid—of I know not what. Well, we must be going, for
we have nine miles to ride, and the dark is not so far away. But first,
my cousins, come with me into this shrine, and let us pray St. Peter
and St. Chad to guard us on our journey home.”

“Our journey?” said Wulf anxiously. “What is there for you to fear in a
nine-mile ride along the shores of the Blackwater?”

“I said our journey home Wulf; and home is not in the hall at Steeple,
but yonder,” and she pointed to the quiet, brooding sky.

“Well answered,” said Godwin, “in this ancient place, whence so many
have journeyed home; all the Romans who are dead, when it was their
fortress, and the Saxons who came after them, and others without
count.”

Then they turned and entered the old church—one of the first that ever
was in Britain, rough-built of Roman stone by the very hands of Chad,
the Saxon saint, more than five hundred years before their day. Here
they knelt a while at the rude altar and prayed, each of them in his or
her own fashion, then crossed themselves, and rose to seek their
horses, which were tied in the shed hard by.

Now there were two roads, or rather tracks, back to the Hall at
Steeple—one a mile or so inland, that ran through the village of
Bradwell, and the other, the shorter way, along the edge of the
Saltings to the narrow water known as Death Creek, at the head of which
the traveller to Steeple must strike inland, leaving the Priory of
Stangate on his right. It was this latter path they chose, since at low
tide the going there is good for horses—which, even in the summer, that
of the inland track was not. Also they wished to be at home by
supper-time, lest the old knight, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, the father of
Rosamund and the uncle of the orphan brethren, should grow anxious, and
perhaps come out to seek them.

For the half of an hour or more they rode along the edge of the
Saltings, for the most part in silence that was broken only by the cry
of curlew and the lap of the turning tide. No human being did they see,
indeed, for this place was very desolate and unvisited, save now and
again by fishermen. At length, just as the sun began to sink, they
approached the shore of Death Creek—a sheet of tidal water which ran a
mile or more inland, growing ever narrower, but was here some three
hundred yards in breadth. They were well mounted, all three of them.
Indeed, Rosamund’s horse, a great grey, her father’s gift to her, was
famous in that country-side for its swiftness and power, also because
it was so docile that a child could ride it; while those of the
brethren were heavy-built but well-trained war steeds, taught to stand
where they were left, and to charge when they were urged, without fear
of shouting men or flashing steel.

Now the ground lay thus. Some seventy yards from the shore of Death
Creek and parallel to it, a tongue of land, covered with scrub and a
few oaks, ran down into the Saltings, its point ending on their path,
beyond which were a swamp and the broad river. Between this tongue and
the shore of the creek the track wended its way to the uplands. It was
an ancient track; indeed the reason of its existence was that here the
Romans or some other long dead hands had built a narrow mole or quay of
rough stone, forty or fifty yards in length, out into the water of the
creek, doubtless to serve as a convenience for fisher boats, which
could lie alongside of it even at low tide. This mole had been much
destroyed by centuries of washing, so that the end of it lay below
water, although the landward part was still almost sound and level.

Coming over the little rise at the top of the wooded tongue, the quick
eyes of Wulf, who rode first—for here the path along the border of the
swamp was so narrow that they must go in single file—caught sight of a
large, empty boat moored to an iron ring set in the wall of the mole.

“Your fishermen have landed, Rosamund,” he said, “and doubtless gone up
to Bradwell.”

“That is strange,” she answered anxiously, “since here no fishermen
ever come.” And she checked her horse as though to turn.

“Whether they come or not, certainly they have gone,” said Godwin,
craning forward to look about him; “so, as we have nothing to fear from
an empty boat, let us push on.”

On they rode accordingly, until they came to the root of the stone quay
or pier, when a sound behind them caused them to look back. Then they
saw a sight that sent the blood to their hearts, for there behind them,
leaping down one by one on to that narrow footway, were men armed with
naked swords, six or eight of them, all of whom, they noted, had strips
of linen pierced with eyelet holes tied beneath their helms or leather
caps, so as to conceal their faces.

“A snare! a snare!” cried Wulf, drawing his sword. “Swift! follow me up
the Bradwell path!” and he struck the spurs into his horse. It bounded
forward, to be dragged next second with all the weight of his powerful
arm almost to its haunches. “God’s mercy!” he cried, “there are more of
them!” And more there were, for another band of men armed and
linen-hooded like the first, had leapt down on to that Bradwell path,
amongst them a stout man, who seemed to be unarmed, except for a long,
crooked knife at his girdle and a coat of ringed mail, which showed
through the opening of his loose tunic.

“To the boat!” shouted Godwin, whereat the stout man laughed—a light,
penetrating laugh, which even then all three of them heard and noted.

Along the quay they rode, since there was nowhere else that they could
go, with both paths barred, and swamp and water on one side of them,
and a steep, wooded bank upon the other. When they reached it, they
found why the man had laughed, for the boat was made fast with a strong
chain that could not be cut; more, her sail and oars were gone.

“Get into it,” mocked a voice; “or, at least, let the lady get in; it
will save us the trouble of carrying her there.”

Now Rosamund turned very pale, while the face of Wulf went red and
white, and he gripped his sword-hilt. But Godwin, calm as ever, rode
forward a few paces, and said quietly:

“Of your courtesy, say what you need of us. If it be money, we have
none—nothing but our arms and horses, which I think may cost you dear.”

Now the man with the crooked knife advanced a little, accompanied by
another man, a tall, supple-looking knave, into whose ear he whispered.

“My master says,” answered the tall man, “that you have with you that
which is of more value than all the king’s gold—a very fair lady, of
whom someone has urgent need. Give her up now, and go your way with
your arms and horses, for you are gallant young men, whose blood we do
not wish to shed.”

At this it was the turn of the brethren to laugh, which both of them
did together.

“Give her up,” answered Godwin, “and go our ways dishonoured? Aye, with
our breath, but not before. Who then has such urgent need of the lady
Rosamund?”

Again there was whispering between the pair.

“My master says,” was the answer, “he thinks that all who see her will
have need of her, since such loveliness is rare. But if you wish a
name, well, one comes into his mind; the name of the knight Lozelle.”

“The knight Lozelle!” murmured Rosamund, turning even paler than
before, as well she might. For this Lozelle was a powerful man and
Essex-born. He owned ships of whose doings upon the seas and in the
East evil tales were told, and once had sought Rosamund’s hand in
marriage, but being rejected, uttered threats for which Godwin, as the
elder of the twins, had fought and wounded him. Then he vanished—none
knew where.

“Is Sir Hugh Lozelle here then?” asked Godwin, “masked like you common
cowards? If so, I desire to meet him, to finish the work I began in the
snow last Christmas twelvemonths.”

“Find that out if you can,” answered the tall man. But Wulf said,
speaking low between his clenched teeth:

“Brother, I see but one chance. We must place Rosamund between us and
charge them.”

The captain of the band seemed to read their thoughts, for again he
whispered into the ear of his companion, who called out:

“My master says that if you try to charge, you will be fools, since we
shall stab and ham-string your horses, which are too good to waste, and
take you quite easily as you fall. Come then, yield, as you can do
without shame, seeing there is no escape, and that two men, however
brave, cannot stand against a crowd. He gives you one minute to
surrender.”

Now Rosamund spoke for the first time.

“My cousins,” she said, “I pray you not to let me fall living into the
hands of Sir Hugh Lozelle, or of yonder men, to be taken to what fate I
know not. Let Godwin kill me, then, to save my honour, as but now he
said he would to save my soul, and strive to cut your way through, and
live to avenge me.”

The brethren made no answer, only they looked at the water and then at
one another, and nodded. It was Godwin who spoke again, for now that it
had come to this struggle for life and their lady, Wulf, whose tongue
was commonly so ready, had grown strangely silent, and fierce-faced
also.

“Listen, Rosamund, and do not turn your eyes,” said Godwin. “There is
but one chance for you, and, poor as it is, you must choose between it
and capture, since we cannot kill you. The grey horse you ride is
strong and true. Turn him now, and spur into the water of Death Creek
and swim it. It is broad, but the incoming tide will help you, and
perchance you will not drown.”

Rosamund listened and moved her head backwards towards the boat. Then
Wulf spoke—few words and sharp: “Begone, girl! we guard the boat.”

She heard, and her dark eyes filled with tears, and her stately head
sank for a moment almost to her horse’s mane.

“Oh, my knights! my knights! And would you die for me? Well, if God
wills it, so it must be. But I swear that if you die, that no man shall
be aught to me who have your memory, and if you live—” And she looked
at them confusedly, then stopped.

“Bless us, and begone,” said Godwin.

So she blessed them in words low and holy; then of a sudden wheeled
round the great grey horse, and striking the spur into its flank, drove
straight at the deep water. A moment the stallion hung, then from the
low quay-end sprang out wide and clear. Deep it sank, but not for long,
for presently its rider’s head rose above the water, and regaining the
saddle, from which she had floated, Rosamund sat firm and headed the
horse straight for the distant bank. Now a shout of wonderment went up
from the woman thieves, for this was a deed that they had never thought
a girl would dare. But the brethren laughed as they saw that the grey
swam well, and, leaping from their saddles, ran forward a few
paces—eight or ten—along the mole to where it was narrowest, as they
went tearing the cloaks from their shoulders, and, since they had none,
throwing them over their left arms to serve as bucklers.

The band cursed sullenly, only their captain gave an order to his
spokesman, who cried aloud:

“Cut them down, and to the boat! We shall take her before she reaches
shore or drowns.”

For a moment they wavered, for the tall twin warriors who barred the
way had eyes that told of wounds and death. Then with a rush they came,
scrambling over the rough stones. But here the causeway was so narrow
that while their strength lasted, two men were as good as twenty, nor,
because of the mud and water, could they be got at from either side. So
after all it was but two to two, and the brethren were the better two.
Their long swords flashed and smote, and when Wulf’s was lifted again,
once more it shone red as it had been when he tossed it high in the
sunlight, and a man fell with a heavy splash into the waters of the
creek, and wallowed there till he died. Godwin’s foe was down also,
and, as it seemed, sped.

Then, at a muttered word, not waiting to be attacked by others, the
brethren sprang forward. The huddled mob in front of them saw them
come, and shrank back, but before they had gone a yard, the swords were
at work behind. They swore strange oaths, they caught their feet among
the rocks, and rolled upon their faces. In their confusion three of
them were pushed into the water, where two sank in the mud and were
drowned, the third only dragging himself ashore, while the rest made
good their escape from the causeway. But two had been cut down, and
three had fallen, for whom there was no escape. They strove to rise and
fight, but the linen masks flapped about their eyes, so that their
blows went wide, while the long swords of the brothers smote and smote
again upon their helms and harness as the hammers of smiths smite upon
an anvil, until they rolled over silent and stirless.

“Back!” said Godwin; “for here the road is wide; and they will get
behind us.”

So back they moved slowly, with their faces to the foe, stopping just
in front of the first man whom Godwin had seemed to kill, and who lay
face upwards with arms outstretched.

“So far we have done well,” said Wulf, with a short laugh. “Are you
hurt?”

“Nay,” answered his brother, “but do not boast till the battle is over,
for many are left and they will come on thus no more. Pray God they
have no spears or bows.”

Then he turned and looked behind him, and there, far from the shore
now, swam the grey horse steadily, and there upon its back sat
Rosamund. Yes, and she had seen, since the horse must swim somewhat
sideways with the tide, for look, she took the kerchief from her throat
and waved it to them. Then the brethren knew that she was proud of
their great deeds, and thanked the saints that they had lived to do
even so much as this for her dear sake.

Godwin was right. Although their leader commanded them in a stern
voice, the band sank from the reach of those awful swords, and,
instead, sought for stones to hurl at them. But here lay more mud than
pebbles, and the rocks of which the causeway was built were too heavy
for them to lift, so that they found but few, which when thrown either
missed the brethren or did them little hurt. Now, after some while, the
man called “master” spoke through his lieutenant, and certain of them
ran into the thorn thicket, and thence appeared again bearing the long
oars of the boat.

“Their counsel is to batter us down with the oars. What shall we do
now, brother?” asked Godwin.

“What we can,” answered Wulf. “It matters little if Rosamund is spared
by the waters, for they will scarcely take her now, who must loose the
boat and man it after we are dead.”

As he spoke Wulf heard a sound behind him, and of a sudden Godwin threw
up his arms and sank to his knees. Round he sprang, and there upon his
feet stood that man whom they had thought dead, and in his hand a
bloody sword. At him leapt Wulf, and so fierce were the blows he smote
that the first severed his sword arm and the second shore through cloak
and mail deep into the thief’s side; so that this time he fell, never
to stir again. Then he looked at his brother and saw that the blood was
running down his face and blinding him.

“Save yourself, Wulf, for I am sped,” murmured Godwin.

“Nay, or you could not speak.” And he cast his arm round him and kissed
him on the brow.

Then a thought came into his mind, and lifting Godwin as though he were
a child, he ran back to where the horses stood, and heaved him onto the
saddle.

“Hold fast!” he cried, “by mane and pommel. Keep your mind, and hold
fast, and I will save you yet.”

Passing the reins over his left arm, Wulf leapt upon the back of his
own horse, and turned it. Ten seconds more, and the pirates, who were
gathering with the oars where the paths joined at the root of the
causeway, saw the two great horses thundering down upon them. On one a
sore wounded man, his bright hair dabbled with blood, his hands
gripping mane and saddle, and on the other the warrior Wulf, with
starting eyes and a face like the face of a flame, shaking his red
sword, and for the second time that day shouting aloud: “_A D’Arcy! a
D’Arcy! Contre D’Arcy, contre Mort!_”

They saw, they shouted, they massed themselves together and held up the
oars to meet them. But Wulf spurred fiercely, and, short as was the
way, the heavy horses, trained to tourney, gathered their speed. Now
they were on them. The oars were swept aside like reeds; all round them
flashed the swords, and Wulf felt that he was hurt, he knew not where.
But his sword flashed also, one blow—there was no time for more—yet the
man beneath it sank like an empty sack.

By St. Peter! They were through, and Godwin still swayed upon the
saddle, and yonder, nearing the further shore, the grey horse with its
burden still battled in the tide. They were through! they were through!
while to Wulf’s eyes the air swam red, and the earth seemed as though
it rose up to meet them, and everywhere was flaming fire.

But the shouts had died away behind them, and the only sound was the
sound of the galloping of their horses’ hoofs. Then that also grew
faint and died away, and silence and darkness fell upon the mind of
Wulf.




Chapter II.
Sir Andrew D’Arcy


Godwin dreamed that he was dead, and that beneath him floated the
world, a glowing ball, while he was borne to and fro through the
blackness, stretched upon a couch of ebony. There were bright watchers
by his couch also, watchers twain, and he knew them for his guardian
angels, given him at birth. Moreover, now and again presences would
come and question the watchers who sat at his head and foot. One asked:

“Has this soul sinned?” And the angel at his head answered:

“It has sinned.”

Again the voice asked: “Did it die shriven of its sins?”

The angel answered: “It died unshriven, red sword aloft, fighting a
good fight.”

“Fighting for the Cross of Christ?”

“Nay; fighting for a woman.”

“Alas! poor soul, sinful and unshriven, who died fighting for a woman’s
love. How shall such a one find mercy?” wailed the questioning voice,
growing ever fainter, till it was lost far, far away.

Now came another visitor. It was his father—the warrior sire whom he
had never seen, who fell in Syria. Godwin knew him well, for the face
was the face carven on the tomb in Stangate church, and he wore the
blood-red cross upon his mail, and the D’Arcy Death’s-head was on his
shield, and in his hand shone a naked sword.

“Is this the soul of my son?” he asked of the whiterobed watchers. “If
so, how died he?”

Then the angel at his foot answered: “He died, red sword aloft,
fighting a good fight.”

“Fighting for the Cross of Christ?”

“Nay; fighting for a woman.”

“Fighting for a woman’s love who should have fallen in the Holy War?
Alas! poor son; alas! poor son! Alas! that we must part again forever!”
and his voice, too, passed away.

Lo! a Glory advanced through the blackness, and the angels at head and
foot stood up and saluted with their flaming spears.

“How died this child of God?” asked a voice, speaking out of the Glory,
a low and awful voice.

“He died by the sword,” answered the angel.

“By the sword of the children of the enemy, fighting in the war of
Heaven?”

Then the angels were silent.

“What has Heaven to do with him, if he fought not for Heaven?” asked
the voice again.

“Let him be spared,” pleaded the guardians, “who was young and brave,
and knew not. Send him back to earth, there to retrieve his sins and be
our charge once more.”

“So be it,” said the voice. “Knight, live on, but live as a knight of
Heaven if thou wouldst win Heaven.”

“Must he then put the woman from him?” asked the angels.

“It was not said,” answered the voice speaking from the Glory. And all
that wild vision vanished.

Then a space of oblivion, and Godwin awoke to hear other voices around
him, voices human, well-beloved, remembered; and to see a face bending
over him—a face most human, most well-beloved, most remembered—that of
his cousin Rosamund. He babbled some questions, but they brought him
food, and told him to sleep, so he slept. Thus it went on, waking and
sleep, sleep and waking, till at length one morning he woke up truly in
the little room that opened out of the solar or sitting place of the
Hall of Steeple, where he and Wulf had slept since their uncle took
them to his home as infants. More, on the trestle bed opposite to him,
his leg and arm bandaged, and a crutch by his side, sat Wulf himself,
somewhat paler and thinner than of yore, but the same jovial, careless,
yet at times fierce-faced Wulf.

“Do I still dream, my brother, or is it you indeed?”

A happy smile spread upon the face of Wulf, for now he knew that Godwin
was himself again.

“Me sure enough,” he answered. “Dream-folk don’t have lame legs; they
are the gifts of swords and men.”

“And Rosamund? What of Rosamund? Did the grey horse swim the creek, and
how came we here? Tell me quick—I faint for news!”

“She shall tell you herself.” And hobbling to the curtained door, he
called, “Rosamund, my—nay, our—cousin Rosamund, Godwin is himself
again. Hear you, Godwin is himself again, and would speak with you!”

There was a swift rustle of robes and a sound of quick feet among the
rushes that strewed the floor, and then—Rosamund herself, lovely as
ever, but all her stateliness forgot in joy. She saw him, the gaunt
Godwin sitting up upon the pallet, his grey eyes shining in the white
and sunken face. For Godwin’s eyes were grey, while Wulf’s were blue,
the only difference between them which a stranger would note, although
in truth Wulf’s lips were fuller than Godwin’s, and his chin more
marked; also he was a larger man. She saw him, and with a little cry of
delight ran and cast her arms about him, and kissed him on the brow.

“Be careful,” said Wulf roughly, turning his head aside, “or, Rosamund,
you will loose the bandages, and bring his trouble back again; he has
had enough of blood-letting.”

“Then I will kiss him on the hand—the hand that saved me,” she said,
and did so. More, she pressed that poor, pale hand against her heart.

“Mine had something to do with that business also but I don’t remember
that you kissed it, Rosamund. Well, I will kiss him too, and oh! God be
praised, and the holy Virgin, and the holy Peter, and the holy Chad,
and all the other holy dead folk whose names I can’t recall, who
between them, with the help of Rosamund here, and the prayers of the
Prior John and brethren at Stangate, and of Matthew, the village
priest, have given you back to us, my brother, my most beloved
brother.” And he hopped to the bedside, and throwing his long, sinewy
arms about Godwin embraced him again and again.

“Be careful,” said Rosamund drily, “or, Wulf, you will disturb the
bandages, and he has had enough of blood-letting.”

Then before he could answer, which he seemed minded to do, there came
the sound of a slow step, and swinging the curtain aside, a tall and
noble-looking knight entered the little place. The man was old, but
looked older than he was, for sorrow and sickness had wasted him. His
snow-white hair hung upon his shoulders, his face was pale, and his
features were pinched but finely-chiselled, and notwithstanding the
difference of their years, wonderfully like to those of the daughter
Rosamund. For this was her father, the famous lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy.

Rosamund turned and bent the knee to him with a strange and Eastern
grace, while Wulf bowed his head, and Godwin, since his neck was too
stiff to stir, held up his hand in greeting. The old man looked at him,
and there was pride in his eye.

“So you will live after all, my nephew,” he said, “and for that I thank
the giver of life and death, since by God, you are a gallant man—a
worthy child of the bloods of the Norman D’Arcy and of Uluin the Saxon.
Yes, one of the best of them.”

“Speak not so, my uncle,” said Godwin; “or at least, here is a
worthier,”—and he patted the hand of Wulf with his lean fingers. “It
was Wulf who bore me through. Oh, I remember as much as that—how he
lifted me onto the black horse and bade me to cling fast to mane and
pommel. Ay, and I remember the charge, and his cry of ‘Contre D’Arcy,
contre Mort!’ and the flashing of swords about us, and after
that—nothing.”

“Would that I had been there to help in that fight,” said Sir Andrew
D’Arcy, tossing his white hair. “Oh, my children, it is hard to be sick
and old. A log am I—naught but a rotting log. Still, had I only known—”

“Father, father,” said Rosamund, casting her white arm about his neck.
“You should not speak thus. You have done your share.”

“Yes, my share; but I should like to do more. Oh, St. Andrew, ask it
for me that I may die with sword aloft and my grandsire’s cry upon my
lips. Yes, yes; thus, not like a worn-out war-horse in his stall.
There, pardon me; but in truth, my children, I am jealous of you. Why,
when I found you lying in each other’s arms I could have wept for rage
to think that such a fray had been within a league of my own doors and
I not in it.”

“I know nothing of all that story,” said Godwin.

“No, in truth, how can you, who have been senseless this month or more?
But Rosamund knows, and she shall tell it you. Speak on, Rosamund. Lay
you back, Godwin, and listen.”

“The tale is yours, my cousins, and not mine,” said Rosamund. “You bade
me take the water, and into it I spurred the grey horse, and we sank
deep, so that the waves closed above my head. Then up we came, I
floating from the saddle, but I regained it, and the horse answered to
my voice and bridle, and swam out for the further shore. On it swam,
somewhat slantwise with the tide, so that by turning my head I could
see all that passed upon the mole. I saw them come at you, and men fall
before your swords; I saw you charge them, and run back again. Lastly,
after what seemed a very long while, when I was far away, I saw Wulf
lift Godwin into the saddle—I knew it must be Godwin, because he set
him on the black horse—and the pair of you galloped down the quay and
vanished.

“By then I was near the home shore, and the grey grew very weary and
sank deep in the water. But I cheered it on with my voice, and although
twice its head went beneath the waves, in the end it found a footing,
though a soft one. After resting awhile, it plunged forward with short
rushes through the mud, and so at length came safe to land, where it
stood shaking with fear and weariness. So soon as the horse got its
breath again, I pressed on, for I saw them loosing the boat, and came
home here as the dark closed in, to meet your uncle watching for me at
the gate. Now, father, do you take up the tale.”

“There is little more to tell,” said Sir Andrew. “You will remember,
nephews, that I was against this ride of Rosamund’s to seek flowers, or
I know not what, at St. Peter’s shrine, nine miles away, but as the
maid had set her heart on it, and there are but few pleasures here,
why, I let her go with the pair of you for escort. You will mind also
that you were starting without your mail, and how foolish you thought
me when I called you back and made you gird it on. Well, my patron
saint—or yours—put it into my head to do so, for had it not been for
those same shirts of mail, you were both of you dead men to-day. But
that morning I had been thinking of Sir Hugh Lozelle—if such a false,
pirate rogue can be called a knight, not but that he is stout and brave
enough—and his threats after he recovered from the wound you gave him,
Godwin; how that he would come back and take your cousin for all we
could do to stay him. True, we heard that he had sailed for the East to
war against Saladin—or with him, for he was ever a traitor—but even if
this were so, men return from the East. Therefore I bade you arm,
having some foresight of what was to come, for doubtless this onslaught
must have been planned by him.”

“I think so,” said Wulf, “for, as Rosamund here knows, the tall knave
who interpreted for the foreigner whom he called his master, gave us
the name of the knight Lozelle as the man who sought to carry her off.”

“Was this master a Saracen?” asked Sir Andrew, anxiously.

“Nay, uncle, how can I tell, seeing that his face was masked like the
rest and he spoke through an interpreter? But I pray you go on with the
story, which Godwin has not heard.”

“It is short. When Rosamund told her tale of which I could make little,
for the girl was crazed with grief and cold and fear, save that you had
been attacked upon the old quay, and she had escaped by swimming Death
Creek—which seemed a thing incredible—I got together what men I could.
Then bidding her stay behind, with some of them to guard her, and nurse
herself, which she was loth to do, I set out to find you or your
bodies. It was dark, but we rode hard, having lanterns with us, as we
went rousing men at every stead, until we came to where the roads join
at Moats. There we found a black horse—your horse, Godwin—so badly
wounded that he could travel no further, and I groaned, thinking that
you were dead. Still we went on, till we heard another horse whinny,
and presently found the roan also riderless, standing by the path-side
with his head down.

“‘A man on the ground holds him!’ cried one, and I sprang from the
saddle to see who it might be, to find that it was you, the pair of
you, locked in each other’s arms and senseless, if not dead, as well
you might be from your wounds. I bade the country-folk cover you up and
carry you home, and others to run to Stangate and pray the Prior and
the monk Stephen, who is a doctor, come at once to tend you, while we
pressed onwards to take vengeance if we could. We reached the quay upon
the creek, but there we found nothing save some bloodstains and—this is
strange—your sword, Godwin, the hilt set between two stones, and on the
point a writing.”

“What was the writing?” asked Godwin.

“Here it is,” answered his uncle, drawing a piece of parchment from his
robe. “Read it, one of you, since all of you are scholars and my eyes
are bad.”

Rosamund took it and read what was written, hurriedly but in a clerkly
hand, and in the French tongue. It ran thus: “The sword of a brave man.
Bury it with him if he be dead, and give it back to him if he lives, as
I hope. My master would wish me to do this honour to a gallant foe whom
in that case he still may meet. (Signed) Hugh Lozelle, or Another.”

“Another, then; not Hugh Lozelle,” said Godwin, “since he cannot write,
and if he could, would never pen words so knightly.”

“The words may be knightly, but the writer’s deeds were base enough,”
replied Sir Andrew; “nor, in truth do I understand this scroll.”

“The interpreter spoke of the short man as his master,” suggested Wulf.

“Ay, nephew; but him you met. This writing speaks of a master whom
Godwin may meet, and who would wish the writer to pay him a certain
honour.”

“Perhaps he wrote thus to blind us.”

“Perchance, perchance. The matter puzzles me. Moreover, of whom these
men were I have been able to learn nothing. A boat was seen passing
towards Bradwell—indeed, it seems that you saw it, and that night a
boat was seen sailing southwards down St. Peter’s sands towards a ship
that had anchored off Foulness Point. But what that ship was, whence
she came, and whither she went, none know, though the tidings of this
fray have made some stir.”

“Well,” said Wulf, “at the least we have seen the last of her crew of
women-thieves. Had they meant more mischief, they would have shown
themselves again ere now.”

Sir Andrew looked grave as he answered.

“So I trust, but all the tale is very strange. How came they to know
that you and Rosamund were riding that day to St. Peter’s-on-the-Wall,
and so were able to waylay you? Surely some spy must have warned them,
since that they were no common pirates is evident, for they spoke of
Lozelle, and bade you two begone unharmed, as it was Rosamund whom they
needed. Also, there is the matter of the sword that fell from the hand
of Godwin when he was hurt, which was returned in so strange a fashion.
I have known many such deeds of chivalry done in the East by Paynim
men—”

“Well, Rosamund is half an Eastern,” broke in Wulf carelessly; “and
perhaps that had something to do with it all.”

Sir Andrew started, and the colour rose to his pale face. Then in a
tone in which he showed he wished to speak no more of this matter, he
said:

“Enough, enough. Godwin is very weak, and grows weary, and before I
leave him I have a word to say that it may please you both to hear.
Young men, you are of my blood, the nearest to it except Rosamund—the
sons of that noble knight, my brother. I have ever loved you well, and
been proud of you, but if this was so in the past, how much more is it
thus to-day, when you have done such high service to my house?
Moreover, that deed was brave and great; nothing more knightly has been
told of in Essex this many a year, and those who wrought it should no
longer be simple gentlemen, but very knights. This boon it is in my
power to grant to you according to the ancient custom. Still, that none
may question it, while you lay sick, but after it was believed that
Godwin would live, which at first we scarcely dared to hope, I
journeyed to London and sought audience of our lord the king. Having
told him this tale, I prayed him that he would be pleased to grant me
his command in writing that I should name you knights.

“My nephews, he was so pleased, and here I have the brief sealed with
the royal signet, commanding that in his name and my own I should give
you the accolade publicly in the church of the Priory at Stangate at
such season as may be convenient. Therefore, Godwin, the squire, haste
you to get well that you may become Sir Godwin the knight; for you,
Wulf, save for the hurt to your leg, are well enough already.”

Now Godwin’s white face went red with pride, and Wulf dropped his bold
eyes and looked modest as a girl.

“Speak you,” he said to his brother, “for my tongue is blunt and
awkward.”

“Sir,” said Godwin in a weak voice, “we do not know how to thank you
for so great an honour, that we never thought to win till we had done
more famous deeds than the beating off of a band of robbers. Sir, we
have no more to say, save that while we live we will strive to be
worthy of our name and of you.”

“Well spoken,” said his uncle, adding as though to himself, “this man
is courtly as he is brave.”

Wulf looked up, a flash of merriment upon his open face.

“I, my uncle, whose speech is, I fear me, not courtly, thank you also.
I will add that I think our lady cousin here should be knighted too, if
such a thing were possible for a woman, seeing that to swim a horse
across Death Creek was a greater deed than to fight some rascals on its
quay.”

“Rosamund?” answered the old man in the same dreamy voice. “Her rank is
high enough—too high, far too high for safety.” And turning, he left
the little chamber.

“Well, cousin,” said Wulf, “if you cannot be a knight, at least you can
lessen all this dangerous rank of yours by becoming a knight’s wife.”
Whereat Rosamund looked at him with indignation which struggled with a
smile in her dark eyes, and murmuring that she must see to the making
of Godwin’s broth, followed her father from the place.

“It would have been kinder had she told us that she was glad,” said
Wulf when she was gone.

“Perhaps she would,” answered his brother, “had it not been for your
rough jests, Wulf, which might have a meaning in them.”

“Nay, I had no meaning. Why should she not become a knight’s wife?”

“Ay, but what knight’s? Would it please either of us, brother, if, as
may well chance, he should be some stranger?”

Now Wulf swore a great oath, then flushed to the roots of his fair
hair, and was silent.

“Ah!” said Godwin; “you do not think before you speak, which it is
always well to do.”

“She swore upon the quay yonder”—broke in Wulf.

“Forget what she swore. Words uttered in such an hour should not be
remembered against a maid.”

“God’s truth, brother, you are right, as ever! My tongue runs away with
me, but still I can’t put those words out of my mind, though which of
us—”

“Wulf!”

“I mean to say that we are in Fortune’s path to-day, Godwin. Oh, that
was a lucky ride! Such fighting as I have never seen or dreamed of. We
won it too! And now both of us are alive, and a knighthood for each!”

“Yes, both of us alive, thanks to you, Wulf—nay, it is so, though you
would never have done less. But as for Fortune’s path, it is one that
has many rough turns, and perhaps before all is done she may lead us
round some of them.”

“You talk like a priest, not like a squire who is to be knighted at the
cost of a scar on his head. For my part I will kiss Fortune while I
may, and if she jilts me afterwards—”

“Wulf,” called Rosamund from without the curtain, “cease talking of
kissing at the top of your voice, I pray you, and leave Godwin to
sleep, for he needs it.” And she entered the little chamber, bearing a
bowl of broth in her hand.

Thereon, saying that ladies should not listen to what did not concern
them, Wulf seized his crutch and hobbled from the place.




Chapter III.
The Knighting of the Brethren


Another month had gone by, and though Godwin was still somewhat weak
and suffered from a headache at times, the brethren had recovered from
their wounds. On the last day of November, about two o’clock in the
afternoon, a great procession might have been seen wending its way from
the old Hall at Steeple. In it rode many knights fully armed, before
whom were borne their banners. These went first. Then came old Sir
Andrew D’Arcy, also fully armed, attended by squires and retainers. He
was accompanied by his lovely daughter, the lady Rosamund, clad in
beautiful apparel under her cloak of fur, who rode at his right hand on
that same horse which had swum Death Creek. Next appeared the brethren,
modestly arrayed as simple gentlemen, followed each of them by his
squire, scions of the noble houses of Salcote and of Dengie. After them
rode yet more knights, squires, tenants of various degree, and
servants, surrounded by a great number of peasantry and villeins, who
walked and ran with their women folk and children.

Following the road through the village, the procession turned to the
left at the great arch which marked the boundary of the monk’s lands,
and headed for Stangate Abbey, some two miles away, by the path that
ran between the arable land and the Salt marshes, which are flooded at
high tide. At length they came to the stone gate of the Abbey, that
gave the place its name of Stangate. Here they were met by a company of
the Cluniac monks, who dwelt in this wild and lonely spot upon the
water’s edge, headed by their prior, John Fitz Brien. He was a
venerable, white-haired man, clad in wide-sleeved, black robes, and
preceded by a priest carrying a silver cross. Now the procession
separated, Godwin and Wulf, with certain of the knights and their
esquires, being led to the Priory, while the main body of it entered
the church, or stood about outside its door.

Arrived in the house, the two knights elect were taken to a room where
their hair was cut and their chins were shaved by a barber who awaited
them. Then, under the guidance of two old knights named Sir Anthony de
Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci, they were conducted to baths
surrounded with rich cloths. Into these, having been undressed by the
squires, they entered and bathed themselves, while Sir Anthony and Sir
Roger spoke to them through the cloths of the high duties of their
vocation, ending by pouring water over them, and signing their bare
bodies with the sign of the Cross. Next they were dressed again, and
preceded by minstrels, led to the church, at the porch of which they
and their esquires were given wine to drink.

Here, in the presence of all the company, they were clothed first in
white tunics, to signify the whiteness of their hearts; next in red
robes, symbolical of the blood they might be called upon to shed for
Christ; and lastly, in long black cloaks, emblems of the death that
must be endured by all. This done, their armour was brought in and
piled before them upon the steps of the altar, and the congregation
departed homeward, leaving them with their esquires and the priest to
spend the long winter night in orisons and prayers.

Long, indeed, it was, in that lonesome, holy place, lit only by a lamp
which swung before the altar. Wulf prayed and prayed until he could
pray no more, then fell into a half dreamful state that was haunted by
the face of Rosamund, where even her face should have been forgotten.
Godwin, his elbow resting against the tomb that hid his father’s heart,
prayed also, until even his earnestness was outworn, and he began to
wonder about many things.

That dream of his, for instance, in his sickness, when he had seemed to
be dead, and what might be the true duty of man. To be brave and
upright? Surely. To fight for the Cross of Christ against the Saracen?
Surely, if the chance came his way. What more? To abandon the world and
to spend his life muttering prayers like those priests in the darkness
behind him? Could that be needful or of service to God or man? To man,
perhaps, because such folk tended the sick and fed the poor. But to
God? Was he not sent into the world to bear his part in the world—to
live his full life? This would mean a half-life—one into which no woman
might enter, to which no child might be added, since to monks and even
to certain brotherhoods, all these things, which Nature decreed and
Heaven had sanctified, were deadly sin.

It would mean, for instance, that he must think no more of Rosamund.
Could he do this for the sake of the welfare of his soul in some future
state?

Why, at the thought of it even, in that solemn place and hour of
dedication, his spirit reeled, for then and there for the first time it
was borne in upon him that he loved this woman more than all the world
beside—more than his life, more, perhaps, than his soul. He loved her
with all his pure young heart—so much that it would be a joy to him to
die for her, not only in the heat of battle, as lately had almost
chanced on the Death Creek quay, but in cold blood, of set purpose, if
there came need. He loved her with body and with spirit, and, after
God, here to her he consecrated his body and his spirit. But what value
would she put upon the gift? What if some other man—?

By his side, his elbows resting on the altar rails, his eyes fixed upon
the beaming armour that he would wear in battle, knelt Wulf, his
brother—a mighty man, a knight of knights, fearless, noble,
open-hearted; such a one as any woman might well love. And he also
loved Rosamund. Of this Godwin was sure. And, oh! did not Rosamund love
Wulf? Bitter jealousy seized upon his vitals. Yes; even then and there,
black envy got hold of Godwin, and rent him so sore that, cold as was
the place, the sweat poured from his brow and body.

Should he abandon hope? Should he fly the battle for fear that he might
be defeated? Nay; he would fight on in all honesty and honour, and if
he were overcome, would meet his fate as a brave knight should—without
bitterness, but without shame. Let destiny direct the matter. It was in
the hands of destiny, and stretching out his arm, he threw it around
the neck of his brother, who knelt beside him, and let it rest there,
until the head of the weary Wulf sank sleepily upon his shoulder, like
the head of an infant upon its mother’s breast.

“Oh Jesu,” Godwin moaned in his poor heart, “give me strength to fight
against this sinful passion that would lead me to hate the brother whom
I love. Oh Jesu, give me strength to bear it if he should be preferred
before me. Make me a perfect knight—strong to suffer and endure, and,
if need be, to rejoice even in the joy of my supplanter.”

At length the grey dawn broke, and the sunlight, passing through the
eastern window, like a golden spear, pierced the dusk of the long
church, which was built to the shape of a cross, so that only its
transepts remained in shadow. Then came a sound of chanting, and at the
western door entered the Prior, wearing all his robes, attended by the
monks and acolytes, who swung censers. In the centre of the nave he
halted and passed to the confessional, calling on Godwin to follow. So
he went and knelt before the holy man, and there poured out all his
heart. He confessed his sins. They were but few. He told him of the
vision of his sickness, on which the Prior pondered long; of his deep
love, his hopes, his fears, and his desire to be a warrior who once, as
a lad, had wished to be a monk, not that he might shed blood, but to
fight for the Cross of Christ against the Paynim, ending with a cry of—

“Give me counsel, O my father. Give me counsel.”

“Your own heart is your best counsellor,” was the priest’s answer. “Go
as it guides you, knowing that, through it, it is God who guides. Nor
fear that you will fail. But if love and the joys of life should leave
you, then come back, and we will talk again. Go on, pure knight of
Christ, fearing nothing and sure of the reward, and take with you the
blessing of Christ and of his Church.”

“What penance must I bear, father?”

“Such souls as yours inflict their own penance. The saints forbid that
I should add to it,” was the gentle answer.

Then with a lightened heart Godwin returned to the altar rails, while
his brother Wulf was summoned to take his place in the confessional. Of
the sins that he had to tell we need not speak. They were such as are
common to young men, and none of them very grievous. Still, before he
gave him absolution, the good Prior admonished him to think less of his
body and more of his spirit; less of the glory of feats of arms and
more of the true ends to which he should enter on them. He bade him,
moreover, to take his brother Godwin as an earthly guide and example,
since there lived no better or wiser man of his years, and finally
dismissed him, prophesying that if he would heed these counsels, he
would come to great glory on earth and in heaven.

“Father, I will do my best,” answered Wulf humbly; “but there cannot be
two Godwins; and, father, sometimes I fear me that our paths will
cross, since two men cannot win one woman.”

“I know the trouble,” answered the Prior anxiously, “and with less
noble-natured men it might be grave. But if it should come to this,
then must the lady judge according to the wishes of her own heart, and
he who loses her must be loyal in sorrow as in joy. Be sure that you
take no base advantage of your brother in the hour of temptation, and
bear him no bitterness should he win the bride.”

“I think I can be sure of that,” said Wulf; “also that we, who have
loved each other from birth, would die before we betrayed each other.”

“I think so also,” answered the Prior; “but Satan is very strong.”

Then Wulf also returned to the altar rails, and the full Mass was sung,
and the Sacrament received by the two neophytes, and the offerings made
all in their appointed order. Next they were led back to the Priory to
rest and eat a little after their long night’s vigil in the cold
church, and here they abode awhile, thinking their own thoughts, seated
alone in the Prior’s chamber. At length Wulf, who seemed to be ill at
ease, rose and laid his hand upon his brother’s shoulder, saying:

“I can be silent no more; it was ever thus: that which is in my mind
must out of it. I have words to say to you.”

“Speak on, Wulf,” said Godwin.

Wulf sat himself down again upon his stool, and for a while stared hard
at nothing, for he did not seem to find it easy to begin this talk. Now
Godwin could read his brother’s mind like a book, but Wulf could not
always read Godwin’s, although, being twins who had been together from
birth, their hearts were for the most part open to each other without
the need of words.

“It is of our cousin Rosamund, is it not?” asked Godwin presently.

“Ay. Who else?”

“And you would tell me that you love her, and that now you are a
knight—almost—and hard on five-and twenty years of age, you would ask
her to become your affianced wife?”

“Yes, Godwin; it came into my heart when she rode the grey horse into
the water, there upon the pier, and I thought that I should never see
her any more. I tell you it came into my heart that life was not worth
living nor death worth dying without her.”

“Then, Wulf,” answered Godwin slowly, “what more is there to say? Ask
on, and prosper. Why not? We have some lands, if not many, and Rosamund
will not lack for them. Nor do I think that our uncle would forbid you,
if she wills it, seeing that you are the properest man and the bravest
in all this country side.”

“Except my brother Godwin, who is all these things, and good and
learned to boot, which I am not,” replied Wulf musingly. Then there was
silence for a while, which he broke.

“Godwin, our ill-luck is that you love her also, and that you thought
the same thoughts which I did yonder on the quay-head.”

Godwin flushed a little, and his long fingers tightened their grip upon
his knee.

“It is so,” he said quietly. “To my grief it is so. But Rosamund knows
nothing of this, and should never know it if you will keep a watch upon
your tongue. Moreover, you need not be jealous of me, before marriage
or after.”

“What, then, would you have me do?” asked Wulf hotly. “Seek her heart,
and perchance—though this I doubt—let her yield it to me, she thinking
that you care naught for her?”

“Why not?” asked Godwin again, with a sigh; “it might save her some
pain and you some doubt, and make my own path clearer. Marriage is more
to you than to me, Wulf, who think sometimes that my sword should be my
spouse and duty my only aim.”

“Who think, having a heart of gold, that even in such a thing as this
you will not bar the path of the brother whom you love. Nay, Godwin, as
I am a sinful man, and as I desire her above all things on earth, I
will play no such coward’s game, nor conquer one who will not lift his
sword lest he should hurt me. Sooner would I bid you all farewell, and
go to seek fortune or death in the wars without word spoken.”

“Leaving Rosamund to pine, perchance. Oh, could we be sure that she had
no mind toward either of us, that would be best—to begone together.
But, Wulf, we cannot be sure, since at times, to be honest, I have
thought she loves you.”

“And at times, to be honest, Godwin, I have been sure that she loves
you, although I should like to try my luck and hear it from her lips,
which on such terms I will not do.”

“What, then, is your plan, Wulf?”

“My plan is that if our uncle gives us leave, we should both speak to
her—you first, as the elder, setting out your case as best you can, and
asking her to think of it and give you your answer within a day. Then,
before that day is done I also should speak, so that she may know all
the story, and play her part in it with opened eyes, not deeming, as
otherwise she might, that we know each other’s minds, and that you ask
because I have no will that way.”

“It is very fair,” replied Godwin; “and worthy of you, who are the most
honest of men. Yet, Wulf, I am troubled. See you, my brother, have ever
brethren loved each other as we do? And now must the shadow of a woman
fall upon and blight that love which is so fair and precious?”

“Why so?” asked Wulf. “Come, Godwin, let us make a pact that it shall
not be thus, and keep it by the help of heaven. Let us show the world
that two men can love one woman and still love each other, not knowing
as yet which of them she will choose—if, indeed, she chooses either.
For, Godwin, we are not the only gentlemen whose eyes have turned, or
yet may turn, towards the high-born, rich, and lovely lady Rosamund. Is
it your will that we should make such a pact?”

Godwin thought a little, then answered:

“Yes; but if so, it must be one so strong that for her sake and for
both our sakes we cannot break it and live with honour.”

“So be it,” said Wulf; “this is man’s work, not child’s make-believe.”

Then Godwin rose, and going to the door, bade his squire, who watched
without, pray the Prior John to come to them as they sought his counsel
in a matter. So he came, and, standing before him with downcast head,
Godwin told him all the tale, which, indeed, he who knew so much
already, was quick to understand, and of their purpose also; while at a
question from the prior, Wulf answered that it was well and truly said,
nothing having been kept back. Then they asked him if it was lawful
that they should take such an oath, to which he replied that he thought
it not only lawful, but very good.

So in the end, kneeling together hand in hand before the Rood that
stood in the chamber, they repeated this oath after him, both of them
together.

“We brethren, Godwin and Wulf D’Arcy, do swear by the holy Cross of
Christ, and by the patron saint of this place, St. Mary Magdalene, and
our own patron saints, St. Peter and St. Chad, standing in the presence
of God, of our guardian angels, and of you, John, that being both of us
enamoured of our cousin, Rosamund D’Arcy, we will ask her to wife in
the manner we have agreed, and no other. That we will abide by her
decision, should she choose either of us, nor seek to alter it by
tempting her from her troth, or in any fashion overt or covert. That he
of us whom she refuses will thenceforth be a brother to her and no
more, however Satan may tempt his heart otherwise. That so far as may
be possible to us, who are but sinful men, we will suffer neither
bitterness nor jealousy to come between our love because of this woman,
and that in war or peace we will remain faithful comrades and brethren.
Thus we swear with a true heart and purpose, and in token thereof,
knowing that he who breaks this oath will be a knight dishonoured and a
vessel fit for the wrath of God, we kiss this Rood and one another.”

This, then, these brethren said and did, and with light minds and
joyful faces received the blessing of the Prior, who had christened
them in infancy, and went down to meet the great company that had
ridden forth to lead them back to Steeple, where their knighting should
be done.

So to Steeple, preceded by the squires, who rode before them
bareheaded, carrying their swords by the scabbarded points, with their
gold spurs hanging from the hilts, they came at last. Here the hall was
set for a great feast, a space having been left between the tables and
the dais, to which the brethren were conducted. Then came forward Sir
Anthony de Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci in full armour, and
presented to Sir Andrew D’Arcy, their uncle, who stood upon the edge of
the dais, also in his armour, their swords and spurs, of which he gave
back to them two of the latter, bidding them affix these upon the
candidates’ right heels. This done, the Prior John blessed the swords,
after which Sir Andrew girded them about the waists of his nephews,
saying:

“Take ye back the swords that you have used so well.”

Next, he drew his own silver-hilted blade that had been his father’s
and his grandfather’s, and whilst they knelt before him, smote each of
them three blows upon the right shoulder, crying with a loud voice: “In
the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George, I knight ye. Be ye good
knights.”

Thereafter came forward Rosamund as their nearest kinswoman, and,
helped by other ladies, clad upon them their hauberks, or coats of
mail, their helms of steel, and their kite-shaped shields, emblazoned
with a skull, the cognizance of their race. This done, with the
musicians marching before them, they walked to Steeple church—a
distance of two hundred paces from the Hall, where they laid their
swords upon the altar and took them up again, swearing to be good
servants of Christ and defenders of the Church. As they left its doors,
who should meet them but the cook, carrying his chopper in his hand and
claiming as his fee the value of the spurs they wore, crying aloud at
the same time:

“If either of you young knights should do aught in despite of your
honour and of the oaths that you have sworn—from which may God and his
saints prevent you!—then with my chopper will I hack these spurs from
off your heels.”

Thus at last the long ceremony was ended, and after it came a very
great feast, for at the high table were entertained many noble knights
and ladies, and below, in the hall their squires, and other gentlemen,
and outside all the yeomanry and villagers, whilst the children and the
aged had food and drink given to them in the nave of the church itself.
When the eating at length was done, the centre of the hall was cleared,
and while men drank, the minstrels made music. All were very merry with
wine and strong ale, and talk arose among them as to which of these
brethren—Sir Godwin or Sir Wulf—was the more brave, the more handsome,
and the more learned and courteous.

Now a knight—it was Sir Surin de Salcote—seeing that the argument grew
hot and might lead to blows, rose and declared that this should be
decided by beauty alone, and that none could be more fitted to judge
than the fair lady whom the two of them had saved from woman-thieves at
the Death Creek quay. They all called, “Ay, let her settle it,” and it
was agreed that she would give the kerchief from her neck to the
bravest, a beaker of wine to the handsomest, and a Book of Hours to the
most learned.

So, seeing no help for it, since except her father, the brethren, the
most of the other ladies and herself, who drank but water, gentle and
simple alike, had begun to grow heated with wine, and were very urgent,
Rosamund took the silk kerchief from her neck. Then coming to the edge
of the dais, where they were seated in the sight of all, she stood
before her cousins, not knowing, poor maid, to which of them she should
offer it. But Godwin whispered a word to Wulf, and both of them
stretching out their right hands, snatched an end of the kerchief which
she held towards them, and rending it, twisted the severed halves round
their sword hilts. The company laughed at their wit, and cried:

“The wine for the more handsome. They cannot serve that thus.”

Rosamund thought a moment; then she lifted a great silver beaker, the
largest on the board, and having filled it full of wine, once more came
forward and held it before them as though pondering. Thereon the
brethren, as though by a single movement, bent forward and each of them
touched the beaker with his lips. Again a great laugh went up, and even
Rosamund smiled.

“The book! the book!” cried the guests. “They dare not rend the holy
book!”

So for the third time Rosamund advanced, bearing the missal.

“Knights,” she said, “you have torn my kerchief and drunk my wine. Now
I offer this hallowed writing—to him who can read it best.”

“Give it to Godwin,” said Wulf. “I am a swordsman, not a clerk.”

“Well said! well said!” roared the company. “The sword for us—not the
pen!” But Rosamund turned on them and answered:

“He who wields sword is brave, and he who wields pen is wise, but
better is he who can handle both sword and pen—like my cousin Godwin,
the brave and learned.”

“Hear her! hear her!” cried the revellers, knocking their horns upon
the board, while in the silence that followed a woman’s voice said,
“Sir Godwin’s luck is great, but give me Sir Wulf’s strong arms.”

Then the drinking began again, and Rosamund and the ladies slipped
away, as well they might—for the times were rough and coarse.

On the morrow, after most of the guests were gone, many of them with
aching heads, Godwin and Wulf sought their uncle, Sir Andrew, in the
solar where he sat alone, for they knew Rosamund had walked to the
church hard by with two of the serving women to make it ready for the
Friday’s mass, after the feast of the peasants that had been held in
the nave. Coming to his oaken chair by the open hearth which had a
chimney to it—no common thing in those days—they knelt before him.

“What is it now, my nephews?” asked the old man, smiling. “Do you wish
that I should knight you afresh?”

“No, sir,” answered Godwin; “we seek a greater boon.”

“Then you seek in vain, for there is none.”

“Another sort of boon,” broke in Wulf.

Sir Andrew pulled his beard, and looked at them. Perhaps the Prior John
had spoken a word to him, and he guessed what was coming.

“Speak,” he said to Godwin. “The gift is great that I would not give to
either of you if it be within my power.”

“Sir,” said Godwin, “we seek the leave to ask your daughter’s hand in
marriage.”

“What! the two of you?”

“Yes, sir; the two of us.”

Then Sir Andrew, who seldom laughed, laughed outright.

“Truly,” he said, “of all the strange things I have known, this is the
strangest—that two knights should ask one wife between them.”

“It seems strange, sir; but when you have heard our tale you will
understand.”

So he listened while they told him all that had passed between them and
of the solemn oath which they had sworn.

“Noble in this as in other things,” commented Sir Andrew when they had
done; “but I fear that one of you may find that vow hard to keep. By
all the saints, nephews, you were right when you said that you asked a
great boon. Do you know, although I have told you nothing of it, that,
not to speak of the knave Lozelle, already two of the greatest men in
this land have sought my daughter Rosamund in marriage?”

“It may well be so,” said Wulf.

“It is so, and now I will tell you why one or other of the pair is not
her husband, which in some ways I would he were. A simple reason. I
asked her, and she had no mind to either, and as her mother married
where her heart was, so I have sworn that the daughter should do, or
not at all—for better a nunnery than a loveless bridal.

“Now let us see what you have to give. You are of good blood—that of
Uluin by your mother, and mine, also on one side her own. As squires to
your sponsors of yesterday, the knights Sir Anthony de Mandeville and
Sir Roger de Merci, you bore yourselves bravely in the Scottish War;
indeed, your liege king Henry remembered it, and that is why he granted
my prayer so readily. Since then, although you loved the life little,
because I asked it of you, you have rested here at home with me, and
done no feats of arms, save that great one of two months gone which
made you knights, and, in truth, gives you some claim on Rosamund.

“For the rest, your father being the younger son, your lands are small,
and you have no other gear. Outside the borders of this shire you are
unknown men, with all your deeds to do—for I will not count those
Scottish battles when you were but boys. And she whom you ask is one of
the fairest and noblest and most learned ladies in this land, for I,
who have some skill in such things, have taught her myself from
childhood. Moreover, as I have no other heir, she will be wealthy.
Well, what more have you to offer for all this?”

“Ourselves,” answered Wulf boldly. “We are true knights of whom you
know the best and worst, and we love her. We learned it for once and
for all on Death Creek quay, for till then she was our sister and no
more.”

“Ay,” added Godwin, “when she swore herself to us and blessed us, then
light broke on both.”

“Stand up,” said Sir Andrew, “and let me look at you.”

So they stood side by side in the full light of the blazing fire, for
little other came through those narrow windows.

“Proper men; proper men,” said the old knight; “and as like to one
another as two grains of wheat from the same sample. Six feet high,
each of you, and broad chested, though Wulf is larger made and the
stronger of the two. Brown and waving-haired both, save for that line
of white where the sword hit yours, Godwin—Godwin with grey eyes that
dream and Wulf with the blue eyes that shine like swords. Ah! your
grandsire had eyes like that, Wulf; and I have been told that when he
leapt from the tower to the wall at the taking of Jerusalem, the
Saracens did not love the light which shone in them—nor, in faith, did
I, his son, when he was angry. Proper men, the pair of you; but Sir
Wulf most warriorlike, and Sir Godwin most courtly. Now which do you
think would please a woman most?”

“That, sir, depends upon the woman,” answered Godwin, and straightway
his eyes began to dream.

“That, sir, we seek to learn before the day is out, if you give us
leave,” added Wulf; “though, if you would know, I think my chance a
poor one.”

“Ah, well; it is a very pretty riddle. But I do not envy her who has
its answering, for it might well trouble a maid’s mind, neither is it
certain when all is done that she will guess best for her own peace.
Would it not be wiser, then, that I should forbid them to ask this
riddle?” he added as though to himself and fell to thinking while they
trembled, seeing that he was minded to refuse their suit.

At length he looked up again and said: “Nay, let it go as God wills Who
holds the future in His hand. Nephews, because you are good knights and
true, either of whom would ward her well—and she may need
warding—because you are my only brother’s sons, whom I have promised
him to care for; and most of all because I love you both with an equal
love, have your wish, and go try your fortunes at the hands of my
daughter Rosamund in the fashion you have agreed. Godwin, the elder,
first, as is his right; then Wulf. Nay, no thanks; but go swiftly, for
I whose hours are short wish to learn the answer to this riddle.”

So they bowed and went, walking side by side. At the door of the hall,
Wulf stopped and said:

“Rosamund is in the church. Seek her there, and—oh! I would that I
could wish you good fortune; but, Godwin, I cannot. I fear me that this
may be the edge of that shadow of woman’s love whereof you spoke,
falling cold upon my heart.”

“There is no shadow; there is light, now and always, as we have sworn
that it should be,” answered Godwin.




Chapter IV.
The Letter of Saladin


Twas past three in the afternoon, and snow clouds were fast covering up
the last grey gleam of the December day, as Godwin, wishing that his
road was longer, walked to Steeple church across the meadow. At the
door of it he met the two serving women coming out with brooms in their
hands, and bearing between them a great basket filled with broken meats
and foul rushes. Of them he asked if the Lady Rosamund were still in
the church, to which they answered, curtseying:

“Yes, Sir Godwin; and she bade us desire of you that you would come to
lead her to the Hall when she had finished making her prayers before
the altar.”

“I wonder,” mused Godwin, “whether I shall ever lead her from the altar
to the Hall, or whether—I shall bide alone by the altar?”

Still he thought it a good omen that she had bidden him thus, though
some might have read it otherwise.

Godwin entered the church, walking softly on the rushes with which its
nave was strewn, and by the light of the lamp that burnt there always,
saw Rosamund kneeling before a little shrine, her gracious head bowed
upon her hands, praying earnestly. Of what, he wondered—of what?

Still, she did not hear him; so, coming into the chancel, he stood
behind her and waited patiently. At length, with a deep sigh, Rosamund
rose from her knees and turned, and he noted by the light of the lamp
that there were tear-stains upon her face. Perhaps she, too, had spoken
with the Prior John, who was her confessor also. Who knows? At the
least, when her eyes fell upon Godwin standing like a statue before
her, she started, and there broke from her lips the words:

“Oh, how swift an answer!” Then, recovering herself, added, “To my
message, I mean, cousin.”

“I met the women at the door,” he said.

“It is kind of you to come,” Rosamund went on; “but, in truth, since
that day on Death Creek I fear to walk a bow-shot’s length alone or in
the company of women only. With you I feel safe.”

“Or with Wulf?”

“Yes; or with Wulf,” she repeated; “that is, when he is not thinking of
wars and adventures far away.”

By now they had reached the porch of the church, to find that the snow
was falling fast.

“Let us bide here a minute,” he said; “it is but a passing cloud.”

So they stayed there in the gloom, and for a while there was silence
between them. Then he spoke.

“Rosamund, my cousin and lady, I come to put a question to you, but
first—why you will understand afterwards—it is my duty to ask that you
will give me no answer to that question until a full day has passed.”

“Surely, Godwin, that is easy to promise. But what is this wonderful
question which may not be answered?”

“One short and simple. Will you give yourself to me in marriage,
Rosamund?”

She leaned back against the wall of the porch.

“My father—” she began.

“Rosamund, I have his leave.”

“How can I answer since you yourself forbid me?”

“Till this time to-morrow only. Meanwhile, I pray you hear me,
Rosamund. I am your cousin, and we were brought up together—indeed,
except when I was away at the Scottish war, we have never been apart.
Therefore, we know each other well, as well as any can who are not
wedded. Therefore, too, you will know that I have always loved you,
first as a brother loves his sister, and now as a man loves a woman.”

“Nay, Godwin, I knew it not; indeed, I thought that, as it used to be,
your heart was other-where.”

“Other-where? What lady—?”

“Nay, no lady; but in your dreams.”

“Dreams? Dreams of what?”

“I cannot say. Perchance of things that are not here—things higher than
the person of a poor maid.”

“Cousin, in part you are right, for it is not only the maid whom I
love, but her spirit also. Oh, in truth, you are to me a dream—a symbol
of all that is noble, high and pure. In you and through you, Rosamund,
I worship the heaven I hope to share with you.”

“A dream? A symbol? Heaven? Are not these glittering garments to hang
about a woman’s shape? Why, when the truth came out you would find her
but a skull in a jewelled mask, and learn to loathe her for a deceit
that was not her own, but yours. Godwin, such trappings as your
imagination pictures could only fit an angel’s face.”

“They fit a face that will become an angel’s.”

“An angel’s? How know you? I am half an Eastern; the blood runs warm in
me at times. I, too, have my thoughts and visions. I think that I love
power and imagery and the delights of life—a different life from this.
Are you sure, Godwin, that this poor face will be an angel’s?”

“I wish I were as sure of other things. At least I’ll risk it.”

“Think of your soul, Godwin. It might be tarnished. You would not risk
that for me, would you?”

He thought. Then answered:

“No; since your soul is a part of mine, and I would not risk yours,
Rosamund.”

“I like you for that answer,” she said. “Yes; more than for all you
have said before, because I know that it is true. Indeed, you are an
honourable knight, and I am proud—very proud—that you should love me,
though perhaps it would have been better otherwise.” And ever so little
she bent the knee to him.

“Whatever chances, in life or death those words will make me happy,
Rosamund.”

Suddenly she caught his arm. “Whatever chances? Ah! what is about to
chance? Great things, I think, for you and Wulf and me. Remember, I am
half an Eastern, and we children of the East can feel the shadow of the
future before it lays its hands upon us and becomes the present. I fear
it, Godwin—I tell you that I fear it.”

“Fear it not, Rosamund. Why should you fear? On God’s knees lies the
scroll of our lives, and of His purposes. The words we see and the
words we guess may be terrible, but He who wrote it knows the end of
the scroll, and that it is good. Do not fear, therefore, but read on
with an untroubled heart, taking no thought for the morrow.”

She looked at him wonderingly, and asked,

“Are these the words of a wooer or of a saint in wooer’s weeds? I know
not, and do you know yourself? But you say you love me and that you
would wed me, and I believe it; also that the woman whom Godwin weds
will be fortunate, since such men are rare. But I am forbid to answer
till to-morrow. Well, then I will answer as I am given grace. So till
then be what you were of old, and—the snow has ceased; guide me home,
my cousin Godwin.”

So home they went through the darkness and the cold, moaning wind,
speaking no word, and entered the wide hall, where a great fire built
in its centre roared upwards towards an opening in the roof, whence the
smoke escaped, looking very pleasant and cheerful after the winter
night without.

There, standing in front of the fire, also pleasant and cheerful to
behold, although his brow seemed somewhat puckered, was Wulf. At the
sight of him Godwin turned back through the great door, and having, as
it were, stood for one moment in the light, vanished again into the
darkness, closing the door behind him. But Rosamund walked on towards
the fire.

“You seem cold, cousin,” said Wulf, studying her. “Godwin has kept you
too long to pray with him in church. Well, it is his custom, from which
I myself have suffered. Be seated on this settle and warm yourself.”

She obeyed without a word, and opening her fur cloak, stretched out her
hands towards the flame, which played upon her dark and lovely face.
Wulf looked round him.

The hall was empty. Then he looked at Rosamund.

“I am glad to find this chance of speaking with you alone, Cousin,
since I have a question to ask of you; but I must pray of you to give
me no answer to it until four-and-twenty hours be passed.”

“Agreed,” she said. “I have given one such promise; let it serve for
both; now for your question.”

“Ah!” replied Wulf cheerfully; “I am glad that Godwin went first, since
it saves me words, at which he is better than I am.”

“I do not know that, Wulf; at least, you have more of them,” answered
Rosamund, with a little smile.

“More perhaps, but of a different quality—that is what you mean. Well,
happily here mere words are not in question.”

“What, then, are in question, Wulf?”

“Hearts. Your heart and my heart—and, I suppose, Godwin’s heart, if he
has one—in that way.”

“Why should not Godwin have a heart?”

“Why? Well, you see just now it is my business to belittle Godwin.
Therefore I declare—which you, who know more about it, can believe or
not as it pleases you—that Godwin’s heart is like that of the old saint
in the reliquary at Stangate—a thing which may have beaten once, and
will perhaps beat again in heaven, but now is somewhat dead—to this
world.”

Rosamund smiled, and thought to herself that this dead heart had shown
signs of life not long ago. But aloud she said:

“If you have no more to say to me of Godwin’s heart, I will begone to
read with my father, who waits for me.”

“Nay, I have much more to say of my own.” Then suddenly Wulf became
very earnest—so earnest that his great frame shook, and when he strove
to speak he could but stammer. At length it all came forth in a flood
of burning words.

“I love you, Rosamund! I love you—all of you, as I have ever loved
you—though I did not know it till the other day—that of the fight, and
ever shall love you—and I seek you for my wife. I know that I am only a
rough soldier-man, full of faults, not holy and learned like Godwin.
Yet I swear that I would be a true knight to you all my life, and, if
the saints give me grace and strength, do great deeds in your honour
and watch you well. Oh! what more is there to say?”

“Nothing, Wulf,” answered Rosamund, lifting her downcast eyes. “You do
not wish that I should answer you, so I will thank you—yes, from my
heart, though, in truth, I am grieved that we can be no more brother
and sister, as we have been this many a year—and be going.”

“Nay, Rosamund, not yet. Although you may not speak, surely you might
give me some little sign, who am in torment, and thus must stay until
this time to-morrow. For instance, you might let me kiss your hand—the
pact said nothing about kissing.”

“I know naught of this pact, Wulf,” answered Rosamund sternly, although
a smile crept about the corners of her mouth, “but I do know that I
shall not suffer you to touch my hand.”

“Then I will kiss your robe,” and seizing a corner of her cloak, he
pressed it to his lips.

“You are strong—I am weak, Wulf, and cannot wrench my garment from you,
but I tell you that this play advantages you nothing.”

He let the cloak fall.

“Your pardon. I should have remembered that Godwin would never have
presumed so far.”

“Godwin,” she said, tapping her foot upon the ground, “if he gave a
promise, would keep it in the spirit as well as in the letter.”

“I suppose so. See what it is for an erring man to have a saint for a
brother and a rival! Nay, be not angry with me, Rosamund, who cannot
tread the path of saints.”

“That I believe, but at least, Wulf, there is no need to mock those who
can.”

“I mock him not. I love him as well as—you do.” And he watched her
face.

It never changed, for in Rosamund’s heart were hid the secret strength
and silence of the East, which can throw a mask impenetrable over face
and features.

“I am glad that you love him, Wulf. See to it that you never forget
your love and duty.”

“I will; yes—even if you reject me for him.”

“Those are honest words, such as I looked to hear you speak,” she
replied in a gentle voice. “And now, dear Wulf, farewell, for I am
weary—”

“To-morrow—” he broke in.

“Ay,” she answered in a heavy voice. “To-morrow I must speak, and—you
must listen.”

The sun had run his course again, and once more it was near four
o’clock in the afternoon. The brethren stood by the great fire in the
hall looking at each other doubtfully—as, indeed, they had looked
through all the long hours of the night, during which neither of them
had closed an eye.

“It is time,” said Wulf, and Godwin nodded.

As he spoke a woman was seen descending from the solar, and they knew
her errand.

“Which?” asked Wulf, but Godwin shook his head.

“Sir Andrew bids me say that he would speak with you both,” said the
woman, and went her way.

“By the saints, I believe it’s neither!” exclaimed Wulf, with a little
laugh.

“It may be thus,” said Godwin, “and perhaps that would be best for
all.”

“I don’t think so,” answered Wulf, as he followed him up the steps of
the solar.

Now they had passed the passage and closed the door, and before them
was Sir Andrew seated in his chair by the fire, but not alone, for at
his side, her hand resting upon his shoulder, stood Rosamund. They
noted that she was clad in her richest robes, and a bitter thought came
into their minds that this might be to show them how beautiful was the
woman whom both of them must lose. As they advanced they bowed first to
her and then to their uncle, while, lifting her eyes from the ground,
she smiled a little in greeting.

“Speak, Rosamund,” said her father. “These knights are in doubt and
pain.”

“Now for the _coup de grâce_,” muttered Wulf.

“My cousins,” began Rosamund in a low, quiet voice, as though she were
saying a lesson, “as to the matter of which you spoke to me yesterday,
I have taken counsel with my father and with my own heart. You did me
great honour, both of you, in asking me to be the wife of such worthy
knights, with whom I have been brought up and have loved since
childhood as a sister loves her brothers. I will be brief as I may.
Alas! I can give to neither of you the answer which you wish.”

“_Coup de grâce_ indeed,” muttered Wulf, “through hauberk, gambeson,
and shirt, right home to the heart.”

But Godwin only turned a trifle paler and said nothing.

Now there was silence for a little space, while from beneath his bushy
eyebrows the old knight watched their faces, on which the light of the
tapers fell.

Then Godwin spoke: “We thank you, Cousin. Come, Wulf, we have our
answer; let us be going.”

“Not all of it,” broke in Rosamund hastily, and they seemed to breathe
again.

“Listen,” she said; “for if it pleases you, I am willing to make a
promise which my father has approved. Come to me this time two years,
and if we all three live, should both of you still wish for me to wife,
that there may be no further space of pain or waiting, I will name the
man whom I shall choose, and marry him at once.”

“And if one of us is dead?” asked Godwin.

“Then,” replied Rosamund, “if his name be untarnished, and he has done
no deed that is not knightly, will forthwith wed the other.”

“Pardon me—” broke in Wulf.

She held up her hand and stopped him, saying: “You think this a strange
saying, and so, perhaps, it is; but the matter is also strange, and for
me the case is hard. Remember, all my life is at stake, and I may
desire more time wherein to make my choice, that between two such men
no maiden would find easy. We are all of us still young for marriage,
for which, if God guards our lives, there will be time and to spare.
Also in two years I may learn which of you is in truth the worthier
knight, who to-day both seem so worthy.”

“Then is neither of us more to you than the other?” asked Wulf
outright.

Rosamund turned red, and her bosom heaved as she replied:

“I will not answer that question.”

“And Wulf should not have asked it,” said Godwin. “Brother, I read
Rosamund’s saying thus: Between us she finds not much to choose, or if
she does in her secret heart, out of her kindness—since she is
determined not to marry for a while—she will not suffer us to see it
and thereby bring grief on one of us. So she says, ‘Go forth, you
knights, and do deeds worthy of such a lady, and perchance he who does
the highest deeds shall receive the great reward.’ For my part, I find
this judgment wise and just, and I am content to abide its issue. Nay,
I am even glad of it, since it gives us time and opportunity to show
our sweet cousin here, and all our fellows, the mettle whereof we are
made, and strive to outshine each other in the achievement of great
feats which, as always, we shall attempt side by side.”

“Well spoken,” said Sir Andrew. “And you, Wulf?”

Then Wulf, feeling that Rosamund was watching his face beneath the
shadow of her long eyelashes, answered:

“Before Heaven, I am content also, for whatever may be said against it,
now at least there will be two years of war in which one or both of us
well may fall, and for that while at least no woman can come between
our brotherhood. Uncle, I crave your leave to go serve my liege in
Normandy.”

“And I also,” said Godwin.

“In the spring; in the spring,” replied Sir Andrew hastily; “when King
Henry moves his power. Meanwhile, bide you here in all good fellowship,
for, who knows—much may happen between now and then, and perhaps your
strong arms will be needed as they were not long ago. Moreover, I look
to all three of you to hear no more of this talk of love and marriage,
which, in truth, disturbs my mind and house. For good or ill, the
matter is now settled for two years to come, by which time it is likely
I shall be in my grave and beyond all troubling.

“I do not say that things have gone altogether as I could have wished,
but they are as Rosamund wishes, and that is enough for me. On which of
you she looks with the more favour I do not know, and be you content to
remain in ignorance of what a father does not think it wise to seek to
learn. A maid’s heart is her own, and her future lies in the hand of
God and His saints, where let it bide, say I. Now we have done with all
this business. Rosamund, dismiss your knights, and be you all three
brothers and sister once more till this time two years, when those who
live will find an answer to the riddle.”

So Rosamund came forward, and without a word gave her right hand to
Godwin and her left to Wulf, and suffered that they should press their
lips upon them. So for a while this was the end of their asking of her
in marriage.

The brethren left the solar side by side as they had come into it, but
changed men in a sense, for now their lives were afire with a great
purpose, which bade them dare and do and win. Yet they were
lighter-hearted than when they entered there, since at least neither
had been scorned, while both had hope, and all the future, which the
young so seldom fear, lay before them.

As they descended the steps their eyes fell upon the figure of a tall
man clad in a pilgrim’s cape, hood and low-crowned hat, of which the
front was bent upwards and laced, who carried in his hand a palmer’s
staff, and about his waist the scrip and water-bottle.

“What do you seek, holy palmer?” asked Godwin, coming towards him. “A
night’s lodging in my uncle’s house?”

The man bowed; then, fixing on him a pair of beadlike brown eyes, which
reminded Godwin of some he had seen, he knew not when or where,
answered in the humble voice affected by his class:

“Even so, most noble knight. Shelter for man and beast, for my mule is
held without. Also—a word with the lord, Sir Andrew D’Arcy, for whom I
have a message.”

“A mule?” said Wulf. “I thought that palmers always went afoot?”

“True, Sir Knight; but, as it chances, I have baggage. Nay, not my own,
whose earthly gear is all upon my back—but a chest, that contains I
know not what, which I am charged to deliver to Sir Andrew D’Arcy, the
owner of this hall, or should he be dead, then to the lady Rosamund,
his daughter.”

“Charged? By whom?” asked Wulf.

“That, sir,” said the palmer, bowing, “I will tell to Sir Andrew, who,
I understand, still lives. Have I your leave to bring in the chest, and
if so, will one of your servants help me, for it is heavy?”

“We will help you,” said Godwin. And they went with him into the
courtyard, where by the scant light of the stars they saw a fine mule
in charge of one of the serving men, and bound upon its back a
long-shaped package sewn over with sacking. This the palmer unloosed,
and taking one end, while Wulf, after bidding the man stable the mule,
took the other, they bore it into the hall, Godwin going before them to
summon his uncle. Presently he came and the palmer bowed to him.

“What is your name, palmer, and whence is this box?” asked the old
knight, looking at him keenly.

“My name, Sir Andrew, is Nicholas of Salisbury, and as to who sent me,
with your leave I will whisper in your ear.” And, leaning forward, he
did so.

Sir Andrew heard and staggered back as though a dart had pierced him.

“What?” he said. “Are you, a holy palmer, the messenger of—” and he
stopped suddenly.

“I was his prisoner,” answered the man, “and he—who at least ever keeps
his word—gave me my life—for I had been condemned to die—at the price
that I brought this to you, and took back your answer, or hers, which I
have sworn to do.”

“Answer? To what?”

“Nay, I know nothing save that there is a writing in the chest. Its
purport I am not told, who am but a messenger bound by oath to do
certain things. Open the chest, lord, and meanwhile, if you have food,
I have travelled far and fast.”

Sir Andrew went to a door, and called to his men-servants, whom he bade
give meat to the palmer and stay with him while he ate. Then he told
Godwin and Wulf to lift the box and bring it to the solar, and with it
hammer and chisel, in case they should be needed, which they did,
setting it upon the oaken table.

“Open,” said Sir Andrew. So they ripped off the canvas, two folds of
it, revealing within a box of dark, foreign looking wood bound with
iron bands, at which they laboured long before they could break them.
At length it was done, and there within was another box beautifully
made of polished ebony, and sealed at the front and ends with a strange
device. This box had a lock of silver, to which was tied a silver key.

“At least it has not been tampered with,” said Wulf, examining the
unbroken seals, but Sir Andrew only repeated:

“Open, and be swift. Here, Godwin, take the key, for my hand shakes
with cold.”

The lock turned easily, and the seals being broken, the lid rose upon
its hinges, while, as it did so, a scent of precious odours filled the
place. Beneath, covering the contents of the chest, was an oblong piece
of worked silk, and lying on it a parchment.

Sir Andrew broke the thread and seal, and unrolled the parchment.
Within it was written over in strange characters. Also, there was a
second unsealed roll, written in a clerkly hand in Norman French, and
headed, “Translation of this letter, in case the knight, Sir Andrew
D’Arcy, has forgotten the Arabic tongue, or that his daughter, the lady
Rosamund, has not yet learned the same.”

Sir Andrew glanced at both headings, then said:

“Nay, I have not forgotten Arabic, who, while my lady lived, spoke
little else with her, and who taught it to our daughter. But the light
is bad, and, Godwin, you are scholarly; read me the French. We can
compare them afterwards.”

At this moment Rosamund entered the solar from her chamber, and seeing
the three of them so strangely employed, said:

“Is it your will that I go, father?”

“No, daughter. Since you are here, stay here. I think that this matter
concerns you as well as me. Read on, Godwin.”

So Godwin read:

“In the Name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate! I, Salah-ed-din,
Yusuf ibn Ayoub, Commander of the Faithful, cause these words to be
written, and seal them with my own hand, to the Frankish lord, Sir
Andrew D’Arcy, husband of my sister by another mother, Sitt Zobeide,
the beautiful and faithless, on whom Allah has taken vengeance for her
sin. Or if he be dead also, then to his daughter and hers, my niece,
and by blood a princess of Syria and Egypt, who among the English is
named the lady Rose of the World.

“You, Sir Andrew, will remember how, many years ago, when we were
friends, you, by an evil chance, became acquainted with my sister
Zobeide, while you were a prisoner and sick in my father’s house. How,
too, Satan put it into her heart to listen to your words of love, so
that she became a Cross-worshipper, and was married to you after the
Frankish custom, and fled with you to England. You will remember also,
although at the time we could not recapture her from your vessel, how I
sent a messenger to you, saying that soon or late I would yet tear her
from your arms and deal with her as we deal with faithless women. But
within six years of that time sure news reached me that Allah had taken
her, therefore I mourned for my sister and her fate awhile, and forgot
her and you.

“Know that a certain knight named Lozelle, who dwelt in the part of
England where you have your castle, has told me that Zobeide left a
daughter, who is very beautiful. Now my heart, which loved her mother,
goes out towards this niece whom I have never seen, for although she is
your child and a Cross-worshipper at least—save in the matter of her
mother’s theft—you were a brave and noble knight, of good blood, as,
indeed, I remember your brother was also, he who fell in the fight at
Harenc.

“Learn now that, having by the will of Allah come to great estate here
at Damascus and throughout the East, I desire to lift your daughter up
to be a princess of my house. Therefore I invite her to journey to
Damascus, and you with her, if you live. Moreover, lest you should fear
some trap, on behalf of myself, my successors and councillors, I
promise in the Name of God, and by the word of Salah-ed-din, which
never yet was broken, that although I trust the merciful God may change
her heart so that she enters it of her own will, I will not force her
to accept the Faith or to bind herself in any marriage which she does
not desire. Nor will I take vengeance upon you, Sir Andrew, for what
you have done in the past, or suffer others to do so, but will rather
raise you to great honour and live with you in friendship as of yore.

“But if my messenger returns and tells me that my niece refuses this,
my loving offer, then I warn her that my arm is long, and I will surely
take her as I can.

“Therefore, within a year of the day that I receive the answer of the
lady, my niece, who is named Rose of the World, my emissaries will
appear wherever she may be, married or single, to lead her to me, with
honour if she be willing, but still to lead her to me if she be
unwilling. Meanwhile, in token of my love, I send certain gifts of
precious things, and with them my patent of her title as Princess, and
Lady of the City of Baalbec, which title, with its revenue and
prerogatives, are registered in the archives of my empire in favour of
her and her lawful heirs, and declared to be binding upon me and my
successors forever.

“The bearer of this letter and of my gifts is a certain
Cross-worshipper named Nicholas, to whom let your answer be handed for
delivery to me. This devoir he is under oath to perform and will
perform it, for he knows that if he fails therein, then that he must
die.

“Signed by Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, at Damascus, and
sealed with his seal, in the spring season of the year of the Hegira
581.

“Take note also that this writing having been read to me by my
secretary before I set my name and seal thereunto, I perceive that you,
Sir Andrew, or you, Lady Rose of the World, may think it strange that I
should be at such pains and cost over a maid who is not of my religion
and whom I never saw, and may therefore doubt my honesty in the matter.
Know then the true reason. Since I heard that you, Lady Rose of the
World, lived, I have thrice been visited by a dream sent from God
concerning you, and in it I saw your face.

“Now this was the dream—that the oath I made as regards your mother is
binding as regards you also; further, that in some way which is not
revealed to me, your presence here will withhold me from the shedding
of a sea of blood, and save the whole world much misery. Therefore it
is decreed that you must come and bide in my house. That these things
are so, Allah and His Prophet be my witnesses.”




Chapter V.
The Wine Merchant


Godwin laid down the letter, and all of them stared at one another in
amazement.

“Surely,” said Wulf, “this is some fool’s trick played off upon our
uncle as an evil jest.”

By way of answer Sir Andrew bade him lift the silk that hid the
contents of the coffer and see what lay there. Wulf did so, and next
moment threw back his head like a man whom some sudden light had
blinded, as well he might, for from it came such a flare of gems as
Essex had rarely seen before. Red, green and blue they sparkled; and
among them were the dull glow of gold and the white sheen of pearls.

“Oh, how beautiful! how beautiful!” said Rosamund.

“Ay,” muttered Godwin; “beautiful enough to maze a woman’s mind till
she knows not right from wrong.”

Wulf said nothing, but one by one drew its treasures from the
chest—coronet, necklace of pearls, breast ornaments of rubies, girdle
of sapphires, jewelled anklets, and with them veil, sandals, robes and
other garments of gold-embroidered purple silk. Moreover, among these,
also sealed with the seals of Salah-ed-din, his viziers, officers of
state, and secretaries, was that patent of which the letter spoke,
setting out the full titles of the Princess of Baalbec; the extent and
boundaries of her great estates, and the amount of her annual revenue,
which seemed more money than they had ever heard of.

“I was wrong,” said Wulf. “Even the Sultan of the East could not afford
a jest so costly.”

“Jest?” broke in Sir Andrew; “it is no jest, as I was sure from the
first line of that letter. It breathes the very spirit of Saladin,
though he be a Saracen, the greatest man on all the earth, as I, who
was a friend of his youth, know well. Ay, and he is right. In a sense I
sinned against him as his sister sinned, our love compelling us. Jest?
Nay, no jest, but because a vision of the night, which he believes the
voice of God, or perhaps some oracle of the magicians has deeply
stirred that great soul of his and led him on to this wild adventure.”

He paused awhile, then looked up and said, “Girl, do you know what
Saladin has made of you? Why, there are queens in Europe who would be
glad to own that rank and those estates in the rich lands above
Damascus. I know the city and the castle of which he speaks. It is a
mighty place upon the banks of Litani and Orontes, and after its
military governor—for that rule he would not give a Christian—you will
be first in it, beneath the seal of Saladin—the surest title in all the
earth. Say, will you go and queen it there?”

Rosamund gazed at the gleaming gems and the writings that made her
royal, and her eyes flashed and her breast heaved, as they had done by
the church of St. Peter on the Essex coast. Thrice she looked while
they watched her, then turned her head as from the bait of some great
temptation and answered one word only—“Nay.”

“Well spoken,” said her father, who knew her blood and its longings.
“At least, had the ‘nay’ been ‘yea,’ you must have gone alone. Give me
ink and parchment, Godwin.”

They were brought, and he wrote:

“To the Sultan Saladin, from Andrew D’Arcy and his daughter Rosamund.

“We have received your letter, and we answer that where we are there we
will bide in such state as God has given us. Nevertheless, we thank
you, Sultan, since we believe you honest, and we wish you well, except
in your wars against the Cross. As for your threats, we will do our
best to bring them to nothing. Knowing the customs of the East, we do
not send back your gifts to you, since to do so would be to offer
insult to one of the greatest men in all the world; but if you choose
to ask for them, they are yours—not ours. Of your dream we say that it
was but an empty vision of the night which a wise man should
forget.—Your servant and your niece.”

Then he signed, and Rosamund signed after him, and the writing was done
up, wrapped in silk, and sealed.

“Now,” said Sir Andrew, “hide away this wealth, since were it known
that we had such treasures in the place, every thief in England would
be our visitor, some of them bearing high names, I think.”

So they laid the gold-embroidered robes and the priceless sets of gems
back in their coffer, and having locked it, hid it away in the great
iron-bound chest that stood in Sir Andrew’s sleeping chamber.

When everything was finished, Sir Andrew said: “Listen now, Rosamund,
and you also, my nephews. I have never told you the true tale of how
the sister of Saladin, who was known as Zobeide, daughter of Ayoub, and
afterwards christened into our faith by the name of Mary, came to be my
wife. Yet you should learn it, if only to show how evil returns upon a
man. After the great Nur-ed-din took Damascus, Ayoub was made its
governor; then some three-and-twenty years ago came the capture of
Harenc, in which my brother fell. Here I was wounded and taken
prisoner. They bore me to Damascus, where I was lodged in the palace of
Ayoub and kindly treated. Here too it was, while I lay sick, that I
made friends with the young Saladin, and with his sister Zobeide, whom
I met secretly in the gardens of the palace. The rest may be guessed.
Although she numbered but half my years, she loved me as I loved her,
and for my sake offered to change her faith and fly with me to England
if opportunity could be found, which was hard.

“Now, as it chanced, I had a friend, a dark and secret man named Jebal,
the young sheik of a terrible people, whose cruel rites no Christian
understands. They are the subjects of one Mahomet, in Persia, and live
in castles at Masyaf, on Lebanon. This man had been in alliance with
the Franks, and once in a battle I saved his life from the Saracens at
the risk of my own, whereon he swore that did I summon him from the
ends of the earth he would come to me if I needed help. Moreover, he
gave me his signet-ring as a token, and, by virtue of it, so he said,
power in his dominions equal to his own, though these I never visited.
You know it,” and holding up his hand, Sir Andrew showed them a heavy
gold ring, in which was set a black stone, with red veins running
across the stone in the exact shape of a dagger, and beneath the dagger
words cut in unknown characters.

“So in my plight I bethought me of Jebal, and found means to send him a
letter sealed with his ring. Nor did he forget his promise, for within
twelve days Zobeide and I were galloping for Beirut on two horses so
swift that all the cavalry of Ayoub could not overtake them. We reached
the city, and there were married, Rosamund. There too your mother was
baptised a Christian. Thence, since it was not safe for us to stay in
the East, we took ship and came safe home, bearing this ring of Jebal
with us, for I would not give it up, as his servants demanded that I
should do, except to him alone. But before that vessel sailed, a man
disguised as a fisherman brought me a message from Ayoub and his son
Saladin, swearing that they would yet recapture Zobeide, the daughter
of one of them and sister of the other.

“That is the story, and you see that their oath has not been forgotten,
though when in after years they learned of my wife’s death, they let
the matter lie. But since then Saladin, who in those days was but a
noble youth, has become the greatest sultan that the East has ever
known, and having been told of you, Rosamund, by that traitor Lozelle,
he seeks to take you in your mother’s place, and, daughter, I tell you
that I fear him.”

“At least we have a year or longer in which to prepare ourselves, or to
hide,” said Rosamund. “His palmer must travel back to the East before
my uncle Saladin can have our answer.”

“Ay,” said Sir Andrew; “perhaps we have a year.”

“What of the attack on the quay?” asked Godwin, who had been thinking.
“The knight Lozelle was named there. Yet if Saladin had to do with it,
it seems strange that the blow should have come before the word.”

Sir Andrew brooded a while, then said:

“Bring in this palmer. I will question him.”

So the man Nicholas, who was found still eating as though his hunger
would never be satisfied, was brought in by Wulf. He bowed low before
the old knight and Rosamund, studying them the while with his sharp
eyes, and the roof and the floor, and every other detail of the
chamber. For those eyes of his seemed to miss nothing.

“You have brought me a letter from far away, Sir Palmer, who are named
Nicholas,” said Sir Andrew.

“I have brought you a chest from Damascus, Sir Knight, but of its
contents I know nothing. At least you will bear me witness that it has
not been tampered with,” answered Nicholas.

“I find it strange,” went on the old knight, “that one in your holy
garb should be chosen as the messenger of Saladin, with whom Christian
men have little to do.”

“But Saladin has much to do with Christian men, Sir Andrew. Thus he
takes them prisoner even in times of peace, as he did me.”

“Did he, then, take the knight Lozelle prisoner?”

“The knight Lozelle?” repeated the palmer. “Was he a big, red-faced
man, with a scar upon his forehead, who always wore a black cloak over
his mail?”

“That might be he.”

“Then he was not taken prisoner, but he came to visit the Sultan at
Damascus while I lay in bonds there, for I saw him twice or thrice,
though what his business was I do not know. Afterwards he left, and at
Jaffa I heard that he had sailed for Europe three months before I did.”

Now the brethren looked at each other. So Lozelle was in England. But
Sir Andrew made no comment, only he said: “Tell me your story, and be
careful that you speak the truth.”

“Why should I not, who have nothing to hide?” answered Nicholas. “I was
captured by some Arabs as I journeyed to the Jordan upon a pilgrimage,
who, when they found that I had no goods to be robbed of, would have
killed me. This, indeed, they were about to do, had not some of
Saladin’s soldiers come by and commanded them to hold their hands and
give me over to them. They did so, and the soldiers took me to
Damascus. There I was imprisoned, but not close, and then it was that I
saw Lozelle, or, at least, a Christian man who had some such name, and,
as he seemed to be in favour with the Saracens, I begged him to
intercede for me. Afterwards I was brought before the court of Saladin,
and having questioned me, the Sultan himself told me that I must either
worship the false prophet or die, to which you can guess my answer. So
they led me away, as I thought, to death, but none offered to do me
hurt.

“Three days later Saladin sent for me again, and offered to spare my
life if I would swear an oath, which oath was that I should take a
certain package and deliver it to you, or to your daughter named the
Lady Rosamund here at your hall of Steeple, in Essex, and bring back
the answer to Damascus. Not wishing to die, I said that I would do
this, if the Sultan passed his word, which he never breaks, that I
should be set free afterwards.”

“And now you are safe in England, do you purpose to return to Damascus
with the answer, and, if so, why?”

“For two reasons, Sir Andrew. First, because I have sworn to do so, and
I do not break my word any more than does Saladin. Secondly, because I
continue to wish to live, and the Sultan promised me that if I failed
in my mission, he would bring about my death wherever I might be, which
I am sure he has the power to do by magic or otherwise. Well, the rest
of the tale is short. The chest was handed over to me as you see it,
and with it money sufficient for my faring to and fro and something to
spare. Then I was escorted to Joppa, where I took passage on a ship
bound to Italy, where I found another ship named the Holy Mary sailing
for Calais, which we reached after being nearly cast away. Thence I
came to Dover in a fishing boat, landing there eight days ago, and
having bought a mule, joined some travellers to London, and so on
here.”

“And how will you return?”

The palmer shrugged his shoulders.

“As best I may, and as quickly. Is your answer ready, Sir Andrew?”

“Yes; it is here,” and he handed him the roll, which Nicholas hid away
in the folds of his great cloak. Then Sir Andrew added, “You say you
know nothing of all the business in which you play this part?”

“Nothing; or, rather, only this—the officer who escorted me to Jaffa
told me that there was a stir among the learned doctors and diviners at
the court because of a certain dream which the Sultan had dreamed three
times. It had to do with a lady who was half of the blood of Ayoub and
half English, and they said that my mission was mixed up with this
matter. Now I see that the noble lady before me has eyes strangely like
those of the Sultan Saladin.” And he spread out his hands and ceased.

“You seem to see a good deal, friend Nicholas.”

“Sir Andrew, a poor palmer who wishes to preserve his throat unslit
must keep his eyes open. Now I have eaten well, and I am weary. Is
there any place where I may sleep? I must be gone at daybreak, for
those who do Saladin’s business dare not tarry, and I have your
letter.”

“There is a place,” answered Sir Andrew. “Wulf, take him to it, and
to-morrow, before he leaves, we will speak again. Till then, farewell,
holy Nicholas.”

With one more searching glance the palmer bowed and went. When the door
closed behind him Sir Andrew beckoned Godwin to him, and whispered:

“To-morrow, Godwin, you must take some men and follow this Nicholas to
see where he goes and what he does, for I tell you I do not trust
him—ay, I fear him much! These embassies to and from Saracens are
strange traffic for a Christian man. Also, though he says his life
hangs on it, I think that were he honest, once safe in England here he
would stop, since the first priest would absolve him of an oath forced
from him by the infidel.”

“Were he dishonest would he not have stolen those jewels?” asked
Godwin. “They are worth some risk. What do you think, Rosamund?”

“I?” she answered. “Oh, I think there is more in this than any of us
dream.

“I think,” she added in a voice of distress and with an involuntary
wringing motion of the hands, “that for this house and those who dwell
in it time is big with death, and that sharp-eyed palmer is its
midwife. How strange is the destiny that wraps us all about! And now
comes the sword of Saladin to shape it, and the hand of Saladin to drag
me from my peaceful state to a dignity which I do not seek; and the
dreams of Saladin, of whose kin I am, to interweave my life with the
bloody policies of Syria and the unending war between Cross and
Crescent, that are, both of them, my heritage.” Then, with a woeful
gesture, Rosamund turned and left them.

Her father watched her go, and said:

“The maid is right. Great business is afoot in which all of us must
bear our parts. For no little thing would Saladin stir thus—he who
braces himself as I know well, for the last struggle in which Christ or
Mahomet must go down. Rosamund is right. On her brow shines the
crescent diadem of the house of Ayoub, and at her heart hangs the black
cross of the Christian and round her struggle creeds and nations. What,
Wulf, does the man sleep already?”

“Like a dog, for he seems outworn with travel.”

“Like a dog with one eye open, perhaps. I do not wish that he should
give us the slip during the night, as I want more talk with him and
other things, of which I have spoken to Godwin.”

“No fear of that, uncle. I have locked the stable door, and a sainted
palmer will scarcely leave us the present of such a mule.”

“Not he, if I know his tribe,” answered Sir Andrew. “Now let us sup and
afterwards take counsel together, for we shall need it before all is
done.”

An hour before the dawn next morning Godwin and Wulf were up, and with
them certain trusted men who had been warned that their services would
be needed. Presently Wulf, bearing a lantern in his hand, came to where
his brother stood by the fire in the hall.

“Where have you been?” Godwin asked. “To wake the palmer?”

“No. To place a man to watch the road to Steeple Hill, and another at
the Creek path; also to feed his mule, which is a very fine beast—too
good for a palmer. Doubtless he will be stirring soon, as he said that
he must be up early.”

Godwin nodded, and they sat together on the bench beside the fire, for
the weather was bitter, and dozed till the dawn began to break. Then
Wulf rose and shook himself, saying:

“He will not think it uncourteous if we rouse him now,” and walking to
the far end of the hall, he drew a curtain and called out, “Awake, holy
Nicholas! awake! It is time for you to say your prayers, and breakfast
will soon be cooking.”

But no Nicholas answered.

“Of a truth,” grumbled Wulf, as he came back for his lantern, “that
palmer sleeps as though Saladin had already cut his throat.” Then
having lit it, he returned to the guest place.

“Godwin,” he called presently, “come here. The man has gone!”

“Gone?” said Godwin as he ran to the curtain. “Gone where?”

“Back to his friend Saladin, I think,” answered Wulf. “Look, that is
how he went.” And he pointed to the shutter of the sleeping-place, that
stood wide open, and to an oaken stool beneath, by means of which the
sainted Nicholas had climbed up to and through the narrow window slit.

“He must be without, grooming the mule which he would never have left,”
said Godwin.

“Honest guests do not part from their hosts thus,” answered Wulf; “but
let us go and see.”

So they ran to the stable and found it locked and the mule safe enough
within. Nor—though they looked—could they find any trace of the
palmer—not even a footstep, since the ground was frostbound. Only on
examining the door of the stable they discovered that an attempt had
been made to lift the lock with some sharp instrument.

“It seems that he was determined to be gone, either with or without the
beast,” said Wulf. “Well, perhaps we can catch him yet,” and he called
to the men to saddle up and ride with him to search the country.

For three hours they hunted far and wide, but nothing did they see of
Nicholas.

“The knave has slipped away like a night hawk, and left as little
trace,” reported Wulf. “Now, my uncle, what does this mean?”

“I do not know, save that it is of a piece with the rest, and that I
like it little,” answered the old knight anxiously. “Here the value of
the beast was of no account, that is plain. What the man held of
account was that he should be gone in such a fashion that none could
follow him or know whither he went. The net is about us, my nephews,
and I think that Saladin draws its string.”

Still less pleased would Sir Andrew have been, could he have seen the
palmer Nicholas creeping round the hall while all men slept, ere he
girded up his long gown and ran like a hare for London. Yet he had done
this by the light of the bright stars, taking note of every window slit
in it, more especially of those of the solar; of the plan of the
outbuildings also, and of the path that ran to Steeple Creek some five
hundred yards away.

From that day forward fear settled on the place—fear of some blow that
none were able to foresee, and against which they could not guard. Sir
Andrew even talked of leaving Steeple and of taking up his abode in
London, where he thought that they might be safer, but such foul
weather set in that it was impossible to travel the roads, and still
less to sail the sea. So it was arranged that if they moved at all—and
there were many things against it, not the least of which were Sir
Andrew’s weak health and the lack of a house to go to—it should not be
till after New Year’s Day.

Thus the time went on, and nothing happened to disturb them. The
friends of whom the old knight took counsel laughed at his forebodings.
They said that so long as they did not wander about unguarded, there
was little danger of any fresh attack upon them, and if one should by
chance be made, with the aid of the men they had they could hold the
Hall against a company until help was summoned. Moreover, at heart,
none of them believed that Saladin or his emissaries would stir in this
business before the spring, or more probably until another year had
passed. Still, they always set guards at night, and, besides
themselves, kept twenty men sleeping at the Hall. Also they arranged
that on the lighting of a signal fire upon the tower of Steeple Church
their neighbours should come to succour them.

So the time went on towards Christmas, before which the weather changed
and became calm, with sharp frost.

It was on the shortest day that Prior John rode up to the Hall and told
them that he was going to Southminster to buy some wine for the
Christmas feast. Sir Andrew asked what wine there was at Southminster.
The Prior answered that he had heard that a ship, laden amongst other
things with wine of Cyprus of wonderful quality, had come into the
river Crouch with her rudder broken. He added that as no shipwrights
could be found in London to repair it till after Christmas, the
chapman, a Cypriote, who was in charge of the wine, was selling as much
as he could in Southminster and to the houses about at a cheap rate,
and delivering it by means of a wain that he had hired.

Sir Andrew replied that this seemed a fair chance to get fine liquor,
which was hard to come by in Essex in those times. The end of it was
that he bade Wulf, whose taste in strong drink was nice, to ride with
the Prior into Southminster, and if he liked the stuff to buy a few
casks of it for them to make merry with at Christmas—although he
himself, because of his ailments, now drank only water.

So Wulf went, nothing loth. In this dark season of the year when there
was no fishing, it grew very dull loitering about the Hall, and since
he did not read much, like Godwin, sitting for long hours by the fire
at night watching Rosamund going to and fro upon her tasks, but not
speaking with her overmuch. For notwithstanding all their pretense of
forgetfulness, some sort of veil had fallen between the brethren and
Rosamund, and their intercourse was not so open and familiar as of old.
She could not but remember that they were no more her cousins only, but
her lovers also, and that she must guard herself lest she seemed to
show preference to one above the other. The brethren for their part
must always bear in mind also that they were bound not to show their
love, and that their cousin Rosamund was no longer a simple English
lady, but also by creation, as by blood, a princess of the East, whom
destiny might yet lift beyond the reach of either of them.

Moreover, as has been said, dread sat upon that rooftree like a
croaking raven, nor could they escape from the shadow of its wing. Far
away in the East a mighty monarch had turned his thoughts towards this
English home and the maid of his royal blood who dwelt there, and who
was mingled with his visions of conquest and of the triumph of his
faith. Driven on by no dead oath, by no mere fancy or imperial desire,
but by some spiritual hope or need, he had determined to draw her to
him, by fair means if he could; if not, by foul. Already means both
foul and fair had failed, for that the attack at Death Creek quay had
to do with this matter they could no longer doubt. It was certain also
that others would be tried again and again till his end was won or
Rosamund was dead—for here, if even she would go back upon her word,
marriage itself could not shield her.

So the house was sad, and saddest of all seemed the face of the old
knight, Sir Andrew, oppressed as he was with sickness, with memories
and fears. Therefore, Wulf could find pleasure even in an errand to
Southminster to buy wine, of which, in truth, he would have been glad
to drink deeply, if only to drown his thoughts awhile.

So away he rode up Steeple Hill with the Prior, laughing as he used to
do before Rosamund led him to gather flowers at St.
Peter’s-on-the-Wall.

Asking where the foreign merchant dwelt who had wine to sell, they were
directed to an inn near the minster. Here in a back room they found a
short, stout man, wearing a red cloth cap, who was seated on a pillow
between two kegs. In front of him stood a number of folk, gentry and
others, who bargained with him for his wine and the silks and
embroideries that he had to sell, giving the latter to be handled and
samples of the drink to all who asked for them.

“Clean cups,” he said, speaking in bad French, to the drawer who stood
beside him. “Clean cups, for here come a holy man and a gallant knight
who wish to taste my liquor. Nay, fellow, fill them up, for the top of
Mount Trooidos in winter is not so cold as this cursed place, to say
nothing of its damp, which is that of a dungeon,” and he shivered,
drawing his costly shawl closer round him.

“Sir Abbot, which will you taste first—the red wine or the yellow? The
red is the stronger but the yellow is the more costly and a drink for
saints in Paradise and abbots upon earth. The yellow from Kyrenia?
Well, you are wise. They say it was my patron St. Helena’s favourite
vintage when she visited Cyprus, bringing with her Disma’s cross.”

“Are you a Christian then?” asked the Prior. “I took you for a Paynim.”

“Were I not a Christian would I visit this foggy land of yours to trade
in wine—a liquor forbidden to the Moslems?” answered the man, drawing
aside the folds of his shawl and revealing a silver crucifix upon his
broad breast. “I am a merchant of Famagusta in Cyprus, Georgios by
name, and of the Greek Church which you Westerners hold to be
heretical. But what do you think of that wine, holy Abbot?”

The Prior smacked his lips.

“Friend Georgios, it is indeed a drink for the saints,” he answered.

“Ay, and has been a drink for sinners ere now—for this is the very
tipple that Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, drank with her Roman lover
Antony, of whom you, being a learned man, may have heard. And you, Sir
Knight, what say you of the black stuff—‘Mavro,’ we call it—not the
common, but that which has been twenty years in cask?”

“I have tasted worse,” said Wulf, holding out his horn to be filled
again.

“Ay, and will never taste better if you live as long as the Wandering
Jew. Well, sirs, may I take your orders? If you are wise you will make
them large, since no such chance is likely to come your way again, and
that wine, yellow or red, will keep a century.”

Then the chaffering began, and it was long and keen. Indeed, at one
time they nearly left the place without purchasing, but the merchant
Georgios called them back and offered to come to their terms if they
would take double the quantity, so as to make up a cartload between
them, which he said he would deliver before Christmas Day. To this they
consented at length, and departed homewards made happy by the gifts
with which the chapman clinched his bargain, after the Eastern fashion.
To the Prior he gave a roll of worked silk to be used as an edging to
an altar cloth or banner, and to Wulf a dagger handle, quaintly carved
in olive wood to the fashion of a rampant lion. Wulf thanked him, and
then asked him with a somewhat shamed face if he had more embroidery
for sale, whereat the Prior smiled. The quick-eyed Cypriote saw the
smile, and inquired if it might be needed for a lady’s wear, at which
some neighbours present in the room laughed outright.

“Do not laugh at me, gentlemen,” said the Eastern; “for how can I, a
stranger, know this young knight’s affairs, and whether he has mother,
or sisters, or wife, or lover? Well here are broideries fit for any of
them.” Then bidding his servant bring a bale, he opened it, and began
to show his goods, which, indeed, were very beautiful. In the end Wulf
purchased a veil of gauze-like silk worked with golden stars as a
Christmas gift for Rosamund. Afterwards, remembering that even in such
a matter he must take no advantage of his brother, he added to it a
tunic broidered with gold and silver flowers such as he had never
seen—for they were Eastern tulips and anemones, which Godwin would give
her also if he wished.

These silks were costly, and Wulf turned to the Prior to borrow money,
but he had no more upon him. Georgios said, however, that it mattered
nothing, as he would take a guide from the town and bring the wine in
person, when he could receive payment for the broideries, of which he
hoped to sell more to the ladies of the house.

He offered also to go with the Prior and Wulf to where his ship lay in
the river, and show them many other goods aboard of her, which, he
explained to them, were the property of a company of Cyprian merchants
who had embarked upon this venture jointly with himself. This they
declined, however, as the darkness was not far off; but Wulf added that
he would come after Christmas with his brother to see the vessel that
had made so great a voyage. Georgios replied that they would be very
welcome, but if he could make shift to finish the repairs to his
rudder, he was anxious to sail for London while the weather held calm,
for there he looked to sell the bulk of his cargo. He added that he had
expected to spend Christmas at that city, but their helm having gone
wrong in the rough weather, they were driven past the mouth of the
Thames, and had they not drifted into that of the Crouch, would, he
thought, have foundered. So he bade them farewell for that time, but
not before he had asked and received the blessing of the Prior.

Thus the pair of them departed, well pleased with their purchases and
the Cypriote Georgios, whom they found a very pleasant merchant. Prior
John stopped to eat at the Hall that night, when he and Wulf told of
all their dealings with this man. Sir Andrew laughed at the story,
showing them how they had been persuaded by the Eastern to buy a great
deal more wine than they needed, so that it was he and not they who had
the best of the bargain. Then he went on to tell tales of the rich
island of Cyprus, where he had landed many years before and stayed
awhile, and of the gorgeous court of its emperor, and of its
inhabitants. These were, he said, the cunningest traders in the
world—so cunning, indeed, that no Jew could overmatch them; bold
sailors, also, which they had from the Phoenicians of Holy Writ, who,
with the Greeks, were their forefathers, adding that what they told him
of this Georgios accorded well with the character of that people.

Thus it came to pass that no suspicion of Georgios or his ship entered
the mind of any one of them, which, indeed, was scarcely strange,
seeing how well his tale held together, and how plain were the reasons
of his presence and the purpose of his dealings in wines and silks.




Chapter VI.
The Christmas Feast at Steeple


The fourth day after Wulf’s visit to Southminster was Christmas
morning, and the weather being bad, Sir Andrew and his household did
not ride to Stangate, but attended mass in Steeple Church. Here, after
service, according to his custom on this day, he gave a largesse to his
tenants and villeins, and with it his good wishes and a caution that
they should not become drunk at their Yuletide feast, as was the common
habit of the time.

“We shall not get the chance,” said Wulf, as they walked to the Hall,
“since that merchant Georgios has not delivered the wine, of which I
hoped to drink a cup to-night.”

“Perhaps he has sold it at a better price to someone else; it would be
like a Cypriote,” answered Sir Andrew, smiling.

Then they went into the hall, and as had been agreed between them,
together the brethren gave their Christmas gifts to Rosamund. She
thanked them prettily enough, and much admired the beauty of the work.
When they told her that it had not yet been paid for, she laughed and
said that, however they were come by, she would wear both tunic and
veil at their feast, which was to be held at nightfall.

About two o’clock in the afternoon a servant came into the hall to say
that a wain drawn by three horses and accompanied by two men, one of
whom led the horses, was coming down the road from Steeple village.

“Our merchant—and in time after all,” said Wulf, and, followed by the
others, he went out to meet them.

Georgios it was, sure enough, wrapped in a great sheepskin cloak such
as Cypriotes wear in winter, and seated on the head of one of his own
barrels.

“Your pardon, knights,” he said as he scrambled nimbly to the ground.
“The roads in this country are such that, although I have left nearly
half my load at Stangate, it has taken me four long hours to come from
the Abbey here, most of which time we spent in mud-holes that have
wearied the horses and, as I fear, strained the wheels of this crazy
wagon. Still, here we are at last, and, noble sir,” he added, bowing to
Sir Andrew, “here too is the wine that your son bought of me.”

“My nephew,” interrupted Sir Andrew.

“Once more your pardon. I thought from their likeness to you that these
knights were your sons.”

“Has he bought all that stuff?” asked Sir Andrew—for there were five
tubs on the wagon, besides one or two smaller kegs and some packages
wrapped in sheepskin.

“No, alas!” answered the Cypriote ruefully, and shrugging his
shoulders. “Only two of the Mavro. The rest I took to the Abbey, for I
understood the holy Prior to say he would purchase six casks, but it
seems that it was but three he needed.”

“He said three,” put in Wulf.

“Did he, sir? Then doubtless the error was mine, who speak your tongue
but ill. So I must drag the rest back again over those accursed roads,”
and he made another grimace. “Yet I will ask you, sir,” he added to Sir
Andrew, “to lighten the load a little by accepting this small keg of
the old sweet vintage that grows on the slopes of Trooidos.”

“I remember it well,” said Sir Andrew, with a smile; “but, friend, I do
not wish to take your wine for nothing.”

At these words the face of Georgios beamed.

“What, noble sir,” he exclaimed, “do you know my land of Cyprus? Oh,
then indeed I kiss your hands, and surely you will not affront me by
refusing this little present? Indeed, to be frank, I can afford to lose
its price, who have done a good trade, even here in Essex.”

“As you will,” said Sir Andrew. “I thank you, and perhaps you have
other things to sell.”

“I have indeed; a few embroideries if this most gracious lady would be
pleased to look at them. Some carpets also, such as the Moslems used to
pray on in the name of their false prophet, Mahomet,” and, turning, he
spat upon the ground.

“I see that you are a Christian,” said Sir Andrew. “Yet, although I
fought against them, I have known many a good Mussulman. Nor do I think
it necessary to spit at the name of Mahomet, who to my mind was a great
man deceived by the artifice of Satan.”

“Neither do I,” said Godwin reflectively. “Its true servants should
fight the enemies of the Cross and pray for their souls, not spit at
them.”

The merchant looked at them curiously, fingering the silver crucifix
that hung upon his breast. “The captors of the Holy City thought
otherwise,” he said, “when they rode into the Mosque El Aksa up to
their horses’ knees in blood, and I have been taught otherwise. But the
times grow liberal, and, after all, what right has a poor trader whose
mind, alas! is set more on gain than on the sufferings of the blessed
Son of Mary,” and he crossed himself, “to form a judgment upon such
high matters? Pardon me, I accept your reproof, who perhaps am
bigoted.”

Yet, had they but known it, this “reproof” was to save the life of many
a man that night.

“May I ask help with these packages?” he went on, “as I cannot open
them here, and to move the casks? Nay, the little keg I will carry
myself, as I hope that you will taste of it at your Christmas feast. It
must be gently handled, though I fear me that those roads of yours will
not improve its quality.” Then twisting the tub from the end of the
wain onto his shoulder in such a fashion that it remained upright, he
walked off lightly towards the open door of the hall.

“For one not tall that man is strangely strong,” thought Wulf, who
followed with a bale of carpets.

Then the other casks of wine were stowed away in the stone cellar
beneath the hall.

Leaving his servant—a silent, stupid-looking, dark-eyed fellow named
Petros—to bait the horses, Georgios entered the hall and began to
unpack his carpets and embroideries with all the skill of one who had
been trained in the bazaars of Cairo, Damascus, or Nicosia. Beautiful
things they were which he had to show; broideries that dazzled the eye,
and rugs of many hues, yet soft and bright as an otter’s pelt. As Sir
Andrew looked at them, remembering long dead days, his face softened.

“I will buy that rug,” he said, “for of a truth it might be one on
which I lay sick many a year ago in the house of Ayoub at Damascus.
Nay, I haggle not at the price. I will buy it.” Then he fell to
thinking how, whilst lying on such a rug (indeed, although he knew it
not, it was the same), looking through the rounded beads of the wooden
lattice-work of his window, he had first seen his Eastern wife walking
in the orange garden with her father Ayoub. Afterwards, still recalling
his youth, he began to talk of Cyprus, and so time went on until the
dark was falling.

Now Georgios said that he must be going, as he had sent back his guide
to Southminster, where the man desired to eat his Christmas feast. So
the reckoning was paid—it was a long one—and while the horses were
harnessed to the wain the merchant bored holes in the little cask of
wine and set spigots in them, bidding them all be sure to drink of it
that night. Then calling down good fortune on them for their kindness
and liberality, he made his salaams in the Eastern fashion, and
departed, accompanied by Wulf.

Within five minutes there was a sound of shouting, and Wulf was back
again saying that the wheel of the wain had broken at the first turn,
so that now it was lying upon its side in the courtyard. Sir Andrew and
Godwin went out to see to the matter, and there they found Georgios
wringing his hands, as only an Eastern merchant can, and cursing in
some foreign tongue.

“Noble knights,” he said, “what am I to do? Already it is nearly dark,
and how I shall find my way up yonder steep hill I know not. As for the
priceless broideries, I suppose they must stay here for the night,
since that wheel cannot be mended till to-morrow—”

“As you had best do also,” said Sir Andrew kindly. “Come, man, do not
grieve; we are used to broken axles here in Essex, and you and your
servant may as well eat your Christmas dinners at Steeple as in
Southminster.”

“I thank you, Sir Knight; I thank you. But why should I, who am but a
merchant, thrust myself upon your noble company? Let me stop outside
with my man, Petros, and dine with your people in that barn, where I
see they are making ready their food.”

“By no means,” answered Sir Andrew. “Leave your servant with my people,
who will look after him, and come you into the hall, and tell me some
more of Cyprus till our food is ready, which will be soon. Do not fear
for your goods; they shall be placed under cover.”

“All unworthy as I am, I obey,” answered the obsequious Georgios.
“Petros, do you understand? This noble lord gives us hospitality for
the night. His people will show you where to eat and sleep, and help
you with your horses.”

This man, who, he explained, was a Cypriote—a fisherman in summer and a
muleteer in winter—bowed, and fixing his dark eyes upon those of his
master, spoke in some foreign tongue.

“You hear what he says, the silly fellow?” said Georgios. “What? You do
not understand Greek—only Arabic? Well, he asks me to give him money to
pay for his dinner and his night’s lodging. You must forgive him, for
he is but a simple peasant, and cannot believe that anyone may be
lodged and fed without payment. I will explain to him, the pig!” And
explain he did in shrill, high notes, of which no one else could
understand a word.

“There, Sir Knight, I do not think he will offend you so again. Ah!
look. He is walking off—he is sulky. Well, let him alone; he will be
back for his dinner, the pig! Oh, the wet and the wind! A Cypriote does
not mind them in his sheepskins, in which he will sleep even in the
snow.”

So, Georgios still declaiming upon the shortcomings of his servant,
they went back into the hall. Here the conversation soon turned upon
other matters, such as the differences between the creeds of the Greek
and Latin churches—a subject upon which he seemed to be an expert—and
the fear of the Christians in Cyprus lest Saladin should attempt to
capture that island.

At length five o’clock came, and Georgios having first been taken to
the lavatory—it was but a stone trough—to wash his hands, was led to
the dinner, or rather to the supper-table, which stood upon a dais in
front of the entrance to the solar. Here places were laid for six—Sir
Andrew, his nephews, Rosamund, the chaplain, Matthew, who celebrated
masses in the church and ate at the hall on feast-days, and the
Cypriote merchant, Georgios himself. Below the dais, and between it and
the fire, was another table, at which were already gathered twelve
guests, being the chief tenants of Sir Andrew and the reeves of his
outlying lands. On most days the servants of the house, with the
huntsmen, swineherds, and others, sat at a third table beyond the fire.
But as nothing would stop these from growing drunken on the good ale at
a feast, and though many ladies thought little of it, there was no sin
that Rosamund hated so much as this, now their lord sent them to eat
and drink at their ease in the barn which stood in the courtyard with
its back to the moat.

When all had taken their seats, the chaplain said grace, and the meal
began. It was rude but very plentiful. First, borne in by the cook on a
wooden platter, came a great codfish, whereof he helped portions to
each in turn, laying them on their “trenchers”—that is, large slices of
bread—whence they ate them with the spoons that were given to each.
After the fish appeared the meats, of which there were many sorts,
served on silver spits. These included fowls, partridges, duck, and,
chief of all, a great swan, that the tenants greeted by knocking their
horn mugs upon the table; after which came the pastries, and with them
nuts and apples. For drink, ale was served at the lower table. On the
dais however, they drank some of the black wine which Wulf had
bought—that is, except Sir Andrew and Rosamund, the former because he
dared not, and the latter because she had always hated any drink but
water—a dislike that came to her, doubtless, with her Eastern blood.

Thus they grew merry since their guest proved himself a cheerful
fellow, who told them many stories of love and war, for he seemed to
know much of loves, and to have been in sundry wars. At these even Sir
Andrew, forgetting his ailments and forebodings, laughed well, while
Rosamund, looking more beautiful than ever in the gold-starred veil and
the broidered tunic which the brethren had given her, listened to them,
smiling somewhat absently. At last the feast drew towards its end, when
suddenly, as though struck by a sudden recollection, Georgios
exclaimed:

“The wine! The liquid amber from Trooidos! I had forgotten it. Noble
knight, have I your leave to draw?”

“Ay, excellent merchant,” answered Sir Andrew. “Certainly you can draw
your own wine.”

So Georgios rose, and took a large jug and a silver tankard from the
sideboard where such things were displayed. With these he went to the
little keg which, it will be remembered, had been stood ready upon the
trestles, and, bending over it while he drew the spigots, filled the
vessels to the brim. Then he beckoned to a reeve sitting at the lower
table to bring him a leather jack that stood upon the board. Having
rinsed it out with wine, he filled that also, handing it with the jug
to the reeve to drink their lord’s health on this Yule night. The
silver vessel he bore back to the high table, and with his own hand
filled the horn cups of all present, Rosamund alone excepted, for she
would touch none, although he pressed her hard and looked vexed at her
refusal. Indeed, it was because it seemed to pain the man that Sir
Andrew, ever courteous, took a little himself, although, when his back
was turned, he filled the goblet up with water. At length, when all was
ready, Georgios charged, or seemed to charge, his own horn, and,
lifting it, said:

“Let us drink, every one of us here, to the noble knight, Sir Andrew
D’Arcy, to whom I wish, in the phrase of my own people, that he may
live for ever. Drink, friends, drink deep, for never will wine such as
this pass your lips again.”

Then, lifting his beaker, he appeared to drain it in great gulps—an
example which all followed, even Sir Andrew drinking a little from his
cup, which was three parts filled with water. There followed a long
murmur of satisfaction.

“Wine! It is nectar!” said Wulf.

“Ay,” put in the chaplain, Matthew; “Adam might have drunk this in the
Garden,” while from the lower table came jovial shouts of praise of
this smooth, creamlike vintage.

Certainly that wine was both rich and strong. Thus, after his sup of
it, a veil as it were seemed to fall on the mind of Sir Andrew and to
cover it up. It lifted again, and lo! his brain was full of memories
and foresights. Circumstances which he had forgotten for many years
came back to him altogether, like a crowd of children tumbling out to
play. These passed, and he grew suddenly afraid. Yet what had he to
fear that night? The gates across the moat were locked and guarded.
Trusty men, a score or more of them, ate in his outbuildings within
those gates; while others, still more trusted, sat in his hall; and on
his right hand and on his left were those two strong and valiant
knights, Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf. No, there was nothing to fear—and yet
he felt afraid. Suddenly he heard a voice speak. It was Rosamund’s; and
she said:

“Why is there such silence, father? A while ago I heard the servants
and bondsmen carousing in the barn; now they are still as death. Oh,
and look! Are all here drunken? Godwin—”

But as she spoke Godwin’s head fell forward on the board, while Wulf
rose, half drew his sword, then threw his arm about the neck of the
priest, and sank with him to the ground. As it was with these, so it
seemed with all, for folk rocked to and fro, then sank to sleep,
everyone of them, save the merchant Georgios, who rose to call another
toast.

“Stranger,” said Sir Andrew, in a heavy voice, “your wine is very
strong.”

“It would seem so, Sir Knight,” he answered; “but I will wake them from
their wassail.” Springing from the dais lightly as a cat, he ran down
the hall crying, “Air is what they need. Air!” Now coming to the door,
he threw it wide open, and drawing a silver whistle from his robe, blew
it long and loud. “What,” he laughed, “do they still sleep? Why, then,
I must give a toast that will rouse them all,” and seizing a horn mug,
he waved it and shouted:

“Arouse you, ye drunkards, and drink to the lady Rose of the World,
princess of Baalbec, and niece to my royal master, Yusuf Salah-ed-din,
who sends me to lead her to him!”

“Oh, father,” shrieked Rosamund, “the wine was drugged and we are
betrayed!”

As the words passed her lips there rose a sound of running feet, and
through the open door at the far end of the hall burst in a score or
over of armed men. Then at last Sir Andrew saw and understood.

With a roar of rage like that of a wounded lion, he seized his daughter
and dragged her back with him down the passage into the solar where a
fire burned and lights had been lit ready for their retiring, flinging
to and bolting the door behind them.

“Swift!” he said, as he tore his gown from him, “there is no escape,
but at least I can die fighting for you. Give me my mail.”

She snatched his hauberk from the wall, and while they thundered at the
door, did it on to him—ay, and his steel helm also, and gave him his
long sword and his shield.

“Now,” he said, “help me.” And they thrust the oak table forward, and
overset it in front of the door, throwing the chairs and stools on
either side, that men might stumble on them.

“There is a bow,” he said, “and you can use it as I have taught you.
Get to one side and out of reach of the sword sweeps, and shoot past me
as they rush; it may stay one of them. Oh, that Godwin and Wulf were
here, and we would still teach these Paynim dogs a lesson!”

Rosamund made no answer but there came into her mind a vision of the
agony of Godwin and of Wulf should they ever wake again to learn what
had chanced to her and them. She looked round. Against the wall stood a
little desk, at which Godwin was wont to write, and on it lay pen and
parchment. She seized them, and as the door gave slowly inwards,
scrawled:

“Follow me to Saladin. In that hope I live on.—Rosamund.”

Then as the stout door at length crashed in Rosamund turned what she
had written face downwards on the desk, and seizing the bow, set an
arrow to its string. Now it was down and on rushed the mob up the six
feet of narrow passage. At the end of it, in front of the overturned
table, they halted suddenly. For there before them, skull-emblazoned,
shield on arm, his long sword lifted, and a terrible wrath burning in
his eyes, stood the old knight, like a wolf at bay, and by his side,
bow in hand, the beauteous lady Rosamund, clad in all her festal
broideries.

“Yield you!” cried a voice. By way of answer the bowstring twanged, and
an arrow sped home to its feathers through the throat of the speaker,
so that he went down, grabbing at it, and spoke no more for ever.

As he fell clattering to the floor, Sir Andrew cried in a great voice:

“We yield not to pagan dogs and poisoners. _A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy! Meet
D’Arcy, meet Death!_”

Thus for the last time did old Sir Andrew utter the warcry of his race,
which he had feared would never pass his lips again. His prayer had
been heard, and he was to die as he had desired.

“Down with him! seize the Princess!” said a voice. It was that of
Georgios, no longer humble with a merchant’s obsequious whine, but
speaking in tones of cold command and in Arabic. For a moment the
swarthy mob hung back, as well they might in face of that glittering
sword. Then with a cry of “_Salah-ed-din! Salah-ed-din!_” on they
surged, with flashing spears and scimitars. The overthrown table was in
front of them, and one leapt upon its edge, but as he leapt, the old
knight, all his years and sickness forgotten now, sprang forward and
struck downwards, so heavy a blow that in the darkling mouth of the
passage the sparks streamed out, and where the Saracen’s head had been,
appeared his heels. Back Sir Andrew stepped again to win space for his
sword-play, while round the ends of the table broke two fierce-faced
men. At one of them Rosamund shot with her bow, and the arrow pierced
his thigh, but as he fell he struck with his keen scimitar and shore
the end off the bow, so that it was useless. The second man caught his
foot in the bar of the oak chair which he did not see, and went down
prone, while Sir Andrew, taking no heed of him, rushed with a shout at
the crowd who followed, and catching their blows upon his shield,
rained down others so desperate that, being hampered by their very
number, they gave before him, and staggered back along the passage.

“Guard your right, father!” cried Rosamund. He sprang round, to see the
Saracen, who had fallen, on his feet again. At him he went, nor did the
man wait the onset, but turned to fly, only to find his death, for the
great sword caught him between neck and shoulders. Now a voice cried:
“We make poor sport with this old lion, and lose men. Keep clear of his
claws, and whelm him with spear casts.”

But Rosamund, who understood their tongue, sprang in front of him, and
answered in Arabic:

“Ay, through my breast; and go, tell that tale to Saladin!”

Then, clear and calm was heard the command of Georgios. “He who harms a
hair of the Princess dies. Take them both living if you may, but lay no
hand on her. Stay, let us talk.”

So they ceased from their onslaught and began to consult together.

Rosamund touched her father and pointed to the man who lay upon the
floor with an arrow through his thigh. He was struggling to his knee,
raising the heavy scimitar in his hand. Sir Andrew lifted his sword as
a husbandman lifts a stick to kill a rat, then let it fall again,
saying:

“I fight not with the wounded. Drop that steel, and get you back to
your own folk.”

The fellow obeyed him—yes, and even touched the floor with his forehead
in salaam as he crawled away, for he knew that he had been given his
life, and that the deed was noble towards him who had planned a
coward’s stroke. Then Georgios stepped forward, no longer the same
Georgios who had sold poisoned wine and Eastern broideries, but a
proud-looking, high-browed Saracen clad in the mail which he wore
beneath his merchant’s robe, and in place of the crucifix wearing on
his breast a great star-shaped jewel, the emblem of his house and rank.

“Sir Andrew,” he said, “hearken to me, I pray you. Noble was that act,”
and he pointed to the wounded man being dragged away by his fellows,
“and noble has been your defence—well worthy of your lineage and your
knighthood. It is a tale that my master,” and he bowed as he said the
word, “will love to hear if it pleases Allah that we return to him in
safety. Also you will think that I have played a knave’s trick upon
you, overcoming the might of those gallant knights, Sir Godwin and Sir
Wulf, not with sword blows but with drugged wine, and treating all your
servants in like fashion, since not one of them can shake off its fumes
before to-morrow’s light. So indeed it is—a very scurvy trick which I
shall remember with shame to my life’s end, and that perchance may yet
fall back upon my head in blood and vengeance. Yet bethink you how we
stand, and forgive us. We are but a little company of men in your great
country, hidden, as it were, in a den of lions, who, if they saw us,
would slay us without mercy. That, indeed, is a small thing, for what
are our lives, of which your sword has taken tithe, and not only yours,
but those of the twin brethren on the quay by the water?”

“I thought it,” broke in Sir Andrew contemptuously. “Indeed, that deed
was worthy of you—twenty or more men against two.”

Georgios held up his hand.

“Judge us not harshly,” he said, speaking slowly, who, for his own ends
wished to gain time, “you who have read the letter of our lord. See
you, these were my commands: To secure the lady Rose of the World as
best I might, but if possible without bloodshed. Now I was
reconnoitring the country with a troop of the sailors from my ship who
are but poor fighters, and a few of my own people, when my spies
brought me word that she had ridden out attended by only two men, and
surely I thought that already she was in my hands. But the knights
foiled me by strategy and strength, and you know the end of it. So
afterwards my messenger presented the letter, which, indeed, should
have been done at first. The letter failed also, for neither you, nor
the Princess”—and he bowed to Rosamund—“could be bought. More, the
whole country was awakened; you were surrounded with armed men, the
knightly brethren kept watch and ward over you, and you were about to
fly to London, where it would have been hard to snare you. Therefore,
because I must, I—who am a prince and an emir, who also, although you
remember it not, have crossed swords with you in my youth; yes, at
Harenc—became a dealer in drugged wine.

“Now hearken. Yield you, Sir Andrew, who have done enough to make your
name a song for generations, and accept the love of Salah-ed-din, whose
word you have, the word that, as you know well, cannot be broken, which
I, the lord El-Hassan—for no meaner man has been sent upon this
errand—plight to you afresh. Yield you, and save your life, and live on
in honour, clinging to your own faith, till Azrael takes you from the
pleasant fields of Baalbec to the waters of Paradise—if such there be
for infidels, however gallant.

“For know, this deed must be done. Did we return without the princess
Rose of the World, we should die, every one of us, and did we offer her
harm or insult, then more horribly than I can tell you. This is no
fancy of a great king that drives him on to the stealing of a woman,
although she be of his own high blood. The voice of God has spoken to
Salah-ed-din by the mouth of his angel Sleep. Thrice has Allah spoken
in dreams, telling him who is merciful, that through your daughter and
her nobleness alone can countless lives be saved; therefore, sooner
than she should escape him, he would lose even the half of all his
empire. Outwit us, defeat us now, capture us, cause us to be tortured
and destroyed, and other messengers would come to do his bidding—
indeed, they are already on the way. Moreover, it is useless to shed
more blood, seeing it is written in the Books that this lady, Rose of
the World, must return to the East where she was begot, there to fulfil
her destiny and save the lives of men.”

“Then, emir El-Hassan, I shall return as a spirit,” said Rosamund
proudly.

“Not so, Princess,” he answered, bowing, “for Allah alone has power
over your life, and it is otherwise decreed. Sir Andrew, the time grows
short, and I must fulfil my mission. Will you take the peace of
Salah-ed-din, or force his servants to take your life?”

The old knight listened, resting on his reddened sword; then he lifted
his head, and spoke:

“I am aged and near my death, wine-seller Georgios, or prince
El-Hassan, whichever you may be. In my youth I swore to make no pact
with Paynims, and in my eld I will not break that vow. While I can lift
sword I will defend my daughter, even against the might of Saladin. Get
to your coward’s work again, and let things go as God has willed them.”

“Then, Princess,” answered El-Hassan, “bear me witness throughout the
East that I am innocent of your father’s blood. On his own head be it,
and on yours,” and for the second time he blew upon the whistle that
hung around his neck.




Chapter VII.
The Banner of Saladin


As the echoes of Hassan’s whistle died away there was a crash amongst
the wooden shutters of the window behind them, and down into the room
leaped a long, lithe figure, holding an axe aloft. Before Sir Andrew
could turn to see whence the sound came, that axe dealt him a fearful
blow between the shoulders which, although the ringed mail remained
unshorn, shattered his spine beneath. Down he fell, rolled on to his
back, and lay there, still able to speak and without pain, but helpless
as a child. For he was paralysed, and never more would move hand or
foot or head.

In the silence that followed he spoke in a heavy voice, letting his
eyes rest upon the man who had struck him down.

“A knightly blow, truly; one worthy of a Christian born who does murder
for Paynim pay! Traitor to God and man, who have eaten my bread and now
slaughter me like an ox on my hearth-stone, may your own end be even
worse, and at the hands of those you serve.”

The palmer Nicholas, for it was he, although he no longer wore the
palmer’s robe, slunk away muttering, and was lost among the crowd in
the passage. Then, with a sudden and a bitter cry, Rosamund swooped
forward, as a bird swoops, snatched up the sword her sire would never
lift again, and setting its hilt upon the floor, cast herself forward.
But its point never touched her breast, for the emir sprang swiftly and
struck the steel aside; then, as she fell, caught her in his arms.
“Lady,” he said, loosing her very gently. “Allah does not need you yet.
I have told you that it is not fated. Now will you pass me your
word—for being of the blood of Salah-ed-din and D’Arcy, you, too,
cannot lie—that neither now nor afterwards you will attempt to harm
yourself? If not, I must bind you, which I am loth to do—it is a
sacrilege to which I pray you will not force me.”

“Promise, Rosamund,” said the hollow voice of her father, “and go to
fulfil your fate. Self-murder is a crime, and the man is right; it is
decreed. I bid you promise.”

“I obey and promise,” said Rosamund. “It is your hour, my lord Hassan.”

He bowed deeply and answered:

“I am satisfied, and henceforth we are your servants. Princess, the
night air is bitter; you cannot travel thus. In which chamber are your
garments?”

She pointed with her finger. A man took a taper, and, accompanied by
two others, entered the place, to return presently with their arms full
of all the apparel they could find. Indeed, they even brought her
missal and the silver crucifix which hung above her bed and with it her
leathern case of trinkets.

“Keep out the warmest cloak,” said Hassan, “and tie the rest up in
those carpets.”

So the rugs that Sir Andrew had bought that day from the merchant
Georgios were made to serve as travelling bags to hold his daughter’s
gear. Thus even in this hour of haste and danger thought was taken for
her comfort.

“Princess,” said Hassan, bowing, “my master, your uncle, sent you
certain jewels of no mean value. Is it your wish that they should
accompany you?”

Without lifting her eyes from her dying father’s face, Rosamund
answered heavily:

“Where they are, there let them bide. What have I to do with jewels?”

“Your will is my law,” he said, “and others will be found for you.
Princess, all is ready; we wait your pleasure.”

“My pleasure? Oh, God, my pleasure?” exclaimed Rosamund in the same
drear voice, still staring at her father, who lay before her on the
ground.

“I cannot help it,” said Hassan, answering the question in her eyes,
and there was grief in his tone. “He would not come, he brought it on
himself; though in truth I wish that accursed Frank had not struck so
shrewdly. If you ask it, we will bear him with you; but, lady, it is
idle to hide the truth—he is sped. I have studied medicine, and I
know.”

“Nay,” said Sir Andrew from the floor, “leave me here. Daughter, we
must part awhile. As I stole his child from Ayoub, so Ayoub’s son
steals my child from me. Daughter, cling to the faith—that we may meet
again.”

“To the death,” she answered.

“Be comforted,” said Hassan. “Has not Salah-ed-din passed his word that
except her own will or that of Allah should change her heart, a
Cross-worshipper she may live and die? Lady, for your own sake as well
as ours, let this sad farewell be brief. Begone, my servants, taking
these dead and wounded with you. There are things it is not fitting
that common eyes should see.”

They obeyed, and the three of them remained alone together. Then
Rosamund knelt down beside her father, and they whispered into each
other’s ears. Hassan turned his back upon them, and threw the corner of
his cloak over his head and eyes that he might neither see nor hear
their voices in this dread and holy hour of parting.

It would seem that they found some kind of hope and consolation in
it—at least when Rosamund kissed him for the last time, Sir Andrew
smiled and said:

“Yes, yes; it may all be for the best. God will guard you, and His will
be done. But I forgot. Tell me, daughter, which?”

Again she whispered into his ear, and when he had thought a moment, he
answered:

“Maybe you are right. I think that is wisest for all. And now on the
three of you—aye, and on your children’s children’s children—let my
blessing rest, as rest it shall. Come hither, Emir.”

Hassan heard him through his cloak, and, uncovering, came.

“Say to Saladin, your master, that he has been too strong for me, and
paid me back in my own coin. Well, had it been otherwise, my daughter
and I must soon have parted, for death drew near to me. At least it is
the decree of God, to which I bow my head, trusting there may be truth
in that dream of his, and that our sorrows, in some way unforeseen,
will bring blessings to our brethren in the East. But to Saladin say
also that whatever his bigot faith may teach, for Christian and for
Paynim there is a meeting-place beyond the grave. Say that if aught of
wrong or insult is done towards this maiden, I swear by the God who
made us both that there I will hold him to account. Now, since it must
be so, take her and go your way, knowing that my spirit follows after
you and her; yes, and that even in this world she will find avengers.”

“I hear your words, and I will deliver them,” answered Hassan. “More, I
believe that they are true, and for the rest you have the oath of
Salah-ed-din—ay, and my oath while she is in my charge. Therefore, Sir
Andrew D’Arcy, forgive us, who are but the instruments of Allah, and
die in peace.”

“I, who have so much to be forgiven, forgive you,” answered the old
knight slowly.

Then his eyes fixed themselves upon his daughter’s face with one long,
searching look, and closed.

“I think that he is dead,” said Hassan. “May God, the Merciful and
Compassionate, rest his soul!” And taking a white garment from the
wall, he flung it over him, adding, “Lady, come.”

Thrice Rosamund looked at the shrouded figure on the floor; once she
wrung her hands and seemed about to fall. Then, as though a thought
struck her, she lifted her father’s sword from where it lay, and
gathering her strength, drew herself up and passed like a queen down
the blood-stained passage and the steps of the solar. In the hall
beneath waited the band of Hassan, who bowed as she came—a vision of
despairing loveliness, that held aloft a red and naked sword. There,
too, lay the drugged men fallen this way and that, and among them Wulf
across the table, and Godwin on the dais. Rosamund spoke.

“Are these dead or sleeping?”

“Have no fear,” answered Hassan. “By my hope of paradise, they do but
sleep, and will awake ere morning.”

Rosamund pointed to the renegade Nicholas—he that had struck down her
father from behind—who, an evil look upon his face, stood apart from
the Saracens, holding in his hand a lighted torch.

“What does this man with the torch?” she asked.

“If you would know, lady,” Nicholas answered with a sneer, “I wait till
you are out of it to fire the hall.”

“Prince Hassan,” said Rosamund, “is this a deed that great Saladin
would wish, to burn drugged men beneath their own roof? Now, as you
shall answer to him, in the name of Saladin I, a daughter of his House,
command you, strike the fire from that man’s hand, and in my hearing
give your order that none should even think of such an act of shame.”

“What?” broke in Nicholas, “and leave knights like these, whose quality
you know”—and he pointed to the brethren—“to follow in our path, and
take our lives in vengeance? Why, it is madness!”

“Are you master here, traitor, or am I?” asked Hassan in cold contempt.
“Let them follow if they will, and I for one shall rejoice to meet foes
so brave in open battle, and there give them their revenge. Ali,” he
added, addressing the man who had been disguised as a merchant’s
underling, and who had drugged the men in the barn as his master had
drugged those in the hall, and opened the moat gate to the band, “Ali,
stamp upon the torch and guard that Frank till we reach the boat lest
the fool should raise the country on us with his fires. Now, Princess,
are you satisfied?”

“Ay, having your word,” she answered. “One moment, I pray you. I would
leave a token to my knights.”

Then, while they watched her with wondering eyes, she unfastened the
gold cross and chain that hung upon her bosom, and slipping the cross
from the chain, went to where Godwin lay, and placed it on his breast.
Next, with a swift movement, she wound the chain about the silver hilt
of Sir Andrew’s sword, and passing to Wulf, with one strong thrust,
drove the point between the oak boards of the table, so that it stood
before him—at once a cross, a brand of battle, and a lady’s token.

“His grandsire bore it,” she said in Arabic, “when he leapt on to the
walls of Jerusalem. It is my last gift to him.” But the Saracens
muttered and turned pale at these words of evil omen.

Then taking the hand of Hassan, who stood searching her white,
inscrutable face, with never a word or a backward look, she swept down
the length of the long hall, and out into the night beyond.

“It would have been well to take my counsel and fire the place, or at
least to cut the throats of all within it,” said the man Nicholas to
his guard Ali as they followed with the rest. “If I know aught of these
brethren, cross and sword will soon be hard upon our track, and men’s
lives must pay the price of such soft folly.” And he shivered as though
in fear.

“It may be so, Spy,” answered the Saracen, looking at him with sombre,
contemptuous eyes. “It may be that your life will pay the price.”

Wulf was dreaming, dreaming that he stood on his head upon a wooden
plank, as once he had seen a juggler do, which turned round one way
while he turned round the other, till at length some one shouted at
him, and he tumbled off the board and hurt himself. Then he awoke to
hear a voice shouting surely enough—the voice of Matthew, the chaplain
of Steeple Church.

“Awake!” said the voice. “In God’s name, I conjure you, awake!”

“What is it?” he said, lifting his head sleepily, and becoming
conscious of a dull pain across his forehead.

“It is that death and the devil have been here, Sir Wulf.”

“Well, they are often near together. But I thirst. Give me water.”

A serving-woman, pallid, dishevelled, heavy-eyed, who was stumbling to
and fro, lighting torches and tapers, for it was still dark, brought it
to him in a leathern jack, from which he drank deeply.

“That is better,” he said. Then his eye fell upon the bloody sword set
point downwards in the wood of the table before him, and he exclaimed,
“Mother of God! what is that? My uncle’s silver-hilted sword, red with
blood, and Rosamund’s gold chain upon the hilt! Priest, where is the
lady Rosamund?”

“Gone,” answered the chaplain in a voice that sounded like a groan.
“The women woke and found her gone, and Sir Andrew lies dead or dying
in the solar—but now I have shriven him—and oh! we have all been
drugged. Look at them!” and he waved his hand towards the recumbent
forms. “I say that the devil has been here.”

Wulf sprang to his feet with an oath.

“The devil? Ah! I have it now. You mean the Cyprian chapman Georgios.
He who sold wine.”

“He who sold drugged wine,” echoed the chaplain, “and has stolen away
the lady Rosamund.”

Then Wulf seemed to go mad.

“Stolen Rosamund over our sleeping carcases! Stolen Rosamund with never
a blow struck by us to save her! O, Christ, that such a thing should
be! O, Christ, that I should live to hear it!” And he, the mighty man,
the knight of skill and strength, broke down and wept like a very
child. But not for long, for presently he shouted in a voice of
thunder:

“Awake, ye drunkards! Awake, and learn what has chanced to us. Your
lady Rosamund has been raped away while we were lost in sleep!”

At the sound of that great voice a tall form arose from the floor, and
staggered towards him, holding a gold cross in its hand.

“What awful words are those, my brother?” asked Godwin, who, pale and
dull-eyed, rocked to and fro before him. Then he, too, saw the red
sword and stared, first at it and next at the gold cross in his hand.
“My uncle’s sword, Rosamund’s chain, Rosamund’s cross! Where, then, is
Rosamund?”

“Gone! gone! gone!” cried Wulf. “Tell him, priest.”

So the chaplain told him all he knew.

“Thus have we kept our oaths,” went on Wulf. “Oh, what can we do now,
save die for very shame?”

“Nay,” answered Godwin, dreamingly; “we can live on to save her. See,
these are her tokens—the cross for me, the blood-stained sword for you,
and about its hilt the chain, a symbol of her slavery. Now both of us
must bear the cross; both of us must wield the sword, and both of us
must cut the chain, or if we fail, then die.”

“You rave,” said Wulf; “and little wonder. Here, drink water. Would
that we had never touched aught else, as she did, and desired that we
should do. What said you of my uncle, priest? Dead, or only dying? Nay,
answer not, let us see. Come, brother.”

Now together they ran, or rather reeled, torch in hand, along the
passage.

Wulf saw the bloodstains on the floor and laughed savagely.

“The old man made a good fight,” he said, “while, like drunken brutes,
we slept.”

They were there, and before them, beneath the white, shroud-like cloak,
lay Sir Andrew, the steel helm on his head, and his face beneath it
even whiter than the cloak.

At the sound of their footsteps he opened his eyes. “At length, at
length,” he muttered. “Oh, how many years have I waited for you? Nay,
be silent, for I do not know how long my strength will last, but
listen—kneel down and listen.”

So they knelt on either side of him, and in quick, fierce words he told
them all—of the drugging, of the fight, of the long parley carried on
to give the palmer knave time to climb to the window; of his cowardly
blow, and of what chanced afterwards. Then his strength seemed to fail
him, but they poured drink down his throat, and it came back again.

“Take horse swiftly,” he gasped, pausing now and again to rest, “and
rouse the countryside. There is still a chance. Nay, seven hours have
gone by; there is no chance. Their plans were too well laid; by now
they will be at sea. So hear me. Go to Palestine. There is money for
your faring in my chest, but go alone, with no company, for in time of
peace these would betray you. Godwin, draw off this ring from my
finger, and with it as a token, find out Jebal, the black sheik of the
Mountain Tribe at Masyaf on Lebanon. Bid him remember the vow he made
to Andrew D’Arcy, the English knight. If any can aid you, it will be
Jebal, who hates the Houses of Nur-ed-din and of Ayoub. So, I charge
you, let nothing—I say nothing—turn you aside from seeking him.

“Afterwards act as God shall guide you. If they still live, kill that
traitor Nicholas and Hugh Lozelle, but, save in open war, spare the
Emir Hassan, who did but do his duty as an Eastern reads it, and showed
some mercy, for he could have slain or burnt us all. This riddle has
been hard for me; yet now, in my dying hour, I seem to see its answer.
I think that Saladin did not dream in vain. Keep brave hearts, for I
think also that at Masyaf you will find friends, and that things will
yet go well, and our sorrows bear good fruit.

“What is that you said? She left you my father’s sword, Wulf? Then
wield it bravely, winning honour for our name. She left you the cross,
Godwin? Wear it worthily, winning glory for the Lord, and salvation to
your soul. Remember what you have sworn. Whate’er befall, bear no
bitterness to one another. Be true to one another, and to her, your
lady, so that when at the last you make your report to me before high
Heaven, I may have no cause to be ashamed of you, my nephews, Godwin
and Wulf.”

For a moment the dying man was silent, until his face lit up as with a
great gladness, and he cried in a loud, clear voice, “Beloved wife, I
hear you! O, God, I come!”

Then though his eyes stayed open, and the smile still rested on his
face, his jaw fell.

Thus died Sir Andrew D’Arcy.

Still kneeling on either side of him, the brethren watched the end,
and, as his spirit passed, bowed their heads in prayer.

“We have seen a great death,” said Godwin presently. “Let us learn a
lesson from it, that when our time comes we may die like him.”

“Ay,” answered Wulf, springing to his feet, “but first let us take
vengeance for it. Why, what is this? Rosamund’s writing! Read it,
Godwin.”

Godwin took the parchment and read: “_Follow me to Saladin. In that
hope I live on._”

“Surely we will follow you, Rosamund,” he cried aloud. “Follow you
through life to death or victory.”

Then he threw down the paper, and calling for the chaplain to come to
watch the body, they ran into the hall. By this time about half of the
folk were awake from their drugged sleep, whilst others who had been
doctored by the man Ali in the barn staggered into the hall—wild-eyed,
white-faced, and holding their hands to their heads and hearts. They
were so sick and bewildered, indeed, that it was difficult to make them
understand what had chanced, and when they learned the truth, the most
of them could only groan. Still, a few were found strong enough in wit
and body to grope their way through the darkness and the falling snow
to Stangate Abbey, to Southminster, and to the houses of their
neighbours, although of these there were none near, praying that every
true man would arm and ride to help them in the hunt. Also Wulf,
cursing the priest Matthew and himself that he had not thought of it
before, called him from his prayers by their dead uncle, and charged
him to climb the church tower as swiftly as he could, and set light to
the beacon that was laid ready there.

Away he went, taking flint, steel, and tinder with him, and ten minutes
later the blaze was flaring furiously above the roof of Steeple Church,
warning all men of the need for help. Then they armed, saddled such
horses as they had, amongst them the three that had been left there by
the merchant Georgios, and gathered all of them who were not too sick
to ride or run, in the courtyard of the Hall. But as yet their haste
availed them little, for the moon was down. Snow fell also, and the
night was still black as death—so black that a man could scarcely see
the hand he held before his face. So they must wait, and wait they did,
eating their hearts out with grief and rage, and bathing their aching
brows in icy water.

At length the dawn began to break, and by its first grey light they saw
men mounted and afoot feeling their way through the snow, shouting to
each other as they came to know what dreadful thing had happened at
Steeple. Quickly the tidings spread among them that Sir Andrew was
slain, and the lady Rosamund snatched away by Paynims, while all who
feasted in the place had been drugged with poisoned wine by a man whom
they believed to be a merchant. So soon as a band was got
together—perhaps thirty men in all—and there was light to stir by, they
set out and began to search, though where to look they knew not, for
the snow had covered up all traces of their foes.

“One thing is certain,” said Godwin, “they must have come by water.”

“Ay,” answered Wulf, “and landed near by, since, had they far to go,
they would have taken the horses, and must run the risk also of losing
their path in the darkness. To the Staithe! Let us try Steeple
Staithe.”

So on they went across the meadow to the creek. It lay but three
bow-shots distant. At first they could see nothing, for the snow
covered the stones of the little pier, but presently a man cried out
that the lock of the water house, in which the brethren kept their
fishing-boat, was broken, and next minute, that the boat was gone.

“She was small; she would hold but six men,” cried a voice. “So great a
company could never have crowded into her.”

“Fool!” one answered, “there may have been other boats.”

So they looked again, and beneath the thin coating of rime, found a
mark in the mud by the Staithe, made by the prow of a large boat, and
not far from it a hole in the earth into which a peg had been driven to
make her fast.

Now the thing seemed clear enough, but it was to be made yet clearer,
for presently, even through the driving snow, the quick eye of Wulf
caught sight of some glittering thing which hung to the edge of a clump
of dead reeds. A man with a lance lifted it out at his command, and
gave it to him.

“I thought so,” he said in a heavy voice; “it is a fragment of that
star-wrought veil which was my Christmas gift to Rosamund, and she has
torn it off and left it here to show us her road. To St.
Peter’s-on-the-Wall! To St. Peter’s, I say, for there the boats or ship
must pass, and maybe that in the darkness they have not yet won out to
sea.”

So they turned their horses’ heads, and those of them that were mounted
rode for St. Peter’s by the inland path that runs through Steeple St.
Lawrence and Bradwell town, while those who were not, started to search
along the Saltings and the river bank. On they galloped through the
falling snow, Godwin and Wulf leading the way, whilst behind them
thundered an ever-gathering train of knights, squires and yeomen, who
had seen the beacon flare on Steeple tower, or learned the tale from
messengers—yes, and even of monks from Stangate and traders from
Southminster.

Hard they rode, but the lanes were heavy with fallen snow and mud
beneath, and the way was far, so that an hour had gone by before
Bradwell was left behind, and the shrine of St. Chad lay but half a
mile in front. Now of a sudden the snow ceased, and a strong northerly
wind springing up, drove the thick mist before it and left the sky hard
and blue behind. Still riding in this mist, they pressed on to where
the old tower loomed in front of them, then drew rein and waited.

“What is that?” said Godwin presently, pointing to a great, dim thing
upon the vapour-hidden sea.

As he spoke a strong gust of wind tore away the last veils of mist,
revealing the red face of the risen sun, and not a hundred yards away
from them—for the tide was high—the tall masts of a galley creeping out
to sea beneath her banks of oars. As they stared the wind caught her,
and on the main-mast rose her bellying sail, while a shout of laughter
told them that they themselves were seen. They shook their swords in
the madness of their rage, knowing well who was aboard that galley;
while to the fore peak ran up the yellow flag of Saladin, streaming
there like gold in the golden sunlight.

Nor was this all, for on the high poop appeared the tall shape of
Rosamund herself, and on one side of her, clad now in coat of mail and
turban, the emir Hassan, whom they had known as the merchant Georgios,
and on the other, a stout man, also clad in mail, who at that distance
looked like a Christian knight. Rosamund stretched out her arms towards
them. Then suddenly she sprang forward as though she would throw
herself into the sea, had not Hassan caught her by the arm and held her
back, whilst the other man who was watching slipped between her and the
bulwark.

In his fury and despair Wulf drove his horse into the water till the
waves broke about his middle, and there, since he could go no further,
sat shaking his sword and shouting:

“Fear not! We follow! we follow!” in such a voice of thunder, that even
through the wind and across the everwidening space of foam his words
may have reached the ship. At least Rosamund seemed to hear them, for
she tossed up her arms as though in token.

But Hassan, one hand pressed upon his heart and the other on his
forehead, only bowed thrice in courteous farewell.

Then the great sail filled, the oars were drawn in, and the vessel
swept away swiftly across the dancing waves, till at length she
vanished, and they could only see the sunlight playing on the golden
banner of Saladin which floated from her truck.




Chapter VIII.
The Widow Masouda


Many months had gone by since the brethren sat upon their horses that
winter morning, and from the shrine of St. Peter’s-on-the-Wall, at the
mouth of the Blackwater in Essex, watched with anguished hearts the
galley of Saladin sailing southwards; their love and cousin, Rosamund,
standing a prisoner on the deck. Having no ship in which to follow
her—and this, indeed, it would have been too late to do—they thanked
those who had come to aid them, and returned home to Steeple, where
they had matters to arrange. As they went they gathered from this man
and that tidings which made the whole tale clear to them.

They learned, for instance, then and afterwards, that the galley which
had been thought to be a merchantman put into the river Crouch by
design, feigning an injury to her rudder, and that on Christmas eve she
had moved up with the tide, and anchored in the Blackwater about three
miles from its mouth. Thence a great boat, which she towed behind her,
and which was afterwards found abandoned, had rowed in the dusk,
keeping along the further shore to avoid observation, to the mouth of
Steeple Creek, which she descended at dark, making fast to the Staithe,
unseen of any. Her crew of thirty men or more, guided by the false
palmer Nicholas, next hid themselves in the grove of trees about fifty
yards from the house, where traces of them were found afterwards,
waiting for the signal, and, if that were necessary, ready to attack
and burn the Hall while all men feasted there. But it was not
necessary, since the cunning scheme of the drugged wine, which only an
Eastern could have devised, succeeded. So it happened that the one man
they had to meet in arms was an old knight, of which doubtless they
were glad, as their numbers being few, they wished to avoid a desperate
battle, wherein many must fall, and, if help came, they might be all
destroyed.

When it was over they led Rosamund to the boat, felt their way down the
creek, towing behind them the little skiff which they had taken from
the water-house—laden with their dead and wounded. This, indeed, proved
the most perilous part of their adventures, since it was very dark, and
came on to snow; also twice they grounded upon mud banks. Still guided
by Nicholas, who had studied the river, they reached the galley before
dawn, and with the first light weighed anchor, and very cautiously
rowed out to sea. The rest is known.

Two days later, since there was no time to spare, Sir Andrew was buried
with great pomp at Stangate Abbey, in the same tomb where lay the heart
of his brother, the father of the brethren, who had fallen in the
Eastern wars. After he had been laid to rest amidst much lamentation
and in the presence of a great concourse of people, for the fame of
these strange happenings had travelled far and wide, his will was
opened. Then it was found that with the exception of certain sums of
money left to his nephews, a legacy to Stangate Abbey, and another to
be devoted to masses for the repose of his soul, with some gifts to his
servants and the poor, all his estate was devised to his daughter
Rosamund. The brethren, or the survivor of them, however, held it in
trust on her behalf, with the charge that they should keep watch and
ward over her, and manage her lands till she took a husband.

These lands, together with their own, the brethren placed in the hands
of Prior John of Stangate, in the presence of witnesses, to administer
for them subject to the provisions of the will, taking a tithe of the
rents and profits for his pains. The priceless jewels also that had
been sent by Saladin were given into his keeping, and a receipt with a
list of the same signed in duplicate, deposited with a clerk at
Southminster. This, indeed, was necessary, seeing that none save the
brethren and the Prior knew of these jewels, of which, being of so
great a value, it was not safe to speak. Their affairs arranged, having
first made their wills in favour of each other with remainder to their
heirs-at-law, since it was scarcely to be hoped that both of them would
return alive from such a quest, they received the Communion, and with
it his blessing from the hands of the Prior John. Then early one
morning, before any were astir, they rode quietly away to London.

On the top of Steeple Hill, sending forward the servant who led the
mule laden with their baggage—that same mule which had been left by the
spy Nicholas—the brethren turned their horses’ heads to look in
farewell on their home. There to the north of them lay the Blackwater,
and to the west the parish of Mayland, towards which the laden barges
crept along the stream of Steeple Creek. Below was the wide flat plain,
outlined with trees, and in it, marked by the plantation where the
Saracens had hid, the Hall and church of Steeple, the home in which
they had grown from childhood to youth, and from youth to man’s estate
in the company of the fair, lost Rosamund, who was the love of both,
and whom both went forth to seek. That past was all behind them, and in
front a dark and troublous future, of which they could not read the
mystery nor guess the end.

Would they ever look on Steeple Hall again? Were they who stood there
about to match their strength and courage against all the might of
Saladin, doomed to fail or gloriously to succeed?

Through the darkness that shrouded their forward path shone one bright
star of love—but for which of them did that star shine, or was it
perchance for neither? They knew not. How could they know aught save
that the venture seemed very desperate? Indeed, the few to whom they
had spoken of it thought them mad. Yet they remembered the last words
of Sir Andrew, bidding them keep a high heart, since he believed that
things would yet go well. It seemed to them, in truth, that they were
not quite alone—as though his brave spirit companioned them on their
search, guiding their feet, with ghostly counsel which they could not
hear.

They remembered also their oaths to him, to one another, and to
Rosamund; and in silent token that they would keep them to the death,
pressed each other’s hands. Then, turning their horses southwards, they
rode forward with light hearts, not caring what befell, if only at the
last, living or dead, Rosamund and her father should, in his own words,
find no cause to be ashamed of them.

Through the hot haze of a July morning a dromon, as certain merchant
vessels of that time were called, might have been seen drifting before
a light breeze into St. George’s Bay at Beirut, on the coast of Syria.
Cyprus, whence she had sailed last, was not a hundred miles away, yet
she had taken six days to do the journey, not on account of storms—of
which there were none at this time of year, but through lack of wind to
move her. Still, her captain and the motley crowd of passengers—for the
most part Eastern merchants and their servants, together with a number
of pilgrims of all nations—thanked God for so prosperous a voyage—for
in those times he who crossed the seas without shipwreck was very
fortunate.

Among these passengers were Godwin and Wulf, travelling, as their uncle
had bidden them, unattended by squires or by servants. Upon the ship
they passed themselves off as brothers named Peter and John of Lincoln,
a town of which they knew something, having stayed there on their way
to the Scottish wars; simple gentlemen of small estate, making a
pilgrimage to the Holy Land in penitence for their sins and for the
repose of the souls of their father and mother. At this tale their
fellow-passengers, with whom they had sailed from Genoa, to which place
they travelled overland, shrugged their shoulders. For these brethren
looked what they were, knights of high degree; and considering their
great stature, long swords, and the coats of mail they always wore
beneath their gambesons, none believed them but plain gentlefolk bent
on a pious errand. Indeed, they nicknamed them Sir Peter and Sir John,
and as such they were known throughout the voyage.

The brethren were seated together in a little place apart in the bow of
the ship, and engaged, Godwin in reading from an Arabic translation of
the Gospels made by some Egyptian monk, and Wulf in following it with
little ease in the Latin version. Of the former tongue, indeed, they
had acquired much in their youth, since they learned it from Sir Andrew
with Rosamund, although they could not talk it as she did, who had been
taught to lisp it as an infant by her mother. Knowing, too, that much
might hang upon a knowledge of this tongue, they occupied their long
journey in studying it from such books as they could get; also in
speaking it with a priest, who had spent many years in the East, and
instructed them for a fee, and with certain Syrian merchants and
sailors.

“Shut the book, brother,” said Wulf; “there is Lebanon at last,” and he
pointed to the great line of mountains revealing themselves dimly
through their wrappings of mist. “Glad I am to see them, who have had
enough of these crooked scrolls and learnings.”

“Ay,” said Godwin, “the Promised Land.”

“And the Land of Promise for us,” answered his brother. “Well, thank
God that the time has come to act, though how we are to set about it is
more than I can say.”

“Doubtless time will show. As our uncle bade, we will seek out this
Sheik Jebal—-”

“Hush!” said Wulf, for just then some merchants, and with them a number
of pilgrims, their travel-worn faces full of rapture at the thought
that the terrors of the voyage were done, and that they were about to
set foot upon the ground their Lord had trodden, crowded forward to the
bow to obtain their first view of it, and there burst into prayers and
songs of thanksgiving. Indeed, one of these men—a trader known as
Thomas of Ipswich—was, they found, standing close to them, and seemed
as though he listened to their talk.

The brethren mingled with them while this same Thomas of Ipswich, who
had visited the place before, or so it seemed, pointed out the beauties
of the city, of the fertile country by which it was surrounded, and of
the distant cedar-clad mountains where, as he said, Hiram, King of
Tyre, had cut the timber for Solomon’s Temple.

“Have you been on them?” asked Wulf.

“Ay, following my business,” he answered, “so far.” And he showed them
a great snow-capped peak to the north. “Few ever go further.”

“Why not?” asked Godwin.

“Because there begins the territory of the Sheik Al-je-bal”—and he
looked at them meaningly—“whom,” he added, “neither Christian nor
Saracen visit without an invitation, which is seldom given.”

Again they inquired why not.

“Because,” answered the trader, still watching them, “most men love
their lives, and that man is the lord of death and magic. Strange
things are to be seen in his castle, and about it lie wonderful gardens
inhabited by lovely women that are evil spirits, who bring the souls of
men to ruin. Also, this Old Man of the Mountain is a great murderer, of
whom even all the princes of the East are terrified, for he speaks a
word to his _fedaïs_—or servants—who are initiated, and they go forth
and bring to death any whom he hates. Young men, I like you well, and I
say to you, be warned. In this Syria there are many wonders to be seen;
leave those of Masyaf and its fearful lord alone if you desire to look
again upon—the towers of Lincoln.”

“Fear not; we will,” answered Godwin, “who come to seek holy places—not
haunts of devils.”

“Of course we will,” added Wulf. “Still, that country must be worth
travelling in.”

Then boats came out to greet them from the shore—for at that time
Beirut was in the hands of the Franks—and in the shouting and confusion
which followed they saw no more of this merchant Thomas. Nor did they
seek him out again, since they thought it unwise to show themselves too
curious about the Sheik Al-je-bal. Indeed, it would have been useless,
since that trader was ashore two full hours before they were suffered
to leave the ship, from which he departed alone in a private boat.

At length they stood in the motley Eastern crowd upon the quay,
wondering where they could find an inn that was quiet and of cheap
charges, since they did not wish to be considered persons of wealth or
importance. As they lingered here, somewhat bewildered, a tall, veiled
woman whom they had noted watching them, drew near, accompanied by a
porter, who led a donkey. This man, without more ado, seized their
baggage, and helped by other porters began to fasten it upon the back
of the donkey with great rapidity, and when they would have forbidden
him, pointed to the veiled woman.

“Your pardon,” said Godwin to her at length and speaking in French,
“but this man—”

“Loads up your baggage to take it to my inn. It is cheap, quiet and
comfortable—things which I heard you say you required just now, did I
not?” she answered in a sweet voice, also speaking in good French.

Godwin looked at Wulf, and Wulf at Godwin, and they began to discuss
together what they should do. When they had agreed that it seemed not
wise to trust themselves to the care of a strange woman in this
fashion, they looked up to see the donkey laden with their trunks being
led away by the porter.

“Too late to say no, I fear me,” said the woman with a laugh, “so you
must be my guests awhile if you would not lose your baggage. Come,
after so long a journey you need to wash and eat. Follow me, sirs, I
pray you.”

Then she walked through the crowd, which, they noted, parted for her as
she went, to a post where a fine mule was tied. Loosing it, she leaped
to the saddle without help, and began to ride away, looking back from
time to time to see that they were following her, as, indeed, they
must.

“Whither go we, I wonder,” said Godwin, as they trudged through the
sands of Beirut, with the hot sun striking on their heads.

“Who can tell when a strange woman leads?” replied Wulf, with a laugh.

At last the woman on the mule turned through a doorway in a wall of
unburnt brick, and they found themselves before the porch of a white,
rambling house which stood in a large garden planted with mulberries,
oranges and other fruit trees that were strange to them, and was
situated on the borders of the city.

Here the woman dismounted and gave the mule to a Nubian who was
waiting. Then, with a quick movement she unveiled herself, and turned
towards them as though to show her beauty. Beautiful she was, of that
there could be no doubt, with her graceful, swaying shape, her dark and
liquid eyes, her rounded features and strangely impassive countenance.
She was young also—perhaps twenty-five, no more—and very fair-skinned
for an Eastern.

“My poor house is for pilgrims and merchants, not for famous knights;
yet, sirs, I welcome you to it,” she said presently, scanning them out
of the corners of her eyes.

“We are but squires in our own country, who make the pilgrimage,”
replied Godwin. “For what sum each day will you give us board and a
good room to sleep in?”

“These strangers,” she said in Arabic to the porter, “do not speak the
truth.”

“What is that to you?” he answered, as he busied himself in loosening
the baggage. “They will pay their score, and all sorts of mad folk come
to this country, pretending to be what they are not. Also you sought
them—why, I know not—not they you.”

“Mad or sane, they are proper men,” said the impassive woman, as though
to herself, then added in French, “Sirs, I repeat, this is but a humble
place, scarce fit for knights like you, but if you will honour it, the
charge is—so much.”

“We are satisfied,” said Godwin, “especially,” he added, with a bow and
removing the cap from his head, “as, having brought us here without
leave asked, we are sure that you will treat us who are strangers
kindly.”

“As kindly as you wish—I mean as you can pay for,” said the woman.
“Nay, I will settle with the porter; he would cheat you.”

Then followed a wrangle five minutes long between this curious,
handsome, still-faced woman and the porter who, after the eastern
fashion, lashed himself into a frenzy over the sum she offered, and at
length began to call her by ill names.

She stood looking at him quite unmoved, although Godwin, who understood
all, but pretended to understand nothing, wondered at her patience.
Presently, however, in a perfect foam of passion he said, or rather
spat out: “No wonder, Masouda the Spy, that after hiring me to do your
evil work, you take the part of these Christian dogs against a true
believer, you child of Al-je-bal!”

Instantly the woman seemed to stiffen like a snake about to strike.

“Who is he?” she said coldly. “Do you mean the lord—who kills?” And she
looked at him—a terrible look.

At that glance all the anger seemed to go out of the man.

“Your pardon, widow Masouda,” he said. “I forgot that you are a
Christian, and naturally side with Christians. The money will not pay
for the wear of my ass’s hoofs, but give it me, and let me go to
pilgrims who will reward me better.”

She gave him the sum, adding in her quiet voice: “Go; and if you love
life, keep better watch over your words.”

Then the porter went, and now so humble was his mien that in his dirty
turban and long, tattered robe he looked, Wulf thought, more like a
bundle of rags than a man mounted on the donkey’s back. Also it came
into his mind that their strange hostess had powers not possessed by
innkeepers in England. When she had watched him through the gate,
Masouda turned to them and said in French:

“Forgive me, but here in Beirut these Saracen porters are extortionate,
especially towards us Christians. He was deceived by your appearance.
He thought that you were knights, not simple pilgrims as you avow
yourselves, who happen to be dressed and armed like knights beneath
your gambesons; and,” she added, fixing her eyes upon the line of white
hair on Godwin’s head where the sword had struck him in the fray on
Death Creek quay, “show the wounds of knights, though it is true that a
man might come by such in any brawl in a tavern. Well, you are to pay
me a good price, and you shall have my best room while it pleases you
to honour me with your company. Ah! your baggage. You do not wish to
leave it. Slave, come here.”

With startling suddenness the Nubian who had led away the mule
appeared, and took up some of the packages. Then she led them down a
passage into a large, sparsely-furnished room with high windows, in
which were two beds laid on the cement floor, and asked them if it
pleased them.

They said: “Yes; it will serve.” Reading what passed in their minds,
she added: “Have no fear for your baggage. Were you as rich as you say
you are poor, and as noble as you say you are humble, both it and you
are safe in the inn of the widow Masouda, O my guests—but how are you
named?”

“Peter and John.”

“O, my guests, Peter and John, who have come to visit the land of Peter
and John and other holy founders of our faith—”

“And have been so fortunate as to be captured on its shore by the widow
Masouda,” answered Godwin, bowing again.

“Wait to speak of the fortune until you have done with her, Sir—is it
Peter, or John?” she replied, with something like a smile upon her
handsome face.

“Peter,” answered Godwin. “Remember the pilgrim with the line of white
hair is Peter.”

“You need it to distinguish you apart, who, I suppose, are twins. Let
me see—Peter has a line of white hair and grey eyes. John has blue
eyes. John also is the greater warrior, if a pilgrim can be a
warrior—look at his muscles; but Peter thinks the more. It would be
hard for a woman to choose between Peter and John, who must both of
them be hungry, so I go to prepare their food.”

“A strange hostess,” said Wulf, laughing, when she had left the room;
“but I like her, though she netted us so finely. I wonder why? What is
more, brother Godwin, she likes you, which is as well, since she may be
useful. But, friend Peter, do not let it go too far, since, like that
porter, I think also that she may be dangerous. Remember, he called her
a spy, and probably she is one.”

Godwin turned to reprove him, when the voice of the widow Masouda was
heard without saying:

“Brothers Peter and John, I forgot to caution you to speak low in this
house, as there is lattice-work over the doors to let in the air. Do
not be afraid. I only heard the voice of John, not what he said.”

“I hope not,” muttered Wulf, and this time he spoke very low indeed.

Then they undid their baggage, and having taken from it clean garments,
washed themselves after their long journey with the water that had been
placed ready for them in great jars. This, indeed, they needed, for on
that crowded dromon there was little chance of washing. By the time
they had clothed themselves afresh, putting on their shirts of mail
beneath their tunics, the Nubian came and led them to another room,
large and lighted with high-set lattices, where cushions were piled
upon the floor round a rug that also was laid upon the floor. Motioning
them to be seated on the cushions, he went away, to return again
presently, accompanied by Masouda bearing dishes upon brass platters.
These she placed before them, bidding them eat. What that food was they
did not know, because of the sauces with which it had been covered,
until she told them that it was fish.

After the fish came flesh, and after the flesh fowls, and after the
fowls cakes and sweetmeats and fruits, until, ravenous as they were,
who for days had fed upon salted pork and biscuits full of worms washed
down with bad water, they were forced to beg her to bring no more.

“Drink another cup of wine at least,” she said, smiling and filling
their mugs with the sweet vintage of Lebanon—for it seemed to please
her to see them eat so heartily of her fare.

They obeyed, mixing the wine with water. While they drank she asked
them suddenly what were their plans, and how long they wished to stay
in Beirut. They answered that for the next few days they had none, as
they needed to rest, to see the town and its neighbourhood, and to buy
good horses—a matter in which perhaps she could help them. Masouda
nodded again, and asked whither they wished to ride on horses.

“Out yonder,” said Wulf, waving his hand towards the mountains. “We
desire to look upon the cedars of Lebanon and its great hills before we
go on towards Jerusalem.”

“Cedars of Lebanon?” she replied. “That is scarcely safe for two men
alone, for in those mountains are many wild beasts and wilder people
who rob and kill. Moreover, the lord of those mountains has just now a
quarrel with the Christians, and would take any whom he found
prisoners.”

“How is that lord named?” asked Godwin.

“Sinan,” she answered, and they noted that she looked round quickly as
she spoke the word.

“Oh,” he said, “we thought the name was Jebal.”

Now she stared at him with wide, wondering eyes, and replied:

“He is so called also; but, Sir Pilgrims, what know you of the dread
lord Al-je-bal?”

“Only that he lives at a place called Masyaf, which we wish to visit.”

Again she stared.

“Are you mad?” she queried, then checked herself, and clapped her hands
for the slave to remove the dishes. While this was being done they said
they would like to walk abroad.

“Good,” answered Masouda, “the man shall accompany you—nay, it is best
that you do not go alone, as you might lose your way. Also, the place
is not always safe for strangers, however humble they may seem,” she
added with meaning. “Would you wish to visit the governor at the
castle, where there are a few English knights, also some priests who
give advice to pilgrims?”

“We think not,” answered Godwin; “we are not worthy of such high
company. But, lady, why do you look at us so strangely?”

“I am wondering, Sir Peter and Sir John, why you think it worth while
to tell lies to a poor widow? Say, in your own country did you ever
hear of certain twin brethren named—oh, how are they named?—Sir Godwin
and Sir Wulf, of the house of D’Arcy, which has been told of in this
land?”

Now Godwin’s jaw dropped, but Wulf laughed out loud, and seeing that
they were alone in the room, for the slave had departed, asked in his
turn:

“Surely those twins would be pleased to find themselves so famous. But
how did you chance to hear of them, O widowed hostess of a Syrian inn?”

“I? Oh, from a man on the dromon who called here while I made ready
your food, and told me a strange story that he had learned in England
of a band sent by Salah-ed-din—may his name be accursed!—to capture a
certain lady. Of how the brethren named Godwin and Wulf fought all that
band also—ay, and held them off—a very knightly deed he said it
was—while the lady escaped; and of how afterwards they were taken in a
snare, as those are apt to be who deal with the Sultan, and this time
the lady was snatched away.”

“A wild tale truly,” said Godwin. “But did this man tell you further
whether that lady has chanced to come to Palestine?”

She shook her head.

“Of that he told me nothing, and I have heard nothing. Now listen, my
guests. You think it strange that I should know so much, but it is not
strange, since here in Syria, knowledge is the business of some of us.
Did you then believe, O foolish children, that two knights like you,
who have played a part in a very great story, whereof already whispers
run throughout the East, could travel by land and sea and not be known?
Did you then think that none were left behind to watch your movements
and to make report of them to that mighty one who sent out the ship of
war, charged with a certain mission? Well, what he knows I know. Have I
not said it is my business to know? Now, why do I tell you this? Well,
perhaps because I like such knights as you are, and I like that tale of
two men who stood side by side upon a pier while a woman swam the
stream behind them, and afterwards, sore wounded, charged their way
through a host of foes. In the East we love such deeds of chivalry.
Perhaps also because I would warn you not to throw away lives so
gallant by attempting to win through the guarded gates of Damascus upon
the maddest of all quests.

“What, you still stare at me and doubt? Good, I have been telling you
lies. I was not awaiting you upon the quay, and that porter with whom I
seemed to quarrel was not charged to seize your baggage and bring it to
my house. No spies watched your movements from England to Beirut. Only
since you have been at dinner I visited your room and read some
writings which, foolishly, you and John have left among your baggage,
and opened some books in which other names than Peter and John were
written, and drew a great sword from its scabbard on which was engraved
a motto: ‘Meet D’Arcy, meet Death!’ and heard Peter call John Wulf, and
John call Peter Godwin, and so forth.”

“It seems,” said Wulf in English, “that we are flies in a web, and that
the spider is called the widow Masouda, though of what use we are to
her I know not. Now, brother, what is to be done? Make friends with the
spider?”

“An ill ally,” answered Godwin. Then looking her straight in the face
he asked, “Hostess, who know so much, tell me why, amongst other names,
did that donkey driver call you ‘daughter of Al-je-bal’?”

She started, and answered:

“So you understand Arabic? I thought it. Why do you ask? What does it
matter to you?”

“Not much, except that, as we are going to visit Al-je-bal, of course
we think ourselves fortunate to have met his daughter.”

“Going to visit Al-je-bal? Yes, you hinted as much upon the ship, did
you not? Perhaps that is why I came to meet you. Well, your throats
will be cut before ever you reach the first of his castles.”

“I think not,” said Godwin, and, putting his hand into his breast, he
drew thence a ring, with which he began to play carelessly.

“Whence that ring?” she said, with fear and wonder in her eyes. “It
is—” and she ceased.

“From one to whom it was given and who has charged us with a message.
Now, hostess, let us be plain with one another. You know a great deal
about us, but although it has suited us to call ourselves the pilgrims
Peter and John, in all this there is nothing of which we need be
ashamed, especially as you say that our secret is no secret, which I
can well believe. Now, this secret being out, I propose that we remove
ourselves from your roof, and go to stay with our own people at the
castle, where, I doubt not, we shall be welcome, telling them that we
would bide no longer with one who is called a spy, whom we have
discovered also to be a ‘daughter of Al-je-bal.’ After which, perhaps,
you will bide no longer in Beirut, where, as we gather, spies and the
‘daughters of Al-je-bal’ are not welcome.”

She listened with an impassive face, and answered: “Doubtless you have
heard that one of us who was so named was burned here recently as a
witch?”

“Yes,” broke in Wulf, who now learned this fact for the first time, “we
heard that.”

“And think to bring a like fate upon me. Why, foolish men, I can lay
you both dead before ever those words pass your lips.”

“You think you can,” said Godwin, “but for my part I am sure that this
is not fated, and am sure also that you do not wish to harm us any more
than we wish to harm you. To be plain, then, it is necessary for us to
visit Al-je-bal. As chance has brought us together—if it be chance—will
you aid us in this, as I think you can, or must we seek other help?”

“I do not know. I will tell you after four days. If you are not
satisfied with that, go, denounce me, do your worst, and I will do
mine, for which I should be sorry.”

“Where is the security that you will not do it if we are satisfied?”
asked Wulf bluntly.

“You must take the word of a ‘daughter of Al-je-bal.’ I have none other
to offer,” she replied.

“That may mean death,” said Wulf.

“You said just now that was not fated, and although I have sought your
company for my own reasons, I have no quarrel with you—as yet. Choose
your own path. Still, I tell you that if you go, who, chancing to know
Arabic, have learned my secret, you die, and that if you stay you are
safe—at least while you are in this house. I swear it on the token of
Al-je-bal,” and bending forward she touched the ring in Godwin’s hand,
“but remember that for the future I cannot answer.”

Godwin and Wulf looked at each other. Then Godwin replied:

“I think that we will trust you, and stay,” words at which she smiled a
little as though she were pleased, then said:

“Now, if you wish to walk abroad, guests Peter and John, I will summon
the slave to guide you, and in four days we will talk more of this
matter of your journey, which, until then, had best be forgotten.”

So the man came, armed with a sword, and led them out, clad in their
pilgrims’ robes, through the streets of this Eastern town, where
everything was so strange, that for awhile they forgot their troubles
in studying the new life about them. They noted, moreover, that though
they went into quarters where no Franks were to be seen, and where
fierce-looking servants of the Prophet stared at them sourly, the
presence of this slave of Masouda seemed to be sufficient to protect
them from affront, since on seeing him even the turbaned Saracens
nudged each other and turned aside. In due course they came to the inn
again, having met no one whom they knew, except two pilgrims who had
been their fellow-passengers on the dromon. These men were astonished
when they said that they had been through the Saracen quarter of the
city, where, although this town was in the hands of the Christians, it
was scarcely thought safe for Franks to venture without a strong guard.

When the brethren were back in their chamber, seated at the far end of
it, and speaking very low, lest they should be overheard, they
consulted together long and earnestly as to what they should do. This
was clear—they and something of their mission were known, and doubtless
notice of their coming would soon be given to the Sultan Saladin. From
the king and great Christian lords in Jerusalem they could expect
little help, since to give it might be to bring about an open rupture
with Saladin, such as the Franks dreaded, and for which they were ill
prepared. Indeed, if they went to them, it seemed likely that they
would be prevented from stirring in this dangerous search for a woman
who was the niece of Saladin, and for aught they knew thrown into
prison, or shipped back to Europe. True, they might try to find their
way to Damascus alone, but if the Sultan was warned of their coming,
would he not cause them to be killed upon the road, or cast into some
dungeon where they would languish out their lives? The more they spoke
of these matters the more they were perplexed, till at length Godwin
said:

“Brother, our uncle bade us earnestly to seek out this Al-je-bal, and
though it seems that to do so is very dangerous, I think that we had
best obey him who may have been given foresight at the last. When all
paths are full of thorns what matter which you tread?”

“A good saying,” answered Wulf. “I am weary of doubts and troublings.
Let us follow our uncle’s will, and visit this Old Man of the
Mountains, to do which I think the widow Masouda is the woman to help
us. If we die on that journey, well, at least we shall have done our
best.”




Chapter IX.
The Horses Flame and Smoke


On the following morning, when they came into the eating-room of the
inn, Godwin and Wulf found they were no longer alone in the house, for
sundry other guests sat there partaking of their morning meal. Among
them were a grave merchant of Damascus, another from Alexandria in
Egypt, a man who seemed to be an Arab chief, a Jew of Jerusalem, and
none other than the English trader Thomas of Ipswich, their
fellow-passenger, who greeted them warmly.

Truly they seemed a strange and motley set of men. Considering them as
the young and stately widow Masouda moved from one to the other,
talking to each in turn while she attended to their wants, it came into
Godwin’s mind that they might be spies meeting there to gain or
exchange information, or even to make report to their hostess, in whose
pay perhaps they were. Still if so, of this they showed no sign.
Indeed, for the most part they spoke in French, which all of them
understood, on general matters, such as the heat of the weather, the
price of transport animals or merchandise, and the cities whither they
purposed to travel.

The trader Thomas, it appeared, had intended to start for Jerusalem
that morning with his goods. But the riding mule he had bought proved
to be lame from a prick in the hoof, nor were all his hired camels come
down from the mountains, so that he must wait a few days, or so he
said.

Under these circumstances, he offered the brethren his company in their
ramblings about the town. This they thought it wise not to refuse,
although they felt little confidence in the man, believing that it was
he who had found out their story and true names and revealed them to
Masouda, either through talkativeness or with a purpose.

However these things might be, this Thomas proved of service to them,
since, although he was but just landed, he seemed to know all that had
passed in Syria since he left it, and all that was passing then. Thus
he told them how Guy of Lusignan had just made himself king in
Jerusalem on the death of the child Baldwin, and how Raymond of Tripoli
refused to acknowledge him and was about to be besieged in Tiberias.
How Saladin also was gathering a great host at Damascus to make war
upon the Christians, and many other things, false and true.

In his company, then, and sometimes in that of the other guests— none
of whom showed any curiosity concerning them, though whether this was
from good manners or for other reasons they could not be sure—the
brethren passed the hours profitably enough.

It was on the third morning of their stay that their hostess Masouda,
with whom as yet they had no further private talk, asked them if they
had not said that they wished to buy horses. On their answering “Yes,”
she added that she had told a certain man to bring two for them to look
at, which were now in the stable beyond the garden. Thither they went,
accompanied by Masouda, to find a grave Arab, wrapped in a garment of
camel’s hair and carrying a spear in his hand, standing at the door of
the cave which served the purpose of a stable, as is common in the East
where the heat is so great. As they advanced towards him, Masouda said:

“If you like the horses, leave me to bargain, and seem to understand
nothing of my talk.”

The Arab, who took no notice of them, saluted Masouda, and said to her
in Arabic:

“Is it then for Franks that I have been ordered to bring the two
priceless ones?”

“What is that to you, my Uncle, Son of the Sand?” she asked. “Let them
be led forth that I may know whether they are those for which I sent.”

The man turned and called into the door of the cave.

“Flame, come hither!” As he spoke, there was a sound of hoofs, and
through the low archway leapt the most beautiful horse that ever their
eyes had seen. It was grey in colour, with flowing mane and tail, and
on its forehead was a black star; not over tall, but with a barrel-like
shape of great strength, small-headed, large-eyed; wide-nostriled,
big-boned, but fine beneath the knee, and round-hoofed. Out it sprang
snorting; then seeing its master, the Arab, checked itself and stood
still by him as though it had been turned to stone.

“Come hither, Smoke,” called the Arab again, and another horse appeared
and ranged itself by the first. In size and shape it was the same, but
the colour was coal-black and the star upon its forehead white. Also
the eye was more fiery.

“These are the horses,” said the Arab, Masouda translating. “They are
twins, seven years old and never backed until they were rising six,
cast at a birth by the swiftest mare in Syria, and of a pedigree that
can be counted for a hundred years.”

“Horses indeed!” said Wulf. “Horses indeed! But what is the price of
them?”

Masouda repeated the question in Arabic, whereon the man replied in the
same tongue with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

“Be not foolish. You know this is no question of price, for they are
beyond price. Say what you will.”

“He says,” said Masouda, “that it is a hundred gold pieces for the
pair. Can you pay as much?”

The brethren looked at each other. The sum was large.

“Such horses have saved men’s lives ere now,” added Masouda, “and I do
not think that I can ask him to take less, seeing that, did he but know
it, in Jerusalem they could be sold for thrice as much. But if you
wish, I could lend you money, since doubtless you have jewels or other
articles of value you could give as security—that ring in your breast,
for instance, Peter.”

“We have the gold itself,” answered Wulf, who would have paid to his
last piece for those horses.

“They buy,” said Masouda.

“They buy, but can they ride?” asked the Arab. “These horses are not
for children or pilgrims. Unless they can ride well they shall not have
them—no, not even if you ask it of me.”

Godwin said that he thought so—at least, they would try. Then the Arab,
leaving the horses standing there, went into the stable, and with the
help of two of the inn servants, brought out bridles and saddles unlike
any they had seen. They were but thickly-quilted pads stretching far
back upon the horses’ loins, with strong hide girths strapped with wool
and chased stirrups fashioned like half hoofs. The bits also were only
snaffles without curbs.

When all was ready and the stirrups had been let down to the length
they desired, the Arab motioned to them to mount. As they prepared to
do so, however, he spoke some word, and suddenly those meek, quiet
horses were turned into two devils, which reared up on their hind legs
and threatened them with their teeth and their front hoofs, that were
shod with thin plates of iron. Godwin stood wondering, but Wulf, who
was angry at the trick, got behind the horses, and watching his chance,
put his hands upon the flanks of the stallion named Smoke, and with one
spring leapt into the saddle. Masouda smiled, and even the Arab
muttered “Good,” while Smoke, feeling himself backed, came to the
ground again and became quiet as a sheep. Then the Arab spoke to the
horse Flame, and Godwin was allowed to vault into the saddle also.

“Where shall we go?” he asked.

Masouda said they would show them, and, accompanied by her and the
Arab, they walked the horses until they were quite clear of the town,
to find themselves on a road that had the sea to the left, and to the
right a stretch of flat land, some of it cultivated, above which rose
the steep and stony sides of hills. Here on this road the brethren
trotted and cantered the horses to and fro, till they began to be at
home in their strange saddles who from childhood had ridden barebacked
in the Essex marshes, and to learn what pressure on the bit was needed
to check or turn them. When they came back to where the pair stood,
Masouda said that if they were not afraid the seller wished to show
them that the horses were both strong and swift.

“We fear no ride that he dares to take himself,” answered Wulf angrily,
whereon the Arab smiled grimly and said something in a low voice to
Masouda. Then, placing his hand upon Smoke’s flank, he leapt up behind
Wulf, the horse never stirring.

“Say, Peter, are you minded to take a companion for this ride?” asked
Masouda; and as she spoke a strange look came into her eyes, a wild
look that was new to the brethren.

“Surely,” answered Godwin, “but where is the companion?”

Her reply was to do as the Arab had done, and seating herself
straddle-legged behind Godwin, to clasp him around the middle.

“Truly you look a pretty pilgrim now, brother,” said Wulf, laughing
aloud, while even the grave Arab smiled and Godwin muttered between his
teeth the old proverb “Woman on croup, devil on bow.” But aloud he
said, “I am indeed honoured; yet, friend Masouda, if harm should come
of this, do not blame me.”

“No harm will come—to you, friend Peter; and I have been so long cooped
in an inn that I, who am desert-born, wish for a gallop on the
mountains with a good horse beneath me and a brave knight in front.
Listen, you brethren; you say you do not fear; then leave your bridles
loose, and where’er we go and whate’er we meet seek not to check or
turn the horses Flame and Smoke. Now, Son of the Sand, we will test
these nags of which you sing so loud a song. Away, and let the ride be
fast and far!”

“On your head be it then, daughter,” answered the old Arab. “Pray Allah
that these Franks can sit a horse!”

Then his sombre eyes seemed to take fire, and gripping the encircling
saddle girth, he uttered some word of command, at which the stallions
threw up their heads and began to move at a long, swinging gallop
towards the mountains a mile away. At first they went over cultivated
land off which the crops had been already cut, taking two or three
ditches and a low wall in their stride so smoothly that the brethren
felt as though they were seated upon swallows. Then came a space of
sandy sward, half a mile or more, where their pace quickened, after
which they began to breast the long slope of a hill, picking their way
amongst its stones like cats.

Ever steeper it grew, till in places it was so sheer that Godwin must
clutch the mane of Flame, and Masouda must cling close to Godwin’s
middle to save themselves from slipping off behind. Yet,
notwithstanding the double weights they bore, those gallant steeds
never seemed to falter or to tire. At one spot they plunged through a
mountain stream. Godwin noted that not fifty yards to their right this
stream fell over a little precipice cutting its way between cliffs
which were full eighteen feet from bank to bank, and thought to himself
that had they struck it lower down, that ride must have ended. Beyond
the stream lay a hundred yards or so of level ground, and above it
still steeper country, up which they pushed their way through bushes,
till at length they came to the top of the mountain and saw the plain
they had left lying two miles or more below them.

“These horses climb hills like goats,” Wulf said; “but one thing is
certain: we must lead them down.”

Now on the top of the mountain was a stretch of land almost flat and
stoneless, over which they cantered forward, gathering speed as the
horses recovered their wind till the pace grew fast. Suddenly the
stallions threw themselves on to their haunches and stopped, as well
they might, for they were on the verge of a chasm, at whose far foot a
river brawled in foam. For a moment they stood; then, at some word from
the Arab, wheeled round, and, bearing to the left, began to gallop back
across the tableland, until they approached the edge of the
mountainside, where the brethren thought that they would stop.

But Masouda cried to the Arab, and the Arab cried to the horses, and
Wulf cried to Godwin in the English tongue, “Show no fear, brother.
Where they go, we can go.”

“Pray God that the girths may hold,” answered Godwin, leaning back
against the breast of Masouda behind him. As he spoke they began to
descend the hill, slowly at first, afterwards faster and yet more fast,
till they rushed downwards like a whirlwind.

How did those horses keep their footing? They never knew, and certainly
none that were bred in England could have done so. Yet never falling,
never stumbling even, on they sped, taking great rocks in their stride,
till at length they reached the level piece of land above the stream,
or rather above the cleft full eighteen feet in width at the foot of
which that stream ran. Godwin saw and turned cold. Were these folk mad
that they would put double-laden horses at such a jump? If they hung
back, if they missed their stride, if they caught hoof or sprang short,
swift death was their portion.

But the old Arab seated behind Wulf only shouted aloud, and Masouda
only tightened her round arms about Godwin’s middle and laughed in his
ear. The horses heard the shout, and seeming to see what was before
them, stretched out their long necks and rushed forward over the flat
ground.

Now they were on the edge of the terrible place, and, like a man in a
dream, Godwin noted the sharp, sheer lips of the cliff, the gulf
between them, and the white foam of the stream a score of yards
beneath. Then he felt the brave horse Flame gather itself together and
next instant fly into the air like a bird. Also—and was this dream
indeed, or even as they sped over that horrible pit did he feel a
woman’s lips pressed upon his cheek? He was not sure. Who could have
been at such a time, with death beneath them? Perchance it was the wind
that kissed him, or a lock of her loose hair which struck across his
face.

Indeed, at the moment he thought of other things than women’s
lips—those of the black and yawning gulf, for instance.

They swooped through the air, the white foam vanished, they were safe.
No; the hind feet of Flame had missed their footing, they fell, they
were lost. A struggle. How tight those arms clung about him. How close
that face was pressed against his own. Lo! it was over. They were
speeding down the hill, and alongside of the grey horse Flame raced the
black horse Smoke. Wulf on its back, with eyes that seemed to be
starting from his head, was shouting, “A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy!” and behind
him, turban gone, and white burnous floating like a pennon on the air,
the grim-visaged Arab, who also shouted.

Swifter and yet swifter. Did ever horses gallop so fast? Swifter and
yet swifter, till the air sang past them and the ground seemed to fly
away beneath. The slope was done. They were on the flat; the flat was
past, they were in the fields; the fields were left behind; and,
behold! side by side, with hanging heads and panting flanks, the horses
Smoke and Flame stood still upon the road, their sweating hides dyed
red in the light of the sinking sun.

The grip loosened from about Godwin’s middle. It had been close; on
Masouda’s round and naked arms were the prints of the steel shirt
beneath his tunic, for she slipped to the ground and stood looking at
them. Then she smiled one of her slow, thrilling smiles, gasped and
said: “You ride well, pilgrim Peter, and pilgrim John rides well also,
and these are good horses; and, oh! that ride was worth the riding,
even though death had been its end. Son of the Sand, my Uncle, what say
you?”

“That I grow old for such gallops—two on one horse, with nothing to
win.”

“Nothing to win?” said Masouda. “I am not so sure!” and she looked at
Godwin. “Well, you have sold your horses to pilgrims who can ride, and
they have proved them, and I have had a change from my cooking in the
inn, to which I must now get me back again.”

Wulf wiped the sweat from his brow, shook his head, and muttered:

“I always heard the East was full of madmen and devils; now I know that
it is true.”

But Godwin said nothing.

They led the horses back to the inn, where the brethren groomed them
down under the direction of the Arab, that the gallant beasts might get
used to them, which, after carrying them upon that fearful ride, they
did readily enough. Then they fed them with chopped barley, ear and
straw together, and gave them water to drink that had stood in the sun
all day to warm, in which the Arab mixed flour and some white wine.

Next morning at the dawn they rose to see how Flame and Smoke fared
after that journey. Entering the stable, they heard the sound of a man
weeping, and hidden in the shadow, saw by the low light of the morning
that it was the old Arab, who stood with his back to them, an arm
around the neck of each horse, which he kissed from time to time.
Moreover, he talked aloud in his own tongue to them, calling them his
children, and saying that rather would he sell his wife and his sister
to the Franks.

“But,” he added, “she has spoken—why, I know not—and I must obey. Well,
at least they are gallant men and worthy of such steeds. Half I hoped
that you and the three of us and my niece Masouda, the woman with the
secret face and eyes that have looked on fear, might perish in the
cleft of the stream; but it was not willed of Allah. So farewell,
Flame, and farewell, Smoke, children of the desert, who are swifter
than arrows, for never more shall I ride you in battle. Well, at least
I have others of your matchless blood.”

Then Godwin touched Wulf on the shoulder, and they crept away from the
stable without the Arab knowing that they had been there, for it seemed
shameful to pry upon his grief. When they reached their room again
Godwin asked Wulf:

“Why does this man sell us those noble steeds?”

“Because his niece Masouda has bid him so to do,” he answered.

“And why has she bidden him?”

“Ah!” replied Wulf. “He called her ‘the woman with the secret face and
eyes that have looked on fear,’ didn’t he? Well, for reasons that have
to do with his family perhaps, or with her secrets, or us, with whom
she plays some game of which we know neither the beginning nor the end.
But, Brother Godwin, you are wiser than I. Why do you ask me these
riddles? For my part, I do not wish to trouble my head about them. All
I know is that the game is a brave one, and I mean to go through with
it, especially as I believe that this playing will lead us to
Rosamund.”

“May it lead us nowhere worse,” answered Godwin with something like a
groan, for he remembered that dream of his which he dreamed in mid-air
between the edges of black rock with the bubbling foam beneath.

But to Wulf he said nothing of this dream.

When the sun was fully up they prepared to go out again, taking with
them the gold to pay the Arab; but on opening the door of their room
they met Masouda, apparently about to knock upon it.

“Whither go you, friends Peter and John, and so early?” she asked,
looking at them with a smile upon her beautiful face that was so
thrilling and seemed to hide so much mystery.

Godwin thought to himself that it was like another smile, that on the
face of the woman-headed, stone sphinx which they had seen set up in
the market place of Beirut.

“To visit our horses and pay your uncle, the Arab, his money,” answered
Wulf.

“Indeed! I thought I saw you do the first an hour ago, and as for the
second, it is useless; Son of the Sand has gone.”

“Gone! With the horses?”

“Nay, he has left them behind.”

“Did you pay him, then, lady?” asked Godwin.

It was easy to see that Masouda was pleased at this courteous word, for
her voice, which in general seemed a little hard, softened as she
answered, for the first time giving him his own title.

“Why do you call me ‘lady,’ Sir Godwin D’Arcy, who am but an
inn-keeper, for whom sometimes men find hard names? Well, perhaps I was
a lady once before I became an inn-keeper; but now I am—the widow
Masouda, as you are the pilgrim Peter. Still, I thank you for this—bad
guess of yours.” Then stepping back a foot or two towards the door,
which she had closed behind her, she made him a curtsey so full of
dignity and grace that any who saw it must be sure that, wherever she
might dwell, Masouda was not bred in inns.

Godwin returned the bow, doffing his cap. Their eyes met and in hers he
learned that he had no treachery to fear from this woman, whatever else
he might have to fear. Indeed, from that moment, however black and
doubtful seemed the road, he would have trusted his life to her; for
this was the message written there, a message which she meant that he
should read. Yet at his heart he felt terribly afraid.

Wulf, who saw something of all this and guessed more, also was afraid.
He wondered what Rosamund would have thought of it, if she had seen
that strange and turbulent look in the eyes of this woman who had been
a lady and was an inn-keeper; of one whom men called Spy, and daughter
of Satan, and child of Al-je-bal. To his fancy that look was like a
flash of lightning upon a dark night, which for a second illumines some
magical, unguessed landscape, after which comes the night again,
blacker than before.

Now the widow Masouda was saying in her usual somewhat hard voice:

“No; I did not pay him. At the last he would take no money; but, having
passed it, neither would he break his word to knights who ride so well
and boldly. So I made a bargain with him on behalf of both of you,
which I expect that you will keep, since my good faith is pledged, and
this Arab is a chief and my kinsman. It is this, that if you and these
horses should live, and the time comes when you have no more need of
them, you will cause it to be cried in the market-place of whatever
town is nearest to you, by the voice of the public crier, that for six
days they stand to be returned to him who lent them. Then if he comes
not they can be sold, which must not be sold or given away to any one
without this proclamation. Do you consent?”

“Aye,” answered both of them, but Wulf added: “Only we should like to
know why the Arab, Son-of-the-Sand, who is your kinsman, trusts his
glorious horses to us in this fashion.”

“Your breakfast is served, my guests,” answered Masouda in tones that
rang like the clash of metal, so steely were they. Whereon Wulf shook
his head and followed her into the eating-room, which was now empty
again as it had been on the afternoon of their arrival.

Most of that day they spent with their horses. In the evening, this
time unaccompanied by Masouda, they rode out for a little way, though
rather doubtfully, since they were not sure that these beasts which
seemed to be almost human would not take the bits between their teeth
and rush with them back to the desert whence they came. But although
from time to time they looked about them for their master, the Arab,
whinnying as they looked, this they did not do, or show vice of any
kind; indeed, two Iadies’ palfreys could not have been more quiet. So
the brethren brought them home again, groomed, fed and fondled them,
while they pricked their ears, sniffing them all over, as though they
knew that these were their new lords and wished to make friends of
them.

The morrow was a Sunday, and, attended by Masouda’s slave, without whom
she would not suffer them to walk in the town, the brethren went to
mass in the big church which once had been a mosque, wearing pilgrim’s
robes over their mail.

“Do you not accompany us, who are of the faith?” asked Wulf.

“Nay,” answered Masouda, “I am in no mood to make confession. This day
I count my beads at home.”

So they went alone, and mingling with a crowd of humble persons at the
back of the church, which was large and dim, watched the knights and
priests of various nations struggling for precedence of place beneath
the dome. Also they heard the bishop of the town preach a sermon from
which they learnt much. He spoke at length of the great coming war with
Saladin, whom he named Anti-Christ. Moreover, he prayed them all to
compose their differences and prepare for that awful struggle, lest in
the end the Cross of their Master should be trampled under foot of the
Saracen, His soldiers slain, His fanes desecrated, and His people
slaughtered or driven into the sea—words of warning that were received
in heavy silence.

“Four full days have gone by. Let us ask our hostess if she has any
news for us,” said Wulf as they walked back to the inn.

“Ay, we will ask her,” answered Godwin.

As it chanced, there was no need, for when they entered their chamber
they found Masouda standing in the centre of it, apparently lost in
thought.

“I have come to speak with you,” she said, looking up. “Do you still
wish to visit the Sheik Al-je-bal?”

They answered “Yes.”

“Good. I have leave for you to go; but I counsel you not to go, since
it is dangerous. Let us be open with one another. I know your object. I
knew it an hour before ever you set foot upon this shore, and that is
why you were brought to my house. You would seek the help of the lord
Sinan against Salah-ed-din, from whom you hope to rescue a certain
great lady of his blood who is your kinswoman and whom both of
you—desire in marriage. You see, I have learned that also. Well, this
land is full of spies, who travel to and from Europe and make report of
all things to those who pay them enough. For instance—I can say it, as
you will not see him again—the trader Thomas, with whom you stayed in
this house, is such a spy. To him your story has been passed on by
other spies in England, and he passed it on to me.”

“Are then you a spy also, as the porter called you?” asked Wulf
outright.

“I am what I am,” she answered coldly. “Perhaps I also have sworn oaths
and serve as you serve. Who my master is or why I do so is naught to
you. But I like you well, and we have ridden together— a wild ride.
Therefore I warn you, though perhaps I should not say so much, that the
lord Al-je-bal is one who takes payment for what he gives, and that
this business may cost you your lives.”

“You warned us against Saladin also,” said Godwin, “so what is left to
us if we may dare a visit to neither?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “To take service under one of the great
Frankish lords and wait a chance that will never come. Or, better
still, to sew some cockle shells into your hats, go home as holy men
who have made the pilgrimage, marry the richest wives that you can
find, and forget Masouda the widow, and Al-je-bal and Salah-ed-din and
the lady about whom he has dreamed a dream. Only then,” she added in a
changed voice, “remember, you must leave the horses Flame and Smoke
behind you.”

“We wish to ride those horses,” said Wulf lightly, and Godwin turned on
her with anger in his eyes.

“You seem to know our story,” he said, “and the mission to which we are
sworn. What sort of knights do you think us, then, that you offer us
counsel which is fitter for those spies from whom you learn your
tidings? You talk of our lives. Well, we hold our lives in trust, and
when they are asked of us we will yield them up, having done all that
we may do.”

“Well spoken,” answered Masouda. “Ill should I have thought of you had
you said otherwise. But why would you go to Al-je-bal?”

“Because our uncle at his death bade us so to do without fail, and
having no other counsel we will take that of his spirit, let come what
may.”

“Well spoken again! Then to Al-je-bal you shall go, and let come what
may—to all three of us!”

“To all three of us?” said Wulf. “What, then, is your part in this
matter?”

“I do not know, but perhaps more than you think. At least, I must be
your guide.”

“Do you mean to betray us?” asked Wulf bluntly.

She drew herself up and looked him in the eyes till he grew red, then
said:

“Ask your brother if he thinks that I mean to betray you. No; I mean to
save you, if I can, and it comes into my mind that before all is done
you will need saving, who speak so roughly to those who would befriend
you. Nay, answer not; it is not strange that you should doubt. Pilgrims
to the fearful shrine of Al-je-bal, if it pleases you, we will ride at
nightfall. Do not trouble about food and such matters. I will make
preparation, but we go alone and secretly. Take only your arms and what
garments you may need; the rest I will store, and for it give you my
receipt. Now I go to make things ready. See, I pray of you, that the
horses Flame and Smoke are saddled by sunset.”

At sundown, accordingly, the brethren stood waiting in their room. They
were fully armed beneath their rough pilgrims’ robes, even to the
bucklers which had been hidden in their baggage. Also the saddle-bags
of carpet which Masouda had given them were packed with such things as
they must take, the rest having been handed over to her keeping.

Presently the door opened, and a young man stood before them clothed in
the rough camel-hair garment, or burnous, which is common in the East.

“What do you want?” asked Godwin.

“I want you, brothers Peter and John,” was the reply, and they saw that
the slim young man was Masouda. “What! you English innocents, do you
not know a woman through a camel-hair cloak?” she added as she led the
way to the stable. “Well, so much the better, for it shows that my
disguise is good. Henceforth be pleased to forget the widow Masouda
and, until we reach the land of Al-je-bal, to remember that I am your
servant, a halfbreed from Jaffa named David, of no religion—or of all.”

In the stable the horses stood saddled, and near to them another—a good
Arab—and two laden Cyprian mules, but no attendant was to be seen. They
brought them out and mounted, Masouda riding like a man and leading the
mules, of which the head of one was tied to the tail of the other. Five
minutes later they were clear of Beirut, and through the solemn
twilight hush, followed the road whereon they had tried the horses,
towards the Dog River, three leagues away, which Masouda said they
would reach by moonrise.

Soon it grew very dark, and she rode alongside of them to show them the
path, but they did not talk much. Wulf asked her who would take care of
the inn while she was absent, to which she answered sharply that the
inn would take care of itself, and no more. Picking their way along the
stony road at a slow amble, they crossed the bed of two streams then
almost dry, till at length they heard running water sounding above that
of the slow wash of the sea to their left, and Masouda bade them halt.
So they waited, until presently the moon rose in a clear sky, revealing
a wide river in front, the pale ocean a hundred feet beneath them to
the left, and to the right great mountains, along the face of which
their path was cut. So bright was it that Godwin could see strange
shapes carven on the sheer face of the rock, and beneath them writing
which he could not read.

“What are these?” he asked Masouda.

“The tablets of kings,” she answered, “whose names are written in your
holy book, who ruled Syria and Egypt thousands of years ago. They were
great in their day when they took this land, greater even than
Salah-ed-din, and now these seals which they set upon this rock are all
that is left of them.”

Godwin and Wulf stared at the weather-worn sculptures, and in the
silence of that moonlit place there arose in their minds a vision of
the mighty armies of different tongues and peoples who had stood in
their pride on this road and looked upon yonder river and the great
stone wolf that guarded it, which wolf, so said the legend, howled at
the approach of foes. But now he howled no more, for he lay headless
beneath the waters, and there he lies to this day. Well, they were
dead, everyone of them, and even their deeds were forgotten; and oh!
how small the thought of it made them feel, these two young men bent
upon a desperate quest in a strange and dangerous land. Masouda read
what was passing in their hearts, and as they came to the brink of the
river, pointed to the bubbles that chased each other towards the sea,
bursting and forming again before their eyes.

“Such are we,” she said briefly; “but the ocean is always yonder, and
the river is always here, and of fresh bubbles there will always be a
plenty. So dance on life’s water while you may, in the sunlight, in the
moonlight, beneath the storm, beneath the stars, for ocean calls and
bubbles burst. Now follow me, for I know the ford, and at this season
the stream is not deep. Pilgrim Peter, ride you at my side in case I
should be washed from the saddle; and pilgrim John, come you behind,
and if they hang back, prick the mules with your sword point.”

Thus, then, they entered the river, which many might have feared to do
at night, and, although once or twice the water rose to their saddles
and the mules were stubborn in the swift stream, in the end gained the
further bank in safety. Thence they pursued their path through
mountains till at length the sun rose and they found themselves in a
lonely land where no one was to be seen. Here they halted in a grove of
oaks, off-saddled their animals, tethered and fed them with barley
which they had brought upon a mule, and ate of the food that Masouda
had provided. Then, having secured the beasts, they lay down to sleep,
all three of them, since Masouda said that here there was nothing to
fear; and being weary, slept on till the heat of noon was past, when
once more they fed the horses and mules, and having dined themselves,
set forward upon their way.

Now their road—if road it could be called, for they could see none—ran
ever upwards through rough, mountainous country, where seemed to dwell
neither man nor beast. At sunset they halted again, and at moonrise
went forward till the night turned towards morning, when they came to a
place where was a little cave.

Before they reached this spot of a sudden the silence of those lonely
hills was broken by a sound of roaring, not very near to them, but so
loud and so long that it echoed and reechoed from the cliff. At it the
horses Flame and Smoke pricked their ears and trembled, while the mules
strove to break away and run back.

“What is that?” asked Wulf, who had never heard its like.

“Lions,” answered Masouda. “We draw near the country where there are
many of them, and therefore shall do well to halt presently, since it
is best to pass through that land in daylight.”

So when they came to the cave, having heard no more of the lion, or
lions, they unsaddled there, purposing to put the horses into it, where
they would be safe from the attack of any such ravening beast. But when
they tried to do this, Smoke and Flame spread out their nostrils, and
setting their feet firm before them, refused to enter the place, about
which there was an evil smell.

“Perhaps jackals have been here,” said Masouda. “Let us tether them all
in the open.”

This then they did, building a fire in front of them with dry wood that
lay about in plenty, for here grew sombre cedar trees. The brethren sat
by this fire; but, the night being hot, Masouda laid herself down about
fifteen paces away under a cedar tree, which grew almost in front of
the mouth of the cave, and slept, being tired with long riding. Wulf
slept also, since Godwin had agreed to keep watch for the first part of
the night.

For an hour or more he sat close by the horses, and noted that they fed
uneasily and would not lie down. Soon, however, he was lost in his own
thoughts, and, as he heard no more of the lions, fell to wondering over
the strangeness of their journey and of what the end of it might be. He
wondered also about Masouda, who she was, how she came to know so much,
why she befriended them if she really was a friend, and other
things—for instance, of that leap over the sunken stream; and
whether—no, surely he had been mistaken, her eyes had never looked at
him like that. Why, he was sleeping at his post, and the eyes in the
darkness yonder were not those of a woman. Women’s eyes were not green
and gold; they did not grow large, then lessen and vanish away.

Godwin sprang to his feet. As he thought, they were no eyes. He had
dreamed, that was all. So he took cedar boughs and threw them on to the
fire, where soon they flared gloriously, which done he sat himself down
again close to Wulf, who was lost in heavy slumber.

The night was very still and the silence so deep that it pressed upon
him like a weight. He could bear it no longer, and rising, began to
walk up and down in front of the cave, drawing his sword and holding it
in his hand as sentries do. Masouda lay upon the ground, with her head
pillowed on a saddle-bag, and the moonlight fell through the cedar
boughs upon her face. Godwin stopped to look at it, and wondered that
he had never noted before how beautiful she was. Perhaps it was but the
soft and silvery light which clothed those delicate features with so
much mystery and charm. She might be dead, not sleeping; but even as he
thought this, life came into her face, colour stole up beneath the
pale, olive-hued skin, the red lips opened, seeming to mutter some
words, and she stretched out her rounded arms as though to clasp a
vision of her dream.

Godwin turned aside; it seemed not right to watch her thus, although in
truth he had only come to know that she was safe. He went back to the
fire, and lifting a cedar bough, which blazed like a torch in his left
hand, was about to lay it down again on the centre of the flame, when
suddenly he heard the sharp and terrible cry of a woman in an agony of
pain or fear, and at the same moment the horses and mules began to
plunge and snort. In an instant, the blazing bough still in his hand,
he was back by the cave, and lo! there before him, the form of Masouda,
hanging from its jaws, stood a great yellow beast, which, although he
had never seen its like, he knew must be a lioness. It was heading for
the cave, then catching sight of him, turned and bounded away in the
direction of the fire, purposing to reenter the wood beyond.

But the woman in its mouth cumbered it, and running swiftly, Godwin
came face to face with the brute just opposite the fire. He hurled the
burning bough at it, whereon it dropped Masouda, and rearing itself
straight upon its hind legs, stretched out its claws, and seemed about
to fall on him. For this Godwin did not wait. He was afraid, indeed,
who had never before fought lions, but he knew that he must do or die.
Therefore he charged straight at it, and with all the strength of his
strong arm drove his long sword into the yellow breast, till it seemed
to him that the steel vanished and he could see nothing but the hilt.

Then a shock, a sound of furious snarling, and down he went to earth
beneath a soft and heavy weight, and there his senses left him.

When they came back again something soft was still upon his face; but
this proved to be only the hand of Masouda, who bathed his brow with a
cloth dipped in water, while Wulf chafed his hands. Godwin sat up, and
in the light of the new risen sun, saw a dead lioness lying before him,
its breast still transfixed with his own sword.

“So I saved you,” he said faintly.

“Yes, you saved me,” answered Masouda, and kneeling down she kissed his
feet; then rising again, with her long, soft hair wiped away the blood
that was running from a wound in his arm.




Chapter X.
On Board the Galley


Rosamund was led from the Hall of Steeple across the meadow down to the
quay at Steeple Creek, where a great boat waited—that of which the
brethren had found the impress in the mud. In this the band embarked,
placing their dead and wounded, with one or two to tend them, in the
fishing skiff that had belonged to her father. This skiff having been
made fast to the stern of the boat, they pushed off, and in utter
silence rowed down the creek till they reached the tidal stream of the
Blackwater, where they turned their bow seawards. Through the thick
night and the falling snow slowly they felt their way along, sometimes
rowing, sometimes drifting, while the false palmer Nicholas steered
them. The journey proved dangerous, for they could scarcely see the
shore, although they kept as close to it as they dared.

The end of it was that they grounded on a mud bank, and, do what they
would, could not thrust themselves free. Now hope rose in the heart of
Rosamund, who sat still as a statue in the middle of the boat, the
prince Hassan at her side and the armed men—twenty or thirty of
them—all about her. Perhaps, she thought, they would remain fast there
till daybreak, and be seen and rescued when the brethren woke from
their drugged sleep. But Hassan read her mind, and said to her gently
enough:

“Be not deceived, lady, for I must tell you that if the worst comes to
the worst, we shall place you in the little skiff and go on, leaving
the rest to take their chance.”

As it happened, at the full tide they floated off the bank and drifted
with the ebb down towards the sea. At the first break of dawn she
looked up, and there, looming large in the mist, lay a galley, anchored
in the mouth of the river. Giving thanks to Allah for their safe
arrival, the band brought her aboard and led her towards the cabin. On
the poop stood a tall man, who was commanding the sailors that they
should get up the anchor. As she came he advanced to her, bowing and
saying:

“Lady Rosamund, thus you find me once more, who doubtless you never
thought to see again.”

She looked at him in the faint light and her blood went cold. It was
the knight Lozelle.

“You here, Sir Hugh?” she gasped.

“Where you are, there I am,” he answered, with a sneer upon his coarse,
handsome face. “Did I not swear that it should be so, beauteous
Rosamund, after your saintly cousin worsted me in the fray?”

“You here?” she repeated, “you, a Christian knight, and in the pay of
Saladin!”

“In the pay of anyone who leads me to you, Rosamund.” Then, seeing the
emir Hassan approach, he turned to give some orders to the sailors, and
she passed on to the cabin and in her agony fell upon her knees.

When Rosamund rose from them she felt that the ship was moving, and,
desiring to look her last on Essex land, went out again upon the poop,
where Hassan and Sir Hugh placed themselves, one upon either side of
her. Then it was that she saw the tower of St. Peter’s-on-the-Wall and
her cousins seated on horseback in front of it, the light of the risen
sun shining upon their mail. Also she saw Wulf spur his horse into the
sea, and faintly heard his great cry of “Fear not! We follow, we
follow!”

A thought came to her, and she sprang towards the bulwark; but they
were watching and held her, so that all that she could do was to throw
up her arms in token.

Now the wind caught the sail and the ship went forward swiftly, so that
soon she lost sight of them. Then in her grief and rage Rosamund turned
upon Sir Hugh Lozelle and beat him with bitter words till he shrank
before her.

“Coward and traitor!” she said. “So it was you who planned this,
knowing every secret of our home, where often you were a guest! You who
for Paynim gold have murdered my father, not daring to show your face
before his sword, but hanging like a thief upon the coast, ready to
receive what braver men had stolen. Oh! may God avenge his blood and me
on you, false knight—false to Him and me and faith and honour—as avenge
He will! Heard you not what my kinsman called to me? ‘We follow. We
follow!’ Yes, they follow, and their swords—those swords you feared to
look on—shall yet pierce your heart and give up your soul to your
master Satan,” and she paused, trembling with her righteous wrath,
while Hassan stared at her and muttered:

“By Allah, a princess indeed! So have I seen Salah-ed-din look in his
rage. Yes, and she has his very eyes.”

But Sir Hugh answered in a thick voice.

“Let them follow—one or both. I fear them not and out there my foot
will not slip in the snow.”

“Then I say that it shall slip in the sand or on a rock,” she answered,
and turning, fled to the cabin and cast herself down and wept till she
thought that her heart would break.

Well might Rosamund weep whose beloved sire was slain, who was torn
from her home to find herself in the power of a man she hated. Yet
there was hope for her. Hassan, Eastern trickster as he might be, was
her friend; and her uncle, Saladin, at least, would never wish that she
should be shamed. Most like he knew nothing of this man Lozelle, except
as one of those Christian traitors who were ever ready to betray the
Cross for gold. But Saladin was far away and her home lay behind her,
and her cousins and lovers were eating out their hearts upon that
fading shore. And she—one woman alone—was on this ship with the evil
man Lozelle, who thus had kept his promise, and there were none save
Easterns to protect her, none save them—and God, Who had permitted that
such things should be.

The ship swayed, she grew sick and faint. Hassan brought her food with
his own hands, but she loathed it who only desired to die. The day
turned to night, the night turned to day again, and always Hassan
brought her food and strove to comfort her, till at length she
remembered no more.

Then came a long, long sleep, and in the sleep dreams of her father
standing with his face to the foe and sweeping them down with his long
sword as a sickle sweeps corn—of her father felled by the pilgrim
knave, dying upon the floor of his own house, and saying “God will
guard you. His will be done.” Dreams of Godwin and Wulf also fighting
to save her, plighting their troths and swearing their oaths, and
between the dreams blackness.

Rosamund awoke to feel the sun streaming warmly through the shutter of
her cabin, and to see a woman who held a cup in her hand, watching
her—a stout woman of middle age with a not unkindly face. She looked
about her and remembered all. So she was still in the ship.

“Whence come you?” she asked the woman.

“From France, lady. This ship put in at Marseilles, and there I was
hired to nurse one who lay sick, which suited me very well, as I wished
to go to Jerusalem to seek my husband, and good money was offered me.
Still, had I known that they were all Saracens on this ship, I am not
sure that I should have come—that is, except the captain, Sir Hugh, and
the palmer Nicholas; though what they, or you either, are doing in such
company I cannot guess.”

“What is your name?” asked Rosamund idly.

“Marie—Marie Bouchet. My husband is a fishmonger, or was, until one of
those crusading priests got hold of him and took him off to kill
Paynims and save his soul, much against my will. Well, I promised him
that if he did not return in five years I would come to look for him.
So here I am, but where he may be is another matter.”

“It is brave of you to go,” said Rosamund, then added by an
afterthought, “How long is it since we left Marseilles?”

Marie counted on her fat fingers, and answered:

“Five—nearly six weeks. You have been wandering in your mind all that
time, talking of many strange things, and we have called at three
ports. I forget their names, but the last one was an island with a
beautiful harbour. Now, in about twenty days, if all goes well, we
should reach another island called Cyprus. But you must not talk so
much, you must sleep. The Saracen called Hassan, who is a clever
doctor, told me so.”

So Rosamund slept, and from that time forward, floating on the calm
Mediterranean sea, her strength began to come back again rapidly, who
was young and strong in body and constitution. Three days later she was
helped to the deck, where the first man she saw was Hassan, who came
forward to greet her with many Eastern salutations and joy written on
his dark, wrinkled face.

“I give thanks to Allah for your sake and my own,” he said. “For yours
that you still live whom I thought would die, and for myself that had
you died your life would have been required at my hands by
Salah-ed-din, my master.”

“If so, he should have blamed Azrael, not you,” answered Rosamund,
smiling; then suddenly turned cold, for before her was Sir Hugh
Lozelle, who also thanked Heaven that she had recovered. She listened
to him coldly, and presently he went away, but soon was at her side
again. Indeed, she could never be free of him, for whenever she
appeared on deck he was there, nor could he be repelled, since neither
silence nor rebuff would stir him. Always he sat near, talking in his
false, hateful voice, and devouring her with the greedy eyes which she
could feel fixed upon her face. With him often was his jackal, the
false palmer Nicholas, who crawled about her like a snake and strove to
flatter her, but to this man she would never speak a word.

At last she could bear it no longer, and when her health had returned
to her, summoned Hassan to her cabin.

“Tell me, prince,” she said, “who rules upon this vessel?”

“Three people,” he answered, bowing. “The knight, Sir Hugh Lozelle,
who, as a skilled navigator, is the captain and rules the sailors; I,
who rule the fighting men; and you, Princess, who rule us all.”

“Then I command that the rogue named Nicholas shall not be allowed to
approach me. Is it to be borne that I must associate with my father’s
murderer?”

“I fear that in that business we all had a hand, nevertheless your
order shall be obeyed. To tell you the truth, lady, I hate the fellow,
who is but a common spy.”

“I desire also,” went on Rosamund, “to speak no more with Sir Hugh
Lozelle.”

“That is more difficult,” said Hassan, “since he is the captain whom my
master ordered me to obey in all things that have to do with the ship.”

“I have nothing to do with the ship,” answered Rosamund; “and surely
the princess of Baalbec, if so I am, may choose her own companions. I
wish to see more of you and less of Sir Hugh Lozelle.”

“I am honoured,” replied Hassan, “and will do my best.”

For some days after this, although he was always watching her, Lozelle
approached Rosamund but seldom, and whenever he did so he found Hassan
at her side, or rather standing behind her like a guard.

At length, as it chanced, the prince was taken with a sickness from
drinking bad water which held him to his bed for some days, and then
Lozelle found his opportunity. Rosamund strove to keep her cabin to
avoid him, but the heat of the summer sun in the Mediterranean drove
her out of it to a place beneath an awning on the poop, where she sat
with the woman Marie. Here Lozelle approached her, pretending to bring
her food or to inquire after her comfort, but she would answer him
nothing. At length, since Marie could understand what he said in
French, he addressed her in Arabic, which he spoke well, but she
feigned not to understand him. Then he used the English tongue as it
was talked among the common people in Essex, and said:

“Lady, how sorely you misjudge me. What is my crime against you? I am
an Essex man of good lineage, who met you in Essex and learnt to love
you there. Is that a crime, in one who is not poor, who, moreover, was
knighted for his deeds by no mean hand? Your father said me nay, and
you said me nay, and, stung by my disappointment and his words—for he
called me sea-thief and raked up old tales that are not true against
me—I talked as I should not have done, swearing that I would wed you
yet in spite of all. For this I was called to account with justice, and
your cousin, the young knight Godwin, who was then a squire, struck me
in the face. Well, he worsted and wounded me, fortune favouring him,
and I departed with my vessel to the East, for that is my business, to
trade between Syria and England.

“Now, as it chanced, there being peace at the time between the Sultan
and the Christians, I visited Damascus to buy merchandise. Whilst I was
there Saladin sent for me and asked if it were true that I belonged to
a part of England called Essex. When I answered yes, he asked if I knew
Sir Andrew D’Arcy and his daughter. Again I said yes, whereon he told
me that strange tale of your kinship to him, of which I had heard
already; also a still stranger tale of some dream that he had dreamed
concerning you, which made it necessary that you should be brought to
his court, where he was minded to raise you to great honour. In the
end, he offered to hire my finest ship for a large sum, if I would sail
it to England to fetch you; but he did not tell me that any force was
to be used, and I, on my part, said that I would lift no hand against
you or your father, nor indeed have I done so.”

“Who remembered the swords of Godwin and Wulf,” broke in Rosamund
scornfully, “and preferred that braver men should face them.”

“Lady,” answered Lozelle, colouring, “hitherto none have accused me of
a lack of courage. Of your courtesy, listen, I pray you. I did wrong to
enter on this business; but lady, it was love for you that drove me to
it, for the thought of this long voyage in your company was a bait I
could not withstand.”

“Paynim gold was the bait you could not withstand—that is what you
mean. Be brief, I pray you. I weary.

“Lady, you are harsh and misjudge me, as I will show,” and he looked
about him cautiously. “Within a week from now, if all goes well, we
cast anchor at Limazol in Cyprus, to take in food and water before we
run to a secret port near Antioch, whence you are to be taken overland
to Damascus, avoiding all cities of the Franks. Now, the Emperor Isaac
of Cyprus is my friend, and over him Saladin has no power. Once in his
court, you would be safe until such time as you found opportunity to
return to England. This, then, is my plan—that you should escape from
the ship at night as I can arrange.”

“And what is your payment,” she asked, “who are a merchant knight?”

“My payment, lady, is—yourself. In Cyprus we will be wed—oh! think
before you answer. At Damascus many dangers await you; with me you will
find safety and a Christian husband who loves you well—so well that for
your sake he is willing to lose his ship and, what is more, to break
faith with Saladin, whose arm is long.”

“Have done,” she said coldly. “Sooner will I trust myself to an honest
Saracen than to you, Sir Hugh, whose spurs, if you met your desert,
should be hacked from your heels by scullions. Yes, sooner would I take
death for my lord than you, who for your own base ends devised the plot
that brought my father to his murder and me to slavery. Have done, I
say, and never dare again to speak of love to me,” and rising, she
walked past him to her cabin.

But Lozelle looking after her muttered to himself, “Nay, fair lady, I
have but begun; nor will I forget your bitter words, for which you
shall pay the merchant knight in kisses.”

From her cabin Rosamund sent a message to Hassan, saying that she would
speak with him.

He came, still pale with illness, and asked her will, whereon she told
him what had passed between Lozelle and herself, demanding his
protection against this man.

Hassan’s eyes flashed.

“Yonder he stands,” he said, “alone. Will you come with me and speak to
him?”

She bowed her head, and giving her his hand, he led her to the poop.

“Sir captain,” he began, addressing Lozelle, “the Princess here tells
me a strange story—that you have dared to offer your love to her, by
Allah! to her, a niece of Salah-ed-din.”

“What of it, Sir Saracen?” answered Lozelle, insolently. “Is not a
Christian knight fit mate for the blood of an Eastern chief? Had I
offered her less than marriage, you might have spoken.”

“You!” answered Hassan, with rage in his low voice, “you, huckstering
thief and renegade, who swear by Mahomet in Damascus and by your
prophet Jesus in England—ay, deny it not, I have heard you, as I have
heard that rogue, Nicholas, your servant. You, her fit mate? Why, were
it not that you must guide this ship, and that my master bade me not to
quarrel with you till your task was done, I would behead you now and
cut from your throat the tongue that dared to speak such words,” and as
he spoke he gripped the handle of his scimitar.

Lozelle quailed before his fierce eyes, for well he knew Hassan, and
knew also that if it came to fighting his sailors were no match for the
emir and his picked Saracens.

“When our duty is done you shall answer for those words,” he said,
trying to look brave.

“By Allah! I hold you to the promise,” replied Hassan. “Before
Salah-ed-din I will answer for them when and where you will, as you
shall answer to him for your treachery.”

“Of what, then, am I accused?” asked Lozelle. “Of loving the lady
Rosamund, as do all men—perhaps yourself, old and withered as you are,
among them?”

“Ay, and for that crime I will repay you, old and withered as I am, Sir
Renegade. But with Salah-ed-din you have another score to settle—that
by promising her escape you tried to seduce her from this ship, where
you were sworn to guard her, saying that you would find her refuge
among the Greeks of Cyprus.”

“Were this true,” replied Lozelle, “the Sultan might have cause of
complaint against me. But it is not true. Hearken, since speak I must.
The lady Rosamund prayed me to do this deed, and I told her that for my
honour’s sake it is not possible, although it was true that I loved her
now as always, and would dare much for her. Then she said that if I did
but save her from you Saracens, I should not go without my reward,
since she would wed me. Again, although it cost me sore, I answered
that it might not be, but when once I had brought my ship to land, I
was her true knight, and being freed of my oath, would do my best to
save her.”

“Princess, you hear,” said Hassan, turning to Rosamund. “What say you?”

“I say,” she answered coldly, “that this man lies to save himself. I
say, moreover, that I answered to him, that sooner would I die than
that he should lay a finger on me.”

“I hold also that he lies,” said Hassan. “Nay; unclasp that dagger if
you would live to see another sun. Here, I will not fight with you, but
Salah-ed-din shall learn all this case when we reach his court, and
judge between the word of the princess of Baalbec and of his hired
servant, the false Frank and pirate, Sir Hugh Lozelle.”

“Let him learn it—when we reach his court,” answered Lozelle, with
meaning; then added, “Have you aught else to say to me, prince Hassan?
Because if not, I must be attending to the business of my ship, which
you suppose that I was about to abandon to win a lady’s smile.”

“Only this, that the ship is the Sultan’s and not yours, for he bought
it from you, and that henceforth this lady will be guarded day and
night, and doubly guarded when we come to the shores of Cyprus, where
it seems that you have friends. Understand and remember.”

“I understand, and certainly I will remember,” replied Lozelle, and so
they parted.

“I think,” said Rosamund, when he had gone, “that we shall be fortunate
if we land safe in Syria.”

“That was in my mind, also, lady. I think, too, that I have forgot my
wisdom, but my heart rose against this man, and being still weak from
sickness, I lost my judgment and spoke what was in my heart, who would
have done better to wait. Now, perhaps, it will be best to kill him, if
it were not that he alone has the skill to navigate the ship, which is
a trade that he has followed from his youth. Nay, let it go as Allah
wills. He is just, and will bring the matter to judgment in due time.”

“Yes, but to what judgment?” asked Rosamund.

“I hope to that of the sword,” answered Hassan, as he bowed and left
her.

From that time forward armed men watched all the night through before
Rosamund’s cabin, and when she walked the deck armed men walked after
her. Nor was she troubled by Lozelle, who sought to speak with her no
more, or to Hassan either. Only with the man Nicholas he spoke much.

At length upon one golden evening—for Lozelle was a skilful pilot, one
of the best, indeed, who sailed those seas—they came to the shores of
Cyprus, and cast anchor. Before them, stretched along the beach, lay
the white town of Limazol, with palm trees standing up amidst its
gardens, while beyond the fertile plain rose the mighty mountain range
of Trooidos. Sick and weary of the endless ocean, Rosamund gazed with
rapture at this green and beauteous shore, the home of so much history,
and sighed to think that on it she might set no foot. Lozelle saw her
look and heard her sigh, and as he climbed into the boat which had come
out to row him into the harbour, mocked her, saying:

“Will you not change your mind, lady, and come with me to visit my
friend, the Emperor Isaac? I swear that his court is gay, not packed
full of sour Saracens or pilgrims thinking of their souls. In Cyprus
they only make pilgrimages to Paphos yonder, where Venus was born from
out the foam, and has reigned since the beginning of the world—ay, and
will reign until its end.”

Rosamund made no answer, and Lozelle, descending into the boat, was
rowed shorewards through the breakers by the dark-skinned, Cyprian
oarsmen, who wore flowers in their hair and sang as they laboured at
the oars.

For ten whole days they rolled off Limazol, although the weather was
fair and the wind blew straight for Syria. When Rosamund asked why they
bided there so long, Hassan stamped his foot and said it was because
the Emperor refused to supply them with more food or water than was
sufficient for their daily need, unless he, Hassan, would land and
travel to an inland town called Nicosia, where his court lay, and there
do homage to him. This, scenting a trap, he feared to do, nor could
they put out to sea without provisions.

“Cannot Sir Hugh Lozelle see to it?” asked Rosamund.

“Doubtless, if he will,” answered Hassan, grinding his teeth; “but he
swears that he is powerless.”

So there they bode day after day, baked by the sweltering summer sun
and rocked to and fro on the long ocean rollers till their hearts grew
sick within them, and their bodies also, for some of them were seized
with a fever common to the shores of Cyprus, of which two died. Now and
again some officer would come off from the shore with Lozelle and a
little food and water, and bargain with them, saying that before their
wants were supplied the prince Hassan must visit the Emperor and bring
with him the fair lady who was his passenger, whom he desired to see.

Hassan would answer no, and double the guard about Rosamund, for at
nights boats appeared that cruised round them. In the daytime also
bands of men, fantastically dressed in silks, and with them women,
could be seen riding to and fro upon the shore and staring at them, as
though they were striving to make up their minds to attack the ship.

Then Hassan armed his grim Saracens and bade them stand in line upon
the bulwarks, drawn scimitar in hand, a sight that seemed to frighten
the Cypriotes—at least they always rode away towards the great square
tower of Colossi.

At length Hassan would bear it no more. One morning Lozelle came off
from Limazol, where he slept at night, bringing with him three Cyprian
lords, who visited the ship—not to bargain as they pretended, but to
obtain sight of the beauteous princess Rosamund. Thereon the common
talk began of homage that must be paid before food was granted, failing
which the Emperor would bid his seamen capture the ship. Hassan
listened a while, then suddenly issued an order that the lords should
be seized.

“Now,” he said to Lozelle, “bid your sailors haul up the anchor, and
let us begone for Syria.”

“But,” answered the knight, “we have neither food nor water for more
than one day.”

“I care not,” answered Hassan, “as well die of thirst and starvation on
the sea as rot here with fever. What we can bear these Cyprian gallants
can bear also. Bid the sailors lift the anchor and hoist the sail, or I
loose my scimitars among them.”

Now Lozelle stamped and foamed, but without avail, so he turned to the
three lords, who were pale with fear, and said:

“Which will you do: find food and water for this ship, or put to sea
without them, which is but to die?”

They answered that they would go ashore and supply all that was
needful.

“Nay,” said Hassan, “you bide here until it comes.”

In the end, then, this happened, for one of the lords chanced to be a
nephew of the Emperor, who, when he learned that he was captive, sent
supplies in plenty. Thus it came about that the Cyprian lords having
been sent back with the last empty boat, within two days they were at
sea again.

Now Rosamund missed the hated face of the spy, Nicholas, and told
Hassan, who made inquiry, to find—or so said Lozelle—that he went
ashore and vanished there on the first day of their landing in Cyprus,
though whether he had been killed in some brawl, or fallen sick, or
hidden himself away, he did not know. Hassan shrugged his shoulders,
and Rosamund was glad enough to be rid of him, but in her heart she
wondered for what evil purpose Nicholas had left the ship.

When the galley was one day out from Cyprus steering for the coast of
Syria, they fell into a calm such as is common in those seas in summer.
This calm lasted eight whole days, during which they made but little
progress. At length, when all were weary of staring at the oil-like
sea, a wind sprang up that grew gradually to a gale blowing towards
Syria, and before it they fled along swiftly. Worse and stronger grew
that gale, till on the evening of the second day, when they seemed in
no little danger of being pooped, they saw a great mountain far away,
at the sight of which Lozelle thanked God aloud.

“Are those the mountains near Antioch?” asked Hassan.

“Nay,” he answered, “they are more than fifty miles south of them,
between Ladikiya and Jebela. There, by the mercy of Heaven, is a good
haven, for I have visited it, where we can lie till this storm is
past.”

“But we are steering for Darbesak, not for a haven near Jebela, which
is a Frankish port,” answered Hassan, angrily.

“Then put the ship about and steer there yourself,” said Lozelle, “and
I promise you this, that within two hours every one of you will be dead
at the bottom of the sea.”

Hassan considered. It was true, for then the waves would strike them
broadside on, and they must fill and sink.

“On your head be it,” he answered shortly.

The dark fell, and by the light of the great lantern at their prow they
saw the white seas hiss past as they drove shorewards beneath bare
masts. For they dared hoist no sail.

All that night they pitched and rolled, till the stoutest of them fell
sick, praying God and Allah that they might have light by which to
enter the harbour. At length they saw the top of the loftiest mountain
grow luminous with the coming dawn, although the land itself was still
lost in shadow, and saw also that it seemed to be towering almost over
them.

“Take courage,” cried Lozelle, “I think that we are saved,” and he
hoisted a second lantern at his masthead—why, they did not know.

After this the sea began to fall, only to grow rough again for a while
as they crossed some bar, to find themselves in calm water, and on
either side of them what appeared in the dim, uncertain light to be the
bush-clad banks of a river. For a while they ran on, till Lozelle
called in a loud voice to the sailors to let the anchor go, and sent a
messenger to say that all might rest now, as they were safe. So they
laid them down and tried to sleep.

But Rosamund could not sleep. Presently she rose, and throwing on her
cloak went to the door of the cabin and looked at the beauty of the
mountains, rosy with the new-born light, and at the misty surface of
the harbour. It was a lonely place—at least, she could see no town or
house, although they were lying not fifty yards from the tree-hidden
shore. As she stood thus, she heard the sound of boats being rowed
through the mist, and perceived three or four of these approaching the
ship in silence, perceived also that Lozelle, who stood alone upon the
deck, was watching their approach. Now the first boat made fast and a
man in the prow rose up and began to speak to Lozelle in a low voice.
As he did so the hood fell back from his head, and Rosamund saw the
face. It was that of the spy Nicholas! For a moment she stood amazed,
for they had left this man in Cyprus; then understanding came to her
and she cried aloud:

“Treachery! Prince Hassan, there is treachery.”

As the words left her lips fierce, wild-looking men began to scramble
aboard at the low waist of the galley, to which boat after boat made
fast. The Saracens also tumbled from the benches where they slept and
ran aft to the deck where Rosamund was, all except one of them who was
cut off in the prow of the ship. Prince Hassan appeared, too, scimitar
in hand, clad in his jewelled turban and coat of mail, but without his
cloak, shouting orders as he came, while the hired crew of the ship
flung themselves upon their knees and begged for mercy. To him Rosamund
cried out that they were betrayed and by Nicholas, whom she had seen.
Then a great man, wearing a white burnous and holding a naked sword in
his hand, stepped forward and said in Arabic:

“Yield you now, for you are outnumbered and your captain is captured,”
and he pointed to Lozelle, who was being held by two men while his arms
were bound behind him.

“In whose name do you bid me yield?” asked the prince, glaring about
him like a lion in a trap.

“In the dread name of Sinan, in the name of the lord Al-je-bal, O
servant of Salah-ed-din.”

At these words a groan of fear went up even from the brave Saracens,
for now they learned that they had to do with the terrible chief of the
Assassins.

“Is there then war between the Sultan and Sinan?” asked Hassan.

“Ay, there is always war. Moreover, you have one with you,” and he
pointed to Rosamund, “who is dear to Salah-ed-din, whom, therefore, my
master desires as a hostage.”

“How knew you that?” said Hassan, to gain time while his men formed up.

“How does the lord Sinan know all things?” was the answer; “Come,
yield, and perhaps he will show you mercy.”

“Through spies,” hissed Hassan, “such spies as Nicholas, who has come
from Cyprus before us, and that Frankish dog who is called a knight,”
and he pointed to Lozelle. “Nay, we yield not, and here, Assassins, you
have to do not with poisons and the knife, but with bare swords and
brave men. Ay, and I warn you—and your lord—that Salah-ed-din will take
vengeance for this deed.”

“Let him try it if he wishes to die, who hitherto has been spared,”
answered the tall man quietly. Then he said to his followers, “Cut them
down, all save the women”—for the Frenchwoman, Marie, was now clinging
to the arm of Rosamund—“and emir Hassan, whom I am commanded to bring
living to Masyaf.”

“Back to your cabin, lady,” said Hassan, “and remember that whate’er
befalls, we have done our best to save you. Ay, and tell it to my lord,
that my honour may be clean in his eyes. Now, soldiers of Salah-ed-din,
fight and die as he has taught you how. The gates of Paradise stand
open, and no coward will enter there.”

They answered with a fierce, guttural cry. Then, as Rosamund fled to
the cabin, the fray began, a hideous fray. On came the Assassins with
sword and dagger, striving to storm the deck. Again and again they were
beaten back, till the waist seemed full of their corpses, as man by man
they fell beneath the curved scimitars, and again and again they
charged these men who, when their master ordered, knew neither fear nor
pity. But more boatloads came from the shore, and the Saracens were but
few, worn also with storm and sickness, so at last Rosamund, peeping
beneath her hand, saw that the poop was gained.

Here and there a man fought on until he fell beneath the cruel knives
in the midst of the circle of the dead, among them the warrior-prince
Hassan. Watching him with fascinated eyes as he strove alone against a
host, Rosamund was put in mind of another scene, when her father, also
alone, had striven thus against that emir and his soldiers, and even
then she bethought her of the justice of God.

See! his foot slipped on the blood-stained deck. He was down, and ere
he could rise again they had thrown cloaks over him, these fierce,
silent men, who even with their lives at stake, remembered the command
of their captain, to take him living. So living they took him, with not
a wound upon his skin, who when he struck them down, had never struck
back at him lest the command of Sinan should be broken.

Rosamund noted it, and remembering that his command was also that she
should be brought to him unharmed, knew that she had no violence to
fear at the hands of these cruel murderers. From this thought, and
because Hassan still lived, she took such comfort as she might.

“It is finished,” said the tall man, in his cold voice. “Cast these
dogs into the sea who have dared to disobey the command of Al-je-bal.”

So they took them up, dead and living together, and threw them into the
water, where they sank, nor did one of the wounded Saracens pray them
for mercy. Then they served their own dead likewise, but those that
were only wounded they took ashore. This done, the tall man advanced to
the cabin and said:

“Lady, come, we are ready to start upon our journey.”

Having no choice, Rosamund obeyed him, remembering as she went how from
a scene of battle and bloodshed she had been brought aboard that ship
to be carried she knew not whither, which now she left in a scene of
battle and bloodshed to be carried she knew not whither.

“Oh!” she cried aloud, pointing to the corpses they hurled into the
deep, “ill has it gone with these who stole me, and ill may it go with
you also, servant of Al-je-bal.”

But the tall man answered nothing, as followed by the weeping Marie and
the prince Hassan, he led her to the boat.

Soon they reached the shore, and here they tore Marie from her, nor did
Rosamund ever learn what became of her, or whether or no this poor
woman found her husband whom she had dared so much to seek.




Chapter XI.
The City of Al-Je-Bal


“I pray you have done,” said Godwin, “it is but a scratch from the
beast’s claws. I am ashamed that you should put your hair to such vile
uses. Give me a little water.”

He asked it of Wulf, but Masouda rose without a word and fetched the
water, in which she mingled wine. Godwin drank of it and his faintness
left him, so that he was able to stand up and move his arms and legs.

“Why,” he said, “it is nothing; I was only shaken. That lioness did not
hurt me at all.”

“But you hurt the lioness,” said Wulf, with a laugh. “By St. Chad a
good thrust!” and he pointed to the long sword driven up to the hilt in
the brute’s breast. “Why, I swear I could not have made a better
myself.”

“I think it was the lion that thrust,” answered Godwin. “I only held
the sword straight. Drag it out, brother, I am still too weak.”

So Wulf set his foot upon the breast of the lion and tugged and tugged
until at length he loosened the sword, saying as he strained at it:

“Oh! what an Essex hog am I, who slept through it all, never waking
until Masouda seized me by the hair, and I opened my eyes to see you
upon the ground with this yellow beast crouched on the top of you like
a hen on a nest egg. I thought that it was alive and smote it with my
sword, which, had I been fully awake, I doubt if I should have found
the courage to do. Look,” and he pushed the lioness’s head with his
foot, whereon it twisted round in such a fashion that they perceived
for the first time that it only hung to the shoulders by a thread of
skin.

“I am glad you did not strike a little harder,” said Godwin, “or I
should now be in two pieces and drowned in my own blood, instead of in
that of this dead brute,” and he looked ruefully at his burnous and
hauberk, that were soaked with gore.

“Yes,” said Wulf, “I never thought of that. Who would, in such a
hurry?”

“Lady Masouda,” asked Godwin, “when last I saw you you were hanging
from those jaws. Say, are you hurt?”

“Nay,” she answered, “for I wear mail like you, and the teeth glanced
on it so that she held me by the cloak only. Come, let us skin the
beast, and take its pelt as a present to the lord Al-je-bal.”

“Good,” said Godwin, “and I give you the claws for a necklace.”

“Be sure that I will wear them,” she answered, and helped Wulf to flay
the lioness while he sat by resting. When it was done Wulf went to the
little cave and walked into it, to come out again with a bound.

“Why!” he said, “there are more of them in there. I saw their eyes and
heard them snarl. Now, give me a burning branch and I will show you,
brother, that you are not the only one who can fight a lion.”

“Let be, you foolish man,” broke in Masouda. “Doubtless those are her
cubs, and if you kill them, her mate will follow us for miles; but if
they are left safe he will stay to feed them. Come, let us begone from
this place as swiftly as we can.”

So having shown them the skin of the lion, that they might know it was
but a dead thing, at the sight of which they snorted and trembled, they
packed it upon one of the mules and rode off slowly into a valley some
five miles away, where was water but no trees. Here, since Godwin
needed rest, they stopped all that day and the night which followed,
seeing no more of lions, though they watched for them sharply enough.
The next morning, having slept well, he was himself again, and they
started forward through a broken country towards a deep cleft, on
either side of which stood a tall mountain.

“This is Al-je-bal’s gateway,” said Masouda, “and tonight we should
sleep in the gate, whence one day’s ride brings us to his city.”

So on they rode till at length, perched upon the sides of the cleft,
they saw a castle, a great building, with high walls, to which they
came at sunset. It seemed that they were expected in this place, for
men hastened to meet them, who greeted Masouda and eyed the brethren
curiously, especially after they had heard of the adventure with the
lion. These took them, not into the castle, but to a kind of hostelry
at its back, where they were furnished with food and slept the night.

Next morning they went on again to a hilly country with beautiful and
fertile valleys. Through this they rode for two hours, passing on their
way several villages, where sombre-eyed people were labouring in the
fields. From each village, as they drew near to it, horsemen would
gallop out and challenge them, whereon Masouda rode forward and spoke
with the leader alone. Then he would touch his forehead with his hand
and bow his head and they rode on unmolested.

“See,” she said, when they had thus been stopped for the fourth time,
“what chance you had of winning through to Masyaf unguarded. Why, I
tell you, brethren, that you would have been dead before ever you
passed the gates of the first castle.”

Now they rode up a long slope, and at its crest paused to look upon a
marvellous scene. Below them stretched a vast plain, full of villages,
cornfields, olive-groves, and vineyards. In the centre of this plain,
some fifteen miles away, rose a great mountain, which seemed to be
walled all about. Within the wall was a city of which the white,
flat-roofed houses climbed the slopes of the mountain, and on its crest
a level space of land covered with trees and a great, many-towered
castle surrounded by more houses.

“Behold the home of Al-je-bal, Lord of the Mountain,” said Masouda,
“where we must sleep to-night. Now, brethren, listen to me. Few
strangers who enter that castle come thence living. There is still
time; I can pass you back as I passed you hither. Will you go on?”

“We will go on,” they answered with one breath.

“Why? What have you to gain? You seek a certain maiden. Why seek her
here whom you say has been taken to Salah-ed-din? Because the Al-je-bal
in bygone days swore to befriend one of your blood. But that Al-je-bal
is dead, and another of his line rules who took no such oath. How do
you know that he will befriend you—how that he will not enslave or kill
you? I have power in this land, why or how does not matter, and I can
protect you against all that dwell in it—as I swear I will, for did not
one of you save my life?” and she glanced at Godwin, “except my lord
Sinan, against whom I have no power, for I am his slave.”

“He is the enemy of Saladin, and may help us for his hate’s sake.”

“Yes, he is the enemy of Salah-ed-din now more than ever. He may help
you or he may not. Also,” she added with meaning, “you may not wish the
help he offers. Oh!” and there was a note of entreaty in her voice,
“think, think! For the last time, I pray you think!”

“We have thought,” answered Godwin solemnly; “and, whatever chances, we
will obey the command of the dead.”

She heard and bowed her head in assent, then said, looking up again:

“So be it. You are not easily turned from your purpose, and I like that
spirit well. But hear my counsel. While you are in this city speak no
Arabic and pretend to understand none. Also drink nothing but water,
which is good here, for the lord Sinan sets strange wines before his
guests, that, if they pass the lips, produce visions and a kind of
waking madness in which you might do deeds whereof you were afterwards
ashamed. Or you might swear oaths that would sit heavy on your souls,
and yet could not be broken except at the cost of life.”

“Fear not,” answered Wulf. “Water shall be our drink, who have had
enough of drugged wines,” for he remembered the Christmas feast in the
Hall at Steeple.

“You, Sir Godwin,” went on Masouda, “have about your neck a certain
ring which you were mad enough to show to me, a stranger—a ring with
writing on it which none can read save the great men that in this land
are called the _daïs_s. Well, as it chances, the secret is safe with
me; but be wise; say nothing of that ring and let no eye see it.”

“Why not?” asked Godwin. “It is the token of our dead uncle to the
Al-je-bal.”

She looked round her cautiously and replied:

“Because it is, or was once, the great Signet, and a day may come when
it will save your lives. Doubtless when the lord who is dead thought it
gone forever he caused another to be fashioned, so like that I who have
had both in my hand could not tell the two apart. To him who holds that
ring all gates are open; but to let it be known that you have its
double means death. Do you understand?”

They nodded, and Masouda continued:

“Lastly—though you may think that this seems much to ask—trust me
always, even if I seem to play you false, who for your sakes,” and she
sighed, “have broken oaths and spoken words for which the punishment is
to die by torment. Nay, thank me not, for I do only what I must who am
a slave—a slave.”

“A slave to whom?” asked Godwin, staring at her.

“To the Lord of all the Mountains,” she answered, with a smile that was
sweet yet very sad; and without another word spurred on her horse.

“What does she mean,” asked Godwin of Wulf, when she was out of
hearing, “seeing that if she speaks truth, for our sakes, in warning us
against him, Masouda is breaking her fealty to this lord?”

“I do not know, brother, and I do not seek to know. All her talk may be
a part of a plot to blind us, or it may not. Let well alone and trust
in fortune, say I.”

“A good counsel,” answered Godwin, and they rode forward in silence.

They crossed the plain, and towards evening came to the wall of the
outer city, halting in front of its great gateway. Here, as at the
first castle, a band of solemn-looking mounted men came out to meet
them, and, having spoken a few words with Masouda, led them over the
drawbridge that spanned the first rock-cut moat, and through triple
gates of iron into the city. Then they passed up a street very steep
and narrow, from the roofs and windows of the houses on either side of
which hundreds of people—many of whom seemed to be engaged at their
evening prayer—watched them go by. At the head of this street they
reached another fortified gateway, on the turrets of which, so
motionless that at first they took them to be statues cut in stone,
stood guards wrapped in long white robes. After parley, this also was
opened to them, and again they rode through triple doors.

Then they saw all the wonder of that place, for between the outer city
where they stood and the castle, with its inner town which was built
around and beneath it yawned a vast gulf over ninety feet in depth.
Across this gulf, built of blocks of stone, quite unrailed, and not
more than three paces wide, ran a causeway some two hundred yards in
length, which causeway was supported upon arches reared up at intervals
from the bottom of the gulf.

“Ride on and have no fear,” said Masouda. “Your horses are trained to
heights, and the mules and mine will follow.”

So Godwin, showing nothing in his face of the doubt that he felt in his
heart, patted Flame upon the neck, and, after hanging back a little,
the horse started lifting its hoofs high and glancing from side to side
at the terrible gulf beneath. Where Flame went Smoke knew that it could
go, and came on bravely, but snorting a little, while the mules, that
did not fear heights so long as the ground was firm beneath their feet,
followed. Only Masouda’s horse was terrified, backed, and strove to
wheel round, till she drove the spur into it, when of a sudden it
started and came over at a gallop.

At length they were across, and, passing under another gateway which
had broad terraces on either side of it, rode up the long street beyond
and entered a great courtyard, around which stood the castle, a vast
and frowning fortress. Here a white-robed officer came forward,
greeting them with a low bow, and with him servants who assisted them
to dismount. These men took the horses to a range of stables on one
side of the courtyard, whither the brethren followed to see their
beasts groomed and fed. Then the officer, who had stood patiently by
the while, conducted them through doorways and down passages to the
guest chambers, large, stone-roofed rooms, where they found their
baggage ready for them. Here Masouda said that she would see them again
on the following morning, and departed in company with the officer.

Wulf looked round the great vaulted chamber, which, now that the dark
had fallen, was lit by flickering lamps set in iron brackets upon the
wall, and said:

“Well, for my part, I had rather pass the night in a desert among the
lions than in this dismal place.”

Scarcely were the words out of his lips when curtains swung aside and
beautiful women entered, clad in gauzy veils and bearing dishes of
food. These they placed upon the ground before them, inviting them to
eat with nods and smiles, while others brought basins of scented water,
which they poured over their hands. Then they sat down and ate the food
that was strange to them, but very pleasant to the taste; and while
they ate, women whom they could not see sang sweet songs, and played
upon harps and lutes. Wine was offered to them also; but of this,
remembering Masouda’s words, they would not drink, asking by signs for
water, which was brought after a little pause.

When their meal was done, the beautiful women bore away the dishes, and
black slaves appeared. These men led them to baths such as they had
never seen, where they washed first in hot water, then in cold.
Afterwards they were rubbed with spicy-smelling oils, and having been
wrapped in white robes, conducted back to their chamber, where they
found beds spread for them. On these, being very weary, they lay down,
when the strange, sweet music broke out afresh, and to the sound of it
they fell asleep.

When they awoke it was to see the light streaming through the high,
latticed windows.

“Did you sleep well, Godwin?” asked Wulf.

“Well enough,” answered his brother, “only I dreamed that throughout
the night people came and looked at me.”

“I dreamed that also,” said Wulf; “moreover, I think that it was not
all a dream, since there is a coverlet on my bed which was not there
when I went to sleep.”

Godwin looked at his own, where also was another coverlet added,
doubtless as the night grew colder in that high place.

“I have heard of enchanted castles,” he said; “now I think that we have
found one.”

“Ay,” replied Wulf, “and it is well enough while it lasts.”

They rose and dressed themselves, putting on clean garments and their
best cloaks, that they had brought with them on the mules, after which
the veiled women entered the room with breakfast, and they ate. When
this was finished, having nothing else to do, they made signs to one of
the women that they wished for cloths wherewith to clean their armour,
for, as they had been bidden, they pretended to understand no word of
Arabic. She nodded, and presently returned with a companion carrying
leathers and paste in a jar. Nor did they leave them, but, sitting upon
the ground, whether the brethren willed it or no, took the shirts of
mail and rubbed them till they shone like silver, while Godwin and Wulf
polished their helms, spurs, and bucklers, cleansing their swords and
daggers also, and sharpening them with a stone which they carried for
that purpose.

Now as these women worked, they began to talk to each other in a low
voice, and some of their talk, though not all, the brethren understood.

“A handsome pair truly,” said the first. “We should be fortunate if we
had such men for husbands, although they are Franks and infidels.”

“Ay,” answered the other; “and from their likeness they must be twins.
Now which of them would you choose?”

Then for a long while they discussed them, comparing them feature by
feature and limb by limb, until the brethren felt their faces grow red
beneath the sunburn and scrubbed furiously at their armour to show a
reason for it. At length one of the women said:

“It was cruel of the lady Masouda to bring these birds into the
Master’s net. She might have warned them.”

“Masouda was ever cruel,” answered the other, “who hates all men, which
is unnatural. Yet I think if she loved a man she would love him well,
and perhaps that might be worse for him than her hate.”

“Are these knights spies?” asked the first.

“I suppose so,” was the answer, “silly fellows who think that they can
spy upon a nation of spies. They would have done better to keep to
fighting, at which, doubtless, they are good enough. What will happen
to them?”

“What always happens, I suppose—a pleasant time at first; then, if they
can be put to no other use, a choice between the faith and the cup. Or,
perhaps, as they seem men of rank, they may be imprisoned in the
dungeon tower and held to ransom. Yes, yes; it was cruel of Masouda to
trick them so, who may be but travellers after all, desiring to see our
city.”

Just then the curtain was drawn, and through it entered Masouda
herself. She was dressed in a white robe that had a dagger worked in
red over the left breast, and her long black hair fell upon her
shoulders, although it was half hid by the veil, open in front, which
hung from her head. Never had they seen her look so beautiful as she
seemed thus.

“Greetings, brothers Peter and John. Is this fit work for pilgrims?”
she said in French, pointing to the long swords which they were
sharpening.

“Ay,” answered Wulf, as they rose and bowed to her, “for pilgrims to
this—holy city.”

The women who were cleaning the mail bowed also, for it seemed that
here Masouda was a person of importance. She took the hauberks from
their hands.

“Ill cleansed,” she said sharply. “I think that you girls talk better
than you work. Nay, they must serve. Help these lords to don them.
Fools, that is the shirt of the grey-eyed knight. Give it me; I will be
his squire,” and she snatched the hauberk from their hands, whereat,
when her back was turned, they glanced at one another.

“Now,” she said, when they were fully armed and had donned their
mantles, “you brethren look as pilgrims should. Listen, I have a
message for you. The Master”—and she bowed her head, as did the women,
guessing of whom she spoke—“will receive you in an hour’s time, till
when, if it please you, we can walk in the gardens, which are worth
your seeing.”

So they went out with her, and as they passed towards the curtain she
whispered:

“For your lives’ sake, remember all that I have told you—above
everything, about the wine and the ring, for if you dream the
drink-dream you will be searched. Speak no word to me save of common
matters.”

In the passage beyond the curtain white-robed guards were standing,
armed with spears, who turned and followed them without a word. First
they went to the stables to visit Flame and Smoke, which whinnied as
they drew near. These they found well-fed and tended—indeed, a company
of grooms were gathered round them, discussing their points and beauty,
who saluted as the owners of such steeds approached. Leaving the
stable, they passed through an archway into the famous gardens, which
were said to be the most beautiful in all the East. Beautiful they were
indeed, planted with trees, shrubs, and flowers such as are seldom
seen, while between fern-clad rocks flowed rills which fell over deep
cliffs in waterfalls of foam. In places the shade of cedars lay so
dense that the brightness of day was changed to twilight, but in others
the ground was open and carpeted with flowers which filled the air with
perfume. Everywhere grew roses, myrtles, and trees laden with rich
fruits, while from all sides came the sound of cooing doves and the
voices of many bright-winged birds which flashed from palm to palm.

On they walked, down the sand-strewn paths for a mile or more,
accompanied by Masouda and the guard. At length, passing through a
brake of whispering, reed-like plants, of a sudden they came to a low
wall, and saw, yawning black and wide at their very feet, that vast
cleft which they had crossed before they entered the castle.

“It encircles the inner city, the fortress, and its grounds,” said
Masouda; “and who lives to-day that could throw a bridge across it? Now
come back.”

So, following the gulf round, they returned to the castle by another
path, and were ushered into an ante-room, where stood a watch of twelve
men. Here Masouda left them in the midst of the men, who stared at them
with stony eyes. Presently she returned, and beckoned to them to follow
her. Walking down a long passage they came to curtains, in front of
which were two sentries, who drew these curtains as they approached.
Then, side by side, they entered a great hall, long as Stangate Abbey
church, and passed through a number of people, all crouched upon the
ground. Beyond these the hall narrowed as a chancel does.

Here sat and stood more people, fierce-eyed, turbaned men, who wore
great knives in their girdles. These, as they learned afterwards, were
called the _fedaï_, the sworn assassins, who lived but to do the
command of their lord the great Assassin. At the end of this chancel
were more curtains, beyond which was a guarded door. It opened, and on
its further side they found themselves in full sunlight on an unwalled
terrace, surrounded by the mighty gulf into which it was built out. On
the right and left edges of this terrace sat old and bearded men,
twelve in number, their heads bowed humbly and their eyes fixed upon
the ground. These were the _daïs_ or councillors.

At the head of the terrace, under an open and beautifully carved
pavilion of wood, stood two gigantic soldiers, having the red dagger
blazoned on their white robes. Between them was a black cushion, and on
the cushion a black heap. At first, staring out of the bright sunlight
at this heap in the shadow, the brethren wondered what it might be.
Then they caught sight of the glitter of eyes, and knew that the heap
was a man who wore a black turban on his head and a black, bell-shaped
robe clasped at the breast with a red jewel. The weight of the man had
sunk him down deep into the soft cushion, so that there was nothing of
him to be seen save the folds of the bell-shaped cloak, the red jewel,
and the head. He looked like a coiled-up snake; the dark and glittering
eyes also were those of a snake. Of his features, in the deep shade of
the canopy and of the wide black turban, they could see nothing.

The aspect of this figure was so terrible and inhuman that the brethren
trembled at the sight of him. They were men and he was a man, but
between that huddled, beady-eyed heap and those two tall Western
warriors, clad in their gleaming mail and coloured cloaks, helm on
brow, buckler on arm, and long sword at side, the contrast was that of
death and life.




Chapter XII.
The Lord of Death


Masouda ran forward and prostrated herself at full length, but Godwin
and Wulf stared at the heap, and the heap stared at them. Then, at some
motion of his chin, Masouda arose and said:

“Strangers, you stand in the presence of the Master, Sinan, Lord of
Death. Kneel, and do homage to the Master.”

But the brethren stiffened their backs and would not kneel. They lifted
their hands to their brows in salute, but no more.

Then from between the black turban and the black cloak came a hollow
voice, speaking in Arabic, and saying:

“Are these the men who brought me the lion’s skin? Well, what seek ye,
Franks?” They stood silent.

“Dread lord,” said Masouda, “these knights are but now come from
England over sea, and do not understand our tongue.”

“Set out their story and their request,” said Al-je-bal, “that we may
judge of them.”

“Dread lord,” answered Masouda, “as I sent you word, they say that they
are the kin of a certain knight who in battle saved the life of him who
ruled before you, but is now an inhabitant of Paradise.”

“I have heard that there was such a knight,” said the voice. “He was
named D’Arcy, and he bore the same cognizance on his shield—the sign of
a skull.”

“Lord, these brethren are also named D’Arcy, and now they come to ask
your help against Salah-ed-din.”

At that name the heap stirred as a snake stirs when it hears danger,
and the head erected itself a little beneath the great turban.

“What help, and why?” asked the voice.

“Lord, Salah-ed-din has stolen a woman of their house who is his niece,
and these knights, her brothers, ask you to aid them to recover her.”

The beady eyes instantly became interested.

“Report has been made to me of that story,” said the voice; “but what
sign do these Franks show? He who went before me gave a ring, and with
it certain rights in this land, to the knight D’Arcy who befriended him
in danger. Where is that sacred ring, with which he parted in his
foolishness?”

Masouda translated, and seeing the warning in her eyes and remembering
her words, the brethren shook their heads, while Wulf answered:

“Our uncle, the knight Sir Andrew, was cut down by the soldiers of
Salah-ed-din, and as he died bade us seek you out. What time had he to
tell us of any ring?”

The head sank upon the breast.

“I hoped,” said Sinan to Masouda, “that they had the ring, and it was
for this reason, woman, that I allowed you to lead these knights
hither, after you had reported of them and their quest to me from
Beirut. It is not well that there should be two holy Signets in the
world, and he who went before me, when he lay dying, charged me to
recover his if that were possible. Let them go back to their own land
and return to me with the ancient ring, and I will help them.”

Masouda translated the last sentence only, and again the brethren shook
their heads. This time it was Godwin who spoke.

“Our land is far away, O lord, and where shall we find this long-lost
ring? Let not our journey be in vain. O mighty One, give us justice
against Salah-ed-din.”

“All my years have I sought justice on Salah-ed-din,” answered Sinan,
“and yet he prevails against me. Now I make you an offer. Go, Franks,
and bring me his head, or at least put him to death as I shall show you
how, and we will talk again.”

When they heard this saying Wulf said to Godwin, in English:

“I think that we had best go; I do not like this company.” But Godwin
made no answer.

As they stood silent thus, not knowing what to say, a man entered
through the door, and, throwing himself on his hands and knees, crawled
towards the cushion through the double line of councillors or _daïs_.

“Your report?” said Sinan in Arabic.

“Lord,” answered the man, “I acquaint you that your will has been done
in the matter of the vessel.” Then he went on speaking in a low voice,
so rapidly that the brethren could scarcely hear and much less
understand him.

Sinan listened, then said:

“Let the _fedaï_ enter and make his own report, bringing with him his
prisoners.”

Now one of the _daïs_, he who sat nearest the canopy, rose and pointing
towards the brethren, said.

“Touching these Franks, what is your will?”

The beady eyes, which seemed to search out their souls, fixed
themselves upon them and for a long while Sinan considered. They
trembled, knowing that he was passing some judgment concerning them in
his heart, and that on his next words much might hang—even their lives.

“Let them stay here,” he said at length. “I may have questions to ask
them.”

For a time there was silence. Sinan, Lord of Death, seemed to be lost
in thought under the black shade of his canopy; the double line of
_daïs_ stared at nothingness across the passage way; the giant guards
stood still as statues; Masouda watched the brethren from beneath her
long eye-lashes, while the brethren watched the sharp edge of the
shadow of the canopy on the marble floor. They strove to seem
unconcerned, but their hearts were beating fast within them who felt
that great things were about to happen, though what these might be they
knew not.

So intense was the silence, so dreadful seemed that inhuman, snake-like
man, so strange his aged, passionless councillors, and the place of
council surrounded by a dizzy gulf, that fear took hold of them like
the fear of an evil dream. Godwin wondered if Sinan could see the ring
upon his breast, and what would happen to him if he did see it; while
Wulf longed to shout aloud, to do anything that would break this
deathly, sunlit quiet. To them those minutes seemed like hours; indeed,
for aught they knew, they might have been hours.

At length there was a stir behind the brethren, and at a word from
Masouda they separated, falling apart a pace or two, and stood opposite
each other and sideways to Sinan. Standing thus, they saw the curtains
drawn. Through them came four men, carrying a stretcher covered with a
cloth, beneath which they could see the outline of a form, that lay
there stirless. The four men brought the stretcher to the front of the
canopy, set it on the ground, prostrated themselves, and retired,
walking backwards down the length of the terrace.

Again there was silence, while the brethren wondered whose corpse it
was that lay beneath the cloth, for a corpse it must surely be; though
neither the Lord of the Mountain nor his _daïs_ and guards seemed to
concern themselves in the matter. Again the curtains parted, and a
procession advanced up the terrace. First came a great man clad in a
white robe blazoned with the bleeding dagger, after whom walked a tall
woman shrouded in a long veil, who was followed by a thick-set knight
clad in Frankish armour and wearing a cape of which the cowl covered
his head as though to keep the rays of the sun from beating on his
helm. Lastly walked four guards. Up the long place they marched,
through the double line of _daïs_, while with a strange stirring in
their breasts the brethren watched the shape and movements of the
veiled woman who stepped forward rapidly, not seeing them, for she
turned her head neither to the right nor left. The leader of the little
band reached the space before the canopy, and, prostrating himself by
the side of the stretcher, lay still. She who walked behind him stopped
also, and, seeing the black heap upon the cushion, shuddered.

“Woman, unveil,” commanded the voice of Sinan.

She hesitated, then swiftly undid some fastening, so that her drapery
fell from her head. The brethren stared, rubbed their eyes, and stared
again.

Before them stood Rosamund!

Yes, it was Rosamund, worn with sickness, terrors, and travel, Rosamund
herself beyond all doubt. At the sight of her pale, queenly beauty the
heap on the cushion stirred beneath his black cloak, and the beady eyes
were filled with an evil, eager light. Even the _daïs_ seemed to wake
from their contemplation, and Masouda bit her red lip, turned pale
beneath her olive skin, and watched with devouring eyes, waiting to
read this woman’s heart.

“Rosamund!” cried the brethren with one voice.

She heard. As they sprang towards her she glanced wildly from face to
face, then with a low cry flung an arm about the neck of each and would
have fallen in the ecstacy of her joy had they not held her. Indeed,
her knees touched the ground. As they stooped to lift her it flashed
into Godwin’s mind that Masouda had told Sinan that they were her
brethren. The thought was followed by another. If this were so, they
might be left with her, whereas otherwise that black-robed devil—

“Listen,” he whispered in English; “we are not your cousins—we are your
brothers, your half-brothers, and we know no Arabic.”

She heard and Wulf heard, but the watchers thought that they were but
welcoming each other, for Wulf began to talk also, random words in
French, such as “Greeting, sister!” “Well found, sister!” and kissed
her on the forehead.

Rosamund opened her eyes, which had closed, and, gaining her feet, gave
one hand to each of the brethren. Then the voice of Masouda was heard
interpreting the words of Sinan.

“It seems, lady, that you know these knights.”

“I do—well. They are my brothers, from whom I was stolen when they were
drugged and our father was killed.”

“How is that, lady, seeing that you are said to be the niece of
Salah-ed-din? Are these knights, then, the nephews of Salah-ed-din?”

“Nay,” answered Rosamund, “they are my father’s sons, but of another
wife.”

The answer appeared to satisfy Sinan, who fixed his eyes upon the pale
beauty of Rosamund and asked no more questions. While he remained thus
thinking, a noise arose at the end of the terrace, and the brethren,
turning their heads, saw that the thick-set knight was striving to
thrust his way through the guards who stood by the curtains and barred
his path with the shafts of their spears.

Then it came into Godwin’s mind that just before Rosamund unveiled he
had seen this knight suddenly turn and walk down the terrace.

The lord Sinan looked up at the sound and made a sign. Thereon two of
the _daïs_ sprang to their feet and ran towards the curtain, where they
spoke with the knight, who turned and came back with them, though
slowly, as one who is unwilling. Now his hood had fallen from his head,
and Godwin and Wulf stared at him as he advanced, for surely they knew
those great shoulders, those round black eyes, those thick lips, and
that heavy jowl.

“Lozelle! It is Lozelle!” said Godwin.

“Ay,” echoed Rosamund, “it is Lozelle, the double traitor, who betrayed
me first to the soldiers of Saladin, and, because I would have none of
his love, next to this lord Sinan.”

Wulf heard, and, as Lozelle drew near to them, sprang forward with an
oath and struck him across the face with his mailed hand. Instantly
guards thrust themselves between them, and Sinan asked through Masouda:

“Why do you dare to strike this Frank in my presence?”

“Because, lord,” answered Wulf, “he is a rogue who has brought all
these troubles on our house. I challenge him to meet me in battle to
the death.”

“And I also,” said Godwin.

“I am ready,” shouted Lozelle, stung to fury by the blow.

“Then, dog, why did you try to run away when you saw our faces?” asked
Wulf.

Masouda held up her hand and began to interpret, addressing Lozelle,
and speaking in the first person as the “mouth” of Sinan.

“I thank you for your service who have served me before. Your messenger
came, a Frank whom I knew in old days. As you had arranged it should
be, I sent one of my _fedaïs_ with soldiers to kill the men of
Salah-ed-din on the ship and capture this lady who is his niece, all of
which it seems has been done. The bargain that your messenger made was
that the lady should be given over to you—”

Here Godwin and Wulf ground their teeth and glared at him.

“But these knights say that you stole her, their kinswoman, from them,
and one of them has struck you and challenged you to single combat,
which challenge you have accepted. I sanction the combat gladly, who
have long desired to see two knights of the Franks fight in tourney
according to their custom. I will set the course, and you shall be
given the best horse in my kingdom; this knight shall ride his own.
These are the conditions—the course shall be on the bridge between the
inner and outer gates of the castle city, and the fight, which must be
to the death, shall take place on the night of the full moon—that is,
three days from now. If you are victor, we will talk of the matter of
the lady for whom you bargained as a wife.”

“My lord, my lord,” answered Lozelle, “who can lay a lance on that
terrible place in moonlight? Is it thus that you keep faith with me?”

“I can and will!” cried Wulf. “Dog, I would fight you in the gates of
hell, with my soul on the hazard.”

“Keep faith with yourself,” said Sinan, “who said that you accepted the
challenge of this knight and made no conditions, and when you have
proved upon his body that his quarrel is not just, then speak of my
faith with you. Nay, no more words; when this fight is done we will
speak again, and not before. Let him be led to the outer castle and
there given of our best. Let my great black horse be brought to him
that he may gallop it to and fro upon the bridge, or where he will
within the circuit of the walls, by day or by night; but see that he
has no speech with this lady whom he has betrayed into my power, or
with these knights his foes, nor suffer him to come into my presence. I
will not talk with a man who has been struck in the face until he has
washed away the blow in blood.”

As Masouda finished translating, and before Lozelle could answer, the
lord Sinan moved his head, whereon guards sprang forward and conducted
Lozelle from the terrace.

“Farewell, Sir Thief,” cried Wulf after him, “till we meet again upon
the narrow bridge and there settle our account. You have fought Godwin,
perhaps you will have better luck with Wulf.”

Lozelle glared back at him, and, finding no answer, went on his way.

“Your report,” said Sinan, addressing the tall _fedaï_ who all this
while had lain upon his face before him, still as the form that was
stretched upon the bier. “There should have been another prisoner, the
great emir Hassan. Also, where is the Frankish spy?”

The _fedaï_ rose and spoke.

“Lord,” he said, “I did your bidding. The knight who has gone steered
the ship into the bay, as had been arranged. I attacked with the
daylight. The soldiers of Salah-ed-din fought bravely, for the lady
here saw us, and gave them time to gather, and we lost many men. We
overcame and killed them all, except the prince Hassan, whom we took
prisoner. I left some men to watch the ship. The crew we spared, as
they were the servants of the Frank Lozelle, setting them loose upon
the beach, together with a Frankish woman, who was the servant of the
lady here, to find their way to the nearest city. This woman I would
have killed, but the lady your captive begged for her life, saying she
had come from the land of the Franks to seek her husband; so, having no
orders, let her go. Yesterday morning we started for Masyaf, the prince
Hassan riding in a litter together with that Frankish spy who was here
a while ago, and told you of the coming of the ship. At night they
slept in the same tent; I left the prince bound and set a guard, but in
the morning when we looked we found him gone—how, I know not—and lying
in the tent the Frankish spy, dead, with a knife-wound through his
heart. Behold!” and withdrawing the cloth from the stretcher he
revealed the stiff form of the spy Nicholas, who lay there dead, a look
of terror frozen on his face.

“At least this one has come to an end he deserved,” muttered Wulf to
Godwin.

“So, having searched without avail, I came on here with the lady your
prisoner and the Frank Lozelle. I have spoken.”

Now when he had heard this report, forgetting his calm, Sinan arose
from the cushion and stepped forward two paces. There he halted, with
fury in his glittering eyes, looking like a man clothed in a black
bell. For a moment he stroked his beard, and the brethren noted that on
the first finger of his right hand was a ring so like to that which
hung about the neck of Godwin that none could have told them apart.

“Man,” Sinan said in a low voice, “what have you done? You have let
the emir Hassan go, who is the most trusted friend and general of the
Sultan of Damascus. By now he is there, or near it, and within six days
we shall see the army of Salah-ed-din riding across the plain. Also you
have not killed the crew and the Frankish woman, and they too will make
report of the taking of the ship and the capture of this lady, who is
of the house of Salah-ed-din and whom he seeks more earnestly than all
the kingdom of the Franks. What have you to say?”

“Lord,” answered the tall _fedaï_, and his hand trembled as he spoke,
“most mighty lord, I had no orders as to the killing of the crew from
your lips, and the Frank Lozelle told me that he had agreed with you
that they should be spared.”

“Then, slave, he lied. He agreed with me through that dead spy that
they should be slain, and do you not know that if I give no orders in
such a case I mean death, not life? But what of the prince Hassan?”

“Lord, I have nothing to say. I think he must have bribed the spy named
Nicholas”—and he pointed to the corpse—“to cut his bonds, and
afterwards killed the man for vengeance sake, for by the body we found
a heavy purse of gold. That he hated him as he hated yonder Lozelle I
know, for he called them dogs and traitors in the boat; and since he
could not strike them, his hands being bound, he spat in their faces,
cursing them in the name of Allah. That is why, Lozelle being afraid to
be near him, I set the spy Nicholas, who was a bold fellow, as a watch
over him, and two soldiers outside the tent, while Lozelle and I
watched the lady.”

“Let those soldiers be brought,” said Sinan, “and tell their story.”

They were brought and stood by their captain, but they had no story to
tell. They swore that they had not slept on guard, nor heard a sound,
yet when morning came the prince was gone. Again the Lord of Death
stroked his black beard. Then he held up the Signet before the eyes of
the three men, saying:

“You see the token. Go.”

“Lord,” said the _fedaï_, “I have served you well for many years.”

“Your service is ended. Go!” was the stern answer.

The _fedaï_ bowed his head in salute, stood for a moment as though lost
in thought, then, turning suddenly, walked with a steady step to the
edge of the abyss and leapt. For an instant the sunlight shone on his
white and fluttering robe, then from the depths of that darksome place
floated up the sound of a heavy fall, and all was still.

“Follow your captain to Paradise,” said Sinan to the two soldiers,
whereon one of them drew a knife to stab himself, but a _daï_ sprang
up, saying:

“Beast, would you shed blood before your lord? Do you not know the
custom? Begone!”

So the poor men went, the first with a steady step, and the second, who
was not so brave, reeling over the edge of the precipice as one might
who is drunken.

“It is finished,” said the _daïs_, clapping their hands gently. “Dread
lord, we thank thee for thy justice.”

But Rosamund turned sick and faint, and even the brethren paled. This
man was terrible indeed—if he were a man and not a devil—and they were
in his power. How long would it be, they wondered, before they also
were bidden to walk that gulf? Only Wulf swore in his heart that if he
went by this road Sinan should go with him.

Then the corpse of the false palmer was borne away to be thrown to the
eagles which always hovered over that house of death, and Sinan, having
reseated himself upon the cushion, began to talk again through his
“mouth” Masouda, in a low, quiet voice, as though nothing had happened
to anger him.

“Lady,” he said to Rosamund, “your story is known to me. Salah-ed-din
seeks you, nor is it wonderful”—here his eyes glittered with a new and
horrible light—“that he should desire to see such loveliness at his
court, although the Frank Lozelle swore through yonder dead spy that
you are precious in his eyes because of some vision that has come to
him. Well, this heretic sultan is my enemy whom Satan protects, for
even my _fedaïs_ have failed to kill him, and perhaps there will be war
on account of you. But have no fear, for the price at which you shall
be delivered to him is higher than Salah-ed-din himself would care to
pay, even for you. So, since this castle is impregnable, here you may
dwell at peace, nor shall any desire be denied you. Speak, and your
wishes are fulfilled.”

“I desire,” said Rosamund in a low, steady voice, “protection against
Sir Hugh Lozelle and all men.”

“It is yours. The Lord of the Mountain covers you with his own mantle.”

“I desire,” she went on, “that my brothers here may lodge with me, that
I may not feel alone among strange people.”

He thought awhile, and answered:

“Your brethren shall lodge near you in the guest castle. Why not, since
from them you cannot need protection? They shall meet you at the feast
and in the garden. But, lady, do you know it? They came here upon faith
of some old tale of a promise made by him who went before me to ask my
help to recover you from Salah-ed-din, unwitting that I was your host,
not Salah-ed-din. That they should meet you thus is a chance which
makes even my wisdom wonder, for in it I see omens. Now she whom they
wished to rescue from Salah-ed-din, these tall brethren of yours might
wish to rescue from Al-je-bal. Understand then, all of you, that from
the Lord of Death there is but one escape. Yonder runs its path,” and
he pointed to the dizzy place whence his three servants had leapt to
their doom.

“Knights,” he went on, addressing Godwin and Wulf, “lead your sister
hence. This evening I bid her and you to my banquet. Till then,
farewell. Woman,” he added to Masouda, “accompany them. You know your
duties; this lady is in your charge. Suffer that no strange man comes
near her—above all, the Frank Lozelle. Dais take notice and let it be
proclaimed—To these three is given the protection of the Signet in all
things, save that they must not leave my walls except under sanction of
the Signet—nay, in its very presence.”

The _daïs_ rose, bowed, and seated themselves again. Then, guided by
Masouda and preceded and followed by guards, the brethren and Rosamund
walked down the terrace through the curtains into the chancel-like
place where men crouched upon the ground; through the great hall were
more men crouched upon the ground; through the ante-chamber where, at a
word from Masouda, the guards saluted; through passages to that place
where they had slept. Here Masouda halted and said:

“Lady Rose of the World, who are fitly so named, I go to prepare your
chamber. Doubtless you will wish to speak awhile with these
your—brothers. Speak on and fear not, for it shall be my care that you
are left alone, if only for a little while. Yet walls have ears, so I
counsel you use that English tongue which none of us understand in the
land of Al-je-bal—not even I.”

Then she bowed and went.




Chapter XIII.
The Embassy


The brethren and Rosamund looked at each other, for having so much to
say it seemed that they could not speak at all. Then with a low cry
Rosamund said:

“Oh! let us thank God, Who, after all these black months of travel and
of danger, has thus brought us together again,” and, kneeling down
there together in the guest-hall of the lord of Death, they gave thanks
earnestly. Then, moving to the centre of the chamber where they thought
that none would hear them, they began to speak in low voices and in
English.

“Tell you your tale first, Rosamund,” said Godwin.

She told it as shortly as she could, they listening without a word.

Then Godwin spoke and told her theirs. Rosamund heard it, and asked a
question almost in a whisper.

“Why does that beautiful dark-eyed woman befriend you?”

“I do not know,” answered Godwin, “unless it is because of the accident
of my having saved her from the lion.”

Rosamund looked at him and smiled a little, and Wulf smiled also. Then
she said:

“Blessings be on that lion and all its tribe! I pray that she may not
soon forget the deed, for it seems that our lives hang upon her favour.
How strange is this story, and how desperate our case! How strange also
that you should have come on hither against her counsel, which, seeing
what we have, I think was honest?”

“We were led,” answered Godwin. “Your father had wisdom at his death,
and saw what we could not see.”

“Ay,” added Wulf, “but I would that it had been into some other place,
for I fear this lord Al-je-bal at whose nod men hurl themselves to
death.”

“He is hateful,” answered Rosamund, with a shudder; “worse even than
the knight Lozelle; and when he fixes his eyes on me, my heart grows
sick. Oh! that we could escape this place!”

“An eel in an osier trap has more chance of freedom,” said Wulf
gloomily. “Let us at least be thankful that we are caged together—for
how long, I wonder?”

As he spoke Masouda appeared, attended by waiting women, and, bowing to
Rosamund, said:

“It is the will of the Master, lady, that I lead you to the chambers
that have been made ready for you, there to rest until the hour of the
feast. Fear not; you shall meet your brethren then. You knights have
leave, if it so pleases you, to exercise your horses in the gardens.
They stand saddled in the courtyard, to which this woman will bring
you,” and she pointed to one of those two maids who had cleaned the
armour, “and with them are guides and an escort.”

“She means that we must go,” muttered Godwin, adding aloud, “farewell,
sister, until tonight.”

So they parted, unwillingly enough. In the courtyard they found the
horses, Flame and Smoke, as they had been told, also a mounted escort
of four fierce-looking _fedaïs_ and an officer. When they were in the
saddle, this man, motioning to them to follow him, passed by an archway
out of the courtyard into the gardens. Hence ran a broad road strewn
with sand, along which he began to gallop. This road followed the gulf
which encircled the citadel and inner town of Masyaf, that was, as it
were, an island on a mountain top with a circumference of over three
miles.

As they went, the gulf always on their right hand, holding in their
horses to prevent their passing that of their guide, swift as it was,
they saw another troop approaching them. This was also preceded by an
officer of the Assassins, as these servants of Al-je-bal were called by
the Franks, and behind him, mounted on a splendid coalblack steed and
followed by guards, rode a mail-clad Frankish knight.

“It is Lozelle,” said Wulf, “upon the horse that Sinan promised him.”

At the sight of the man a fury took hold of Godwin. With a shout of
warning he drew his sword. Lozelle saw, and out leapt his blade in
answer. Then sweeping past the officers who were with them and reining
up their steeds, in a second they were face to face. Lozelle struck
first and Godwin caught the stroke upon his buckler, but before he
could return it the _fedaïs_ of either party rushed between them and
thrust them asunder.

“A pity,” said Godwin, as they dragged his horse away. “Had they left
us alone I think, brother, I might have saved you a moonlight duel.”

“That I do not want to miss, but the chance at his head was good if
those fellows would have let you take it,” answered Wulf reflectively.

Then the horses began to gallop again, and they saw no more of Lozelle.
Now, skirting the edge of the town, they came to the narrow, wall-less
bridge that spanned the gulf between it and the outer gate and city.
Here the officer wheeled his horse, and, beckoning to them to follow,
charged it at full gallop. After him went the brethren—Godwin first,
then Wulf. In the deep gateway on the further side they reined up. The
captain turned, and began to gallop back faster than he had come—as
fast, indeed, as his good beast would travel.

“Pass him!” cried Godwin, and shaking the reins loose upon the neck of
Flame he called to it aloud.

Forward it sprang, with Smoke at its heels. Now they had overtaken the
captain, and now even on that narrow way they had swept past him. Not
an inch was there to spare between them and the abyss, and the man,
brave as he was, expecting to be thrust to death, clung to his horse’s
mane with terror in his eyes. On the city side the brethren pulled up
laughing among the astonished _fedaïs_ who had waited for them there.

“By the Signet,” cried the officer, thinking that the knights could not
understand, “these are not men; they are devils, and their horses are
goats of the mountains. I thought to frighten them, but it is I who was
frightened, for they swept past me like eagles of the air.”

“Gallant riders and swift, well-trained steeds,” answered one of the
_fedaïs_, with admiration in his voice. “The fight at the full moon
will be worth our seeing.”

Then once more they took the sand-strewn road and galloped on. Thrice
they passed round the city thus, the last time by themselves, for the
captain and the _fedaïs_ were far outstripped. Indeed it was not until
they had unsaddled Flame and Smoke in their stalls that these appeared,
spurring their foaming horses. Taking no heed of them, the brethren
thrust aside the grooms, dressed their steeds down, fed and watered
them.

Then having seen them eat, there being no more to do, they walked back
to the guest-house, hoping to find Rosamund. But they found no
Rosamund, so sat down together and talked of the wonderful things that
had befallen them, and of what might befall them in the future; of the
mercy of Heaven also which had brought them all three together safe and
sound, although it was in this house of hell. So the time passed on,
till about the hour of sunset the women servants came and led them to
the bath, where the black slaves washed and perfumed them, clothing
them in fresh robes above their armour.

When they came out the sun was down, and the women, bearing torches in
their hands, conducted them to a great and gorgeous hall which they had
not seen before, built of fretted stone and having a carved and painted
roof. Along one side of this hall, that was lit with cressets, were a
number of round-headed open arches supported by elegant white columns,
and beyond these a marble terrace with flights of steps which led to
the gardens beneath. On the floor of this hall, each seated upon his
cushion beside low tables inlaid with pearl sat the guests, a hundred
or more, all dressed in white robes on which the red dagger was
blazoned, and all as silent as though they were asleep.

When the brethren reached the place the women left them, and servants
with gold chains round their necks escorted them to a dais in the
middle of the hall where were many cushions, as yet unoccupied,
arranged in a semicircle, of which the centre was a divan higher and
more gorgeous than the rest.

Here places were pointed out to them opposite the divan, and they took
their stand by them. They had not long to wait, for presently there was
a sound of music, and, heralded by troops of singing women, the lord
Sinan approached, walking slowly down the length of the great hall. It
was a strange procession, for after the women came the aged, white
robed _daïs_, then the lord Al-je-bal himself, clad now in his
blood-red, festal robe, and wearing jewels on his turban.

Around him marched four slaves, black as ebony, each of whom held a
flaming torch on high, while behind followed the two gigantic guards
who had stood sentry over him when he sat under the canopy of justice.
As he advanced down the hall every man in it rose and prostrated
himself, and so remained until their lord was seated, save only the two
brethren, who stood erect like the survivors among the slain of a
battle. Settling himself among the cushions at one end of the divan, he
waved his hand, whereon the feasters, and with them Godwin and Wulf,
sat themselves down.

Now there was a pause, while Sinan glanced along the hall impatiently.
Soon the brethren saw why, since at the end opposite to that by which
he had entered appeared more singing women, and after them, also
escorted by four black torch-bearers, only these were women, walked
Rosamund and, behind her, Masouda.

Rosamund it was without doubt, but Rosamund transformed, for now she
seemed an Eastern queen. Round her head was a coronet of gems from
which hung a veil, but not so as to hide her face. Jewelled, too, were
her heavy plaits of hair, jewelled the rose-silk garments that she
wore, the girdle at her waist, her naked, ivory arms and even the
slippers on her feet. As she approached in her royal-looking beauty all
the guests at that strange feast stared first at her and next at each
other. Then as though by a single impulse they rose and bowed.

“What can this mean?” muttered Wulf to Godwin as they did likewise. But
Godwin made no answer.

On came Rosamund, and now, behold! the lord Al-je-bal rose also and,
giving her his hand, seated her by him on the divan.

“Show no surprise, Wulf,” muttered Godwin, who had caught a warning
look in the eyes of Masouda as she took up her position behind
Rosamund.

Now the feast began. Slaves running to and fro, set dish after dish
filled with strange and savoury meats, upon the little inlaid tables,
those that were served to Sinan and his guests fashioned, all of them,
of silver or of gold.

Godwin and Wulf ate, though not for hunger’s sake, but of what they ate
they remembered nothing who were watching Sinan and straining their
ears to catch all he said without seeming to take note or listen.
Although she strove to hide it and to appear indifferent, it was plain
to them that Rosamund was much afraid. Again and again Sinan presented
to her choice morsels of food, sometimes on the dishes and sometimes
with his fingers, and these she was obliged to take. All the while also
he devoured her with his fierce eyes so that she shrank away from him
to the furthest limit of the divan.

Then wine, perfumed and spiced, was brought in golden cups, of which,
having drunk, he offered to Rosamund. But she shook her head and asked
Masouda for water, saying that she touched nothing stronger, and it was
given her, cooled with snow. The brethren asked for water also, whereon
Sinan looked at them suspiciously and demanded the reason. Godwin
replied through Masouda that they were under an oath to touch no wine
till they returned to their own country, having fulfilled their
mission. To this he answered meaningly that it was good and right to
keep oaths, but he feared that theirs would make them water-drinkers
for the rest of their lives, a saying at which their hearts sank.

Now the wine that he had drunk took hold of Sinan, and he began to talk
who without it was so silent.

“You met the Frank Lozelle to-day,” he said to Godwin, through Masouda,
“when riding in my gardens, and drew your sword on him. Why did you not
kill him? Is he the better man?”

“It seems not, as once before I worsted him and I sit here unhurt,
lord,” answered Godwin. “Your servants thrust between and separated
us.”

“Ay,” replied Sinan, “I remember; they had orders. Still, I would that
you had killed him, the unbelieving dog, who has dared to lift his eyes
to this Rose of Roses, your sister. Fear not,” he went on, addressing
Rosamund, “he shall offer you no more insult, who are henceforth under
the protection of the Signet,” and stretching out his thin,
cruel-looking hand, on which gleamed the ring of power, he patted her
on the arm.

All of these things Masouda translated, while Rosamund dropped her head
to hide her face, though on it were not the blushes that he thought,
but loathing and alarm.

Wulf glared at the Al-je-bal, whose head by good fortune was turned
away, and so fierce was the rage swelling in his heart that a mist
seemed to gather before his eyes, and through it this devilish chief of
a people of murderers, clothed in his robe of flaming red, looked like
a man steeped in blood. The thought came to him suddenly that he would
make him what he looked, and his hand passed to his sword-hilt. But
Godwin saw the terror in Masouda’s eyes, saw Wulf’s hand also, and
guessed what was about to chance. With a swift movement of his arm he
struck a golden dish from the table to the marble floor, then said, in
a clear voice in French:

“Brother, be not so awkward; pick up that dish and answer the lord
Sinan as is your right—I mean, touching the matter of Lozelle.”

Wulf stooped to obey, and his mind cleared which had been so near to
madness.

“I wish it not, lord,” he said, “who, if I can, have your good leave to
slay this fellow on the third night from now. If I fail, then let my
brother take my place, but not before.”

“Yes, I forgot,” said Sinan. “So I decreed, and that will be a fight I
wish to see. If he kills you then your brother shall meet him. And if
he kills you both, then perhaps I, Sinan, will meet him—in my own
fashion. Sweet lady, knowing where the course is laid, say, do you fear
to see this fray?”

Rosamund’s face paled, but she answered proudly:

“Why should I fear what my brethren do not fear? They are brave
knights, bred to arms, and God, in Whose hand are all our
destinies—even yours, O Lord of Death—He will guard the right.”

When this speech was translated to him Sinan quailed a little. Then he
answered:

“Lady, know that _I_ am the Voice and Prophet of Allah—ay, and his
sword to punish evil-doers and those who do not believe. Well, if what
I hear is true, your brethren are skilled horsemen who even dared to
pass my servant on the narrow bridge, so victory may rest with them.
Tell me which of them do you love the least, for he shall first face
the sword of Lozelle.”

Now as Rosamund prepared herself to answer Masouda scanned her face
through her half-closed eyes. But whatever she may have felt within, it
remained calm and cold as though it were cut in stone.

“To me they are as one man,” she said. “When one speaks, both speak. I
love them equally.”

“Then, Guest of my heart, it shall go as I have said. Brother Blue-eyes
shall fight first, and if he falls then Brother Grey-eyes. The feast is
ended, and it is my hour for prayer. Slaves, bid the people fill their
cups. Lady, I pray of you, stand forward on the dais.”

She obeyed, and at a sign the black slave-women gathered behind her
with their flaming torches. Then Sinan rose also, and cried with a loud
voice:

“Servants of Al-je-bal, pledge, I command you, this Flower of flowers,
the high-born Princess of Baalbec, the niece of the Sultan,
Salah-ed-din, whom men call the Great,” and he sneered, “though he be
not so great as I, this Queen of maids who soon—” Then, checking
himself, he drank off his wine, and with a low bow presented the empty,
jewelled cup to Rosamund. All the company drank also, and shouted till
the hall rang, for her loveliness as she stood thus in the fierce light
of the torches, aflame as these men were with the vision-breeding wine
of Al-je-bal, moved them to madness.

“Queen! Queen!” they shouted. “Queen of our Master and of us all!”

Sinan heard and smiled. Then, motioning for silence, he took the hand
of Rosamund, kissed it, and turning, passed from the hall preceded by
his singing women and surrounded by the _daïs_ and guards.

Godwin and Wulf stepped forward to speak with Rosamund, but Masouda
interposed herself between them, saying in a cold, clear voice:

“It is not permitted. Go, knights, and cool your brows in yonder
garden, where sweet water runs. Your sister is my charge. Fear not, for
she is guarded.”

“Come,” said Godwin to Wulf; “we had best obey.”

So together they walked through the crowd of those feasters that
remained, for most of them had already left the hall, who made way, not
without reverence, for the brethren of this new star of beauty, on to
the terrace, and from the terrace into the gardens. Here they stood
awhile in the sweet freshness of the night, which was very grateful
after the heated, perfume-laden air of the banquet; then began to
wander up and down among the scented trees and flowers. The moon,
floating in a cloudless sky, was almost at its full, and by her light
they saw a wondrous scene. Under many of the trees and in tents set
about here and there, rugs were spread, and to them came men who had
drunk of the wine of the feast, and cast themselves down to sleep.

“Are they drunk?” asked Wulf.

“It would seem so,” answered Godwin.

Yet these men appeared to be mad rather than drunk, for they walked
steadily enough, but with wide-set, dreamy eyes; nor did they seem to
sleep upon the rugs, but lay there staring at the sky and muttering
with their lips, their faces steeped in a strange, unholy rapture.
Sometimes they would rise and walk a few paces with outstretched arms,
till the arms closed as though they clasped something invisible, to
which they bent their heads to babble awhile. Then they walked back to
their rugs again, where they remained silent.

As they lay thus, white-veiled women appeared, who crouched by the
heads of these sleepers, murmuring into their ears, and when from time
to time they sat up, gave them to drink from cups they carried, after
partaking of which they lay down again and became quite senseless.

Only the women would move on to others and serve them likewise. Some of
them approached the brethren with a slow, gliding motion, and offered
them the cup; but they walked forward, taking no notice, whereupon the
girls left them, laughing softly, and saying such things as “Tomorrow
we shall meet,” or “Soon you will be glad to drink and enter into
Paradise.”

“When the time comes doubtless we shall be glad, who have dwelt here,”
answered Godwin gravely, but as he spoke in French they did not
understand him.

“Step out, brother,” said Wulf, “for at the very sight of those rugs I
grow sleepy, and the wine in the cups sparkles as bright as their
bearers’ eyes.”

So they walked on towards the sound of a waterfall, and, when they came
to it, drank, and bathed their faces and heads.

“This is better than their wine,” said Wulf. Then, catching sight of
more women flitting round them, looking like ghosts amid the moonlit
glades, they pressed forward till they reached an open sward where
there were no rugs, no sleepers, and no cupbearers.

“Now,” said Wulf, halting, “tell me what does all this mean?”

“Are you deaf and blind?” asked Godwin. “Cannot you see that yonder
fiend is in love with Rosamund, and means to take her, as he well may
do?”

Wulf groaned aloud, then answered: “I swear that first I will send his
soul to hell, even though our own must keep it company.”

“Ay,” answered Godwin, “I saw; you went near to it tonight. But
remember, that is the end for all of us. Let us wait then to strike
until we must—to save her from worse things.”

“Who knows that we may find another chance? Meanwhile, meanwhile—” and
again he groaned.

“Among those ornaments that hung about the waist of Rosamund I saw a
jewelled knife,” answered Godwin, sadly. “She can be trusted to use it
if need be, and after that we can be trusted to do our worst. At least,
I think that we should die in a fashion that would be remembered in
this mountain.”

As they spoke they had loitered towards the edge of the glade, and
halting there stood silent, till presently from under the shadow of a
cedar tree appeared a solitary, white robed woman.

“Let us be going,” said Wulf; “here is another of them with her
accursed cup.”

But before they could turn the woman glided up to them and suddenly
unveiled. It was Masouda.

“Follow me, brothers Peter and John,” she said in a laughing whisper.
“I have words to say to you. What! you will not drink? Well, it is
wisest.” And emptying the cup upon the ground she flitted ahead of
them.

Silently as a wraith she went, now appearing in the open spaces, now
vanishing, beneath the dense gloom of cedar boughs, till she reached a
naked, lonely rock which stood almost upon the edge of the gulf.
Opposite to this rock was a great mound such as ancient peoples reared
over the bodies of their dead, and in the mound, cunningly hidden by
growing shrubs, a massive door.

Masouda took a key from her girdle, and, having looked around to see
that they were alone, unlocked it.

“Enter,” she said, pushing them before her. They obeyed, and through
the darkness within heard her close the door.

“Now we are safe awhile,” she said with a sigh, “or, at least, so I
think. But I will lead you to where there is more light.”

Then, taking each of them by the hand, she went forward along a smooth
incline, till presently they saw the moonlight, and by it discovered
that they stood at the mouth of a cave which was fringed with bushes.
Running up from the depths of the gulf below to this opening was a
ridge or shoulder of rock, very steep and narrow.

“See the only road that leads from the citadel of Masyaf save that
across the bridge,” said Masouda.

“A bad one,” answered Wulf, staring downward.

“Ay, yet horses trained to rocks can follow it. At its foot is the
bottom of the gulf, and a mile or more away to the left a deep cleft
which leads to the top of the mountain and to freedom. Will you not
take it now? By tomorrow’s dawn you might be far away.”

“And where would the lady Rosamund be?” asked Wulf.

“In the harem of the lord Sinan—that is, very soon,” she answered,
coolly.

“Oh, say it not!” he exclaimed, clasping her arm, while Godwin leaned
back against the wall of the cave.

“Why should I hide the truth? Have you no eyes to see that he is
enamoured of her loveliness—like others? Listen; a while ago my master
Sinan chanced to lose his queen—how, we need not ask, but it is said
that she wearied him. Now, as he must by law, he mourns for her a
month, from full moon to full moon. But on the day after the full
moon—that is, the third morning from now—he may wed again, and I think
there will be a marriage. Till then, however, your sister is as safe as
though she yet sat at home in England before Salah-ed-din dreamed his
dream.”

“Therefore,” said Godwin, “within that time she must either escape or
die.”

“There is a third way,” answered Masouda, shrugging her shoulders. “She
might stay and become the wife of Sinan.”

Wulf muttered something between his teeth, then stepped towards her
threateningly, saying:

“Rescue her, or—”

“Stand back, pilgrim John,” she said, with a laugh. “If I rescue her,
which indeed would be hard, it will not be for fear of your great
sword.”

“What, then, will avail, Masouda?” asked Godwin in a sad voice. “To
promise you money would be useless, even if we could.”

“I am glad that you spared me that insult,” she replied with flashing
eyes, “for then there had been an end. Yet,” she added more humbly,
“seeing my home and business, and what I appear to be,” and she glanced
at her dress and the empty cup in her hand, “it had not been strange.
Now hear me, and forget no word. At present you are in favour with
Sinan, who believes you to be the brothers of the lady Rosamund, not
her lovers; but from the moment he learns the truth your doom is
sealed. Now what the Frank Lozelle knows, that the Al-je-bal may know
at any time—and will know, if these should meet.

“Meanwhile, you are free; so to-morrow, while you ride about the
garden, as you will do, take note of the tall rock that stands without,
and how to reach it from any point, even in the dark. To-morrow, also,
when the moon is up, they will lead you to the narrow bridge, to ride
your horses to and fro there, that they may learn not to fear it in
that light. When you have stabled them go into the gardens and come
hither unobserved, as the place being so far away you can do. The
guards will let you pass, thinking only that you desire to drink a cup
of wine with some fair friend, as is the custom of our guests. Enter
this cave—here is the key,” and she handed it to Wulf, “and if I be not
there, await me. Then I will tell you my plan, if I have any, but until
then I must scheme and think. Now it grows late—go.”

“And you, Masouda,” said Godwin, doubtfully; “how will you escape this
place?”

“By a road you do not know of, for I am mistress of the secrets of this
city. Still, I thank you for your thought of me. Go, I say, and lock
the door behind you.”

So they went in silence, doing as she bade them, and walked back
through the gardens, that now seemed empty enough, to the
stable-entrance of the guest-house, where the guards admitted them
without question.

That night the brethren slept together in one bed, fearing that if they
lay separate they might be searched in their sleep and not awake.
Indeed, it seemed to them that, as before, they heard footsteps and
voices in the darkness.

Next morning, when they had breakfasted, they loitered awhile, hoping
to win speech with Rosamund, or sight of her, or at the least that
Masouda would come to them; but they saw no Rosamund, and no Masouda
came. At length an officer appeared, and beckoned to them to follow
him. So they followed, and were led through the halls and passages to
the terrace of justice, where Sinan, clad in his black robe, sat as
before beneath a canopy in the midst of the sun-lit marble floor.
There, too, beside him, also beneath the canopy and gorgeously
apparelled, sat Rosamund. They strove to advance and speak with her,
but guards came between them, pointing out a place where they must
stand a few yards away. Only Wulf said in a loud voice, in English:

“Tell us, Rosamund, is it well with you?” Lifting her pale face, she
smiled and nodded.

Then, at the bidding of Sinan, Masouda commanded them to be silent,
saying that it was not lawful for them to speak to the Lord of the
Mountain, or his Companion, unless they were first bidden so to do. So,
having learnt what they wished to know, they were silent.

Now some of the _daïs_ drew near the canopy, and consulted with their
master on what seemed to be a great matter, for their faces were
troubled. Presently he gave an order, whereon they resumed their seats
and messengers left the terrace. When they appeared again, in their
company were three noble-looking Saracens, who were accompanied by a
retinue of servants and wore green turbans, showing that they were
descendants of the Prophet. These men, who seemed weary with long
travel, marched up the terrace with a proud mien, not looking at the
_daïs_ or any one until they saw the brethren standing side by side, at
whom they stared a little. Next they caught sight of Rosamund sitting
in the shadow of the canopy, and bowed to her, but of the Al-je-bal
they took no notice.

“Who are you, and what is your pleasure?” asked Sinan, after he had
eyed them awhile. “I am the ruler of this country. These are my
ministers,” and he pointed to the _daïs_, “and here is my sceptre,” and
he touched the bloodred dagger broidered on his robe of black.

Now that Sinan had declared himself the embassy bowed to him,
courteously enough. Then their spokesman answered him.

“That sceptre we know; it has been seen afar. Twice already we have cut
down its bearers even in the tent of our master. Lord of Murder, we
acknowledge the emblem of murder, and we bow to you whose title is the
Great Murderer. As for our mission, it is this. We are the ambassadors
of Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, Sultan of the East; in
these papers signed with his signet are our credentials, if you would
read them.”

“So,” answered Sinan, “I have heard of that chief. What is his will
with me?”

“This, Al-je-bal. A Frank in your pay, and a traitor, has betrayed to
you a certain lady, niece of Salah-ed-din, the princess of Baalbec,
whose father was a Frankish noble named D’Arcy, and who herself is
named Rose of the World. The Sultan, Salah-ed-din, having been informed
of this matter by his servant, the prince Hassan, who escaped from your
soldiers, demands that this lady, his niece, be delivered to him
forthwith, and with her the head of the Frank Lozelle.”

“The head of the Frank Lozelle he may have if he will after to-morrow
night. The lady I keep,” snarled Sinan.

“What then?”

“Then, Al-je-bal, in the name of Salah-ed-din, we declare war on
you—war till this high place of yours is pulled stone from stone; war
till your tribe be dead, till the last man, woman, and child be slain,
until your carcass is tossed to the crows to feed on.”

Now Sinan rose in fury and rent at his beard.

“Go back,” he said, “and tell that dog you name a sultan, that low as
he is, the humble-born son of Ayoub, I, Al-je-bal, do him an honour
that he does not observe. My queen is dead, and two days from now, when
my month of mourning is expired, I shall take to wife his niece, the
princess of Baalbec, who sits here beside me, my bride-elect.”

At these words Rosamund, who had been listening intently, started like
one who has been stung by a snake, put her hands before her face and
groaned.

“Princess,” said the ambassador, who was watching her, “you seem to
understand our language; is this your will, to mate your noble blood
with that of the heretic chief of the Assassins?”

“Nay, nay!” she cried. “It is no will of mine, who am a helpless
prisoner and by faith a Christian. If my uncle Salah-ed-din is indeed
as great as I have heard, then let him show his power and deliver me,
and with me these my brethren, the knights Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf.”

“So you speak Arabic,” said Sinan. “Good; our loving converse will be
easier, and for the rest—well, the whims of women change. Now, you
messengers of Salah-ed-din, begone, lest I send you on a longer
journey, and tell your master that if he dares to lift his standards
against my walls my _fedaïs_ shall speak with him. By day and by night,
not for one moment shall he be safe. Poison shall lurk in his cup and a
dagger in his bed. Let him kill a hundred of them, and another hundred
shall appear. His most trusted guards shall be his executioners. The
women in his harem shall bring him to his doom—ay, death shall be in
the very air he breathes. If he would escape it, therefore, let him
hide himself within the walls of his city of Damascus, or amuse himself
with wars against the mad Cross-worshippers, and leave me to live in
peace with this lady whom I have chosen.”

“Great words, worthy of the Great Assassin,” said the ambassador.

“Great words in truth, which shall be followed by great deeds. What
chance has this lord of yours against a nation sworn to obey to the
death? You smile? Then come hither you—and you.” And he summoned two of
his _daïs_ by name.

They rose and bowed before him.

“Now, my worthy servants,” he said, “show these heretic dogs how you
obey, that their master may learn the power of your master. You are old
and weary of life. Begone, and await me in Paradise.”

The old men bowed again, trembling a little. Then, straightening
themselves, without a word they ran side by side and leapt into the
abyss.

“Has Salah-ed-din servants such as these?” asked Sinan in the silence
that followed. “Well, what they have done, all would do, if I bid them
slay him. Back, now; and, if you will, take these Franks with you, who
are my guests, that they may bear witness of what you have seen, and of
the state in which you left their sister. Translate to the knights,
woman.”

So Masouda translated. Then Godwin answered through her.

“We understand little of this matter, who are ignorant of your tongue,
but, O Al-je-bal, ere we leave your sheltering roof we have a quarrel
to settle with the man Lozelle. After that, with your permission, we
will go, but not before.”

Now Rosamund sighed as if in relief, and Sinan answered:

“As you will; so be it,” adding, “Give these envoys food and drink
before they go.”

But their spokesman answered: “We partake not of the bread and salt of
murderers, lest we should become of their fellowship. Al-je-bal, we
depart, but within a week we appear again in the company of ten
thousand spears, and on one of them shall your head be set. Your
safe-conduct guards us till the sunset. After that, do your worst, as
we do ours. High Princess, our counsel to you is that you slay yourself
and so gain immortal honour.”

Then, bowing to her one by one, they turned and marched down the
terrace followed by their servants.

Now Sinan waved his hand and the court broke up, Rosamund leaving it
first, accompanied by Masouda and escorted by guards, after which the
brethren were commanded to depart also.

So they went, talking earnestly of all these things, but save in God
finding no hope at all.




Chapter XIV.
The Combat on the Bridge


“Saladin will come,” said Wulf the hopeful, and from the high place
where they stood he pointed to the plain beneath, across which a band
of horsemen moved at full gallop. “Look; yonder goes his embassy.”

“Ay,” answered Godwin, “he will come, but, I fear me, too late.”

“Yes, brother, unless we go to meet him. Masouda has promised.”

“Masouda,” sighed Godwin. “Ah! to think that so much should hang upon
the faithfulness of one woman.”

“It does not hang on her,” said Wulf; “it hangs on Fate, who writes
with her finger. Come, let us ride.”

So, followed by their escort, they rode in the gardens, taking note,
without seeming to do so, of the position of the tall rock, and of how
it could be approached from every side. Then they went in again and
waited for some sign or word of Rosamund, but in vain. That night there
was no feast, and their meal was brought to them in the guest-house.
While they sat at it Masouda appeared for a moment to tell them that
they had leave to ride the bridge in the moonlight, and that their
escort would await them at a certain hour.

The brethren asked if their sister Rosamund was not coming to dine with
them. Masouda answered that as the queen-elect of the Al-je-bal it was
not lawful that she should eat with any other men, even her brothers.
Then as she passed out, stumbling as though by accident, she brushed
against Godwin, and muttered:

“Remember, to-night,” and was gone.

When the moon had been up an hour the officer of their escort appeared,
and led them to their horses, which were waiting, and they rode away to
the castle bridge. As they approached it they saw Lozelle departing on
his great black stallion, which was in a lather of foam. It seemed that
he also had made trial of that perilous path, for the people, of whom
there were many gathered there, clapped their hands and shouted, “Well
ridden, Frank! well ridden!”

Now, Godwin leading on Flame, they faced the bridge and walked their
horses over it. Nor did these hang back, although they snorted a little
at the black gulf on either side. Next they returned at a trot, then
over again, and yet again at a canter and a gallop, sometimes together
and sometimes singly. Lastly, Wulf made Godwin halt in the middle of
the bridge and galloped down upon him at speed, till within a lance’s
length. Then suddenly he checked his horse, and while his audience
shouted, wheeled it around on its hind legs, its forehoofs beating the
air, and galloped back again, followed by Godwin.

“All went well,” Wulf said as they rode to the castle, “and nobler or
more gentle horses were never crossed by men. I have good hopes for
to-morrow night.”

“Ay, brother, but I had no sword in my hand. Be not over confident, for
Lozelle is desperate and a skilled fighter, as I know who have stood
face to face with him. More over, his black stallion is well trained,
and has more weight than ours. Also, yonder is a fearsome place on
which to ride a course, and one of which none but that devil Sinan
would have thought.”

“I shall do my best,” answered Wulf, “and if I fall, why, then, act
upon your own counsel. At least, let him not kill both of us.”

Having stabled their horses the brethren wandered into the garden, and,
avoiding the cup-bearing women and the men they plied with their
drugged drink, drew by a roundabout road to the tall rock. Then,
finding themselves alone, they unlocked the door, and slipping through
it, locked it again on the further side and groped their way to the
moonlit mouth of the cave. Here they stood awhile studying the descent
of the gulf as best they could in that light, till suddenly Godwin,
feeling a hand upon his shoulder, started round to find himself face to
face with Masouda.

“How did you come?” he asked.

“By a road in which is your only hope,” she answered. “Now, Sir Godwin,
waste no words, for my time is short, but if you think that you can
trust me—and this is for you to judge—give me the Signet which hangs
about your neck. If not, go back to the castle and do your best to save
the lady Rosamund and yourselves.”

Thrusting down his hand between his mail shirt and his breast, Godwin
drew out the ancient ring, carved with the mysterious signs and veined
with the emblem of the dagger, and handed it to Masouda.

“You trust indeed,” she said with a little laugh, as, after scanning it
closely by the light of the moon and touching her forehead with it, she
hid it in her bosom.

“Yes, lady,” he answered, “I trust you, though why you should risk so
much for us I do not know.”

“Why? Well, perhaps for hate’s sake, for Sinan does not rule by love;
perhaps because, being of a wild blood, I am willing to set my life at
hazard, who care not if I win or die; perhaps because you saved me from
the lioness. What is it to you, Sir Godwin, why a certain woman-spy of
the Assassins, whom in your own land you would spit on, chooses to do
this or that?”

She ceased and stood before him with heaving breast and flashing eyes,
a mysterious white figure in the moonlight, most beautiful to see.

Godwin felt his heart stir and the blood flow to his brow, but before
he could speak Wulf broke in, saying:

“You bade us spare words, lady Masouda, so tell us what we must do.”

“This,” she answered, becoming calm again. “Tomorrow night about this
hour you fight Lozelle upon the narrow way. That is certain, for all
the city talks of it, and, whatever chances, Al-je-bal will not deprive
them of the spectacle of this fray to the death. Well, you may fall,
though that man at heart is a coward, which you are not, for here
courage alone will avail nothing, but rather skill and horsemanship and
trick of war. If so, then Sir Godwin fights him, and of this business
none can tell the end. Should both of you go down, then I will do my
best to save your lady and take her to Salah-ed-din, with whom she will
be safe, or if I cannot save her I will find her a means to save
herself by death.”

“You swear that?” said Wulf.

“I have said it; it is enough,” she answered impatiently.

“Then I face the bridge and the knave Lozelle with a light heart,” said
Wulf again, and Masouda went on.

“Now if you conquer, Sir Wulf, or if you fall and your brother
conquers, both of you—or one of you, as it may happen—must gallop back
at full speed toward the stable gate that lies more than a mile from
the castle bridge. Mounted as you are, no horse can keep pace with you,
nor must you stop at the gate, but ride on, ride like the wind till you
reach this place. The gardens will be empty of feasters and of
cup-bearers, who with every soul within the city will have gathered on
the walls and on the house-tops to see the fray. There is but one
fear—by then a guard may be set before this mound, seeing that
Salah-ed-din has declared war upon Al-je-bal, and though yonder road is
known to few, it is a road, and sentries may watch here. If so, you
must cut them down or be cut down, and bring your story to an end. Sir
Godwin, here is another key that you may use if you are alone. Take
it.”

He did so, and she continued:

“Now if both of you, or one of you, win through to this cave, enter
with your horses, lock the door, bar it, and wait. It may be I will
join you here with the princess. But if I do not come by the dawn and
you are not discovered and overwhelmed—which should not be, seeing that
one man can hold that door against many—then know that the worst has
happened, and fly to Salah-ed-din and tell him of this road, by which
he may take vengeance upon his foe Sinan. Only then, I pray you, doubt
not that I have done my best, who if I fail must die—most horribly.
Now, farewell, until we meet again or—do not meet again. Go; you know
the road.”

They turned to obey, but when they had gone a few paces Godwin looked
round and saw Masouda watching them. The moonlight shone full upon her
face, and by it he saw also that tears were running from her dark and
tender eyes. Back he came again, and with him Wulf, for that sight drew
them. Down he bent before her till his knee touched the ground, and,
taking her hand, he kissed it, and said in his gentle voice:

“Henceforth through life, through death, we serve two ladies,” and what
he did Wulf did also.

“Mayhap,” she answered sadly; “two ladies—but one love.”

Then they went, and, creeping through the bushes to the path, wandered
about awhile among the revellers and came to the guest-house safely.

Once more it was night, and high above the mountain fortress of Masyaf
shone the full summer moon, lighting crag and tower as with some vast
silver lamp. Forth from the guest-house gate rode the brethren, side by
side upon their splendid steeds, and the moon-rays sparkled on their
coats of mail, their polished bucklers, blazoned with the cognizance of
a grinning skull, their close-fitting helms, and the points of the
long, tough lances that had been given them. Round them rode their
escort, while in front and behind went a mob of people.

The nation of the Assassins had thrown off its gloom this night, for
the while it was no longer oppressed even by the fear of attack from
Saladin, its mighty foe. To death it was accustomed; death was its
watchword; death in many dreadful forms its daily bread. From the walls
of Masyaf, day by day, _fedaïs_ went out to murder this great one, or
that great one, at the bidding of their lord Sinan.

For the most part they came not back again; they waited week by week,
month by month, year by year, till the moment was ripe, then gave the
poisoned cup or drove home the dagger, and escaped or were slain. Death
waited them abroad, and if they failed, death waited them at home.
Their dreadful caliph was himself a sword of death. At his will they
hurled themselves from towers or from precipices; to satisfy his policy
they sacrificed their wives and children. And their reward—in life, the
drugged cup and voluptuous dreams; after it, as they believed, a still
more voluptuous paradise.

All forms of human agony and doom were known to this people; but now
they were promised an unfamiliar sight, that of Frankish knights
slaying each other in single combat beneath the silent moon, tilting at
full gallop upon a narrow place where many might hesitate to walk,
and—oh, joy!—falling perchance, horse and rider together, into the
depths below. So they were happy, for to them this was a night of
festival, to be followed by a morrow of still greater festival, when
their sultan and their god took to himself this stranger beauty as a
wife. Doubtless, too, he would soon weary of her, and they would be
called together to see her cast from some topmost tower and hear her
frail bones break on the cruel rocks below, or—as had happened to the
last queen—to watch her writhe out her life in the pangs of poison upon
a charge of sorcery. It was indeed a night of festival, a night filled
full of promise of rich joys to come.

On rode the brethren, with stern, impassive faces, but wondering in
their hearts whether they would live to see another dawn. The shouting
crowd surged round them, breaking through the circle of their guards. A
hand was thrust up to Godwin; in it was a letter, which he took and
read by the bright moonlight. It was written in English, and brief:

“I cannot speak with you. God be with you both, my brothers, God and
the spirit of my father. Strike home, Wulf, strike home, Godwin, and
fear not for me who will guard myself. Conquer or die, and in life or
death, await me. To-morrow, in the flesh, or in the spirit, we will
talk—Rosamund.”

Godwin handed the paper to Wulf, and, as he did so, saw that the guards
had caught its bearer, a withered, grey-haired woman. They asked her
some questions, but she shook her head. Then they cast her down,
trampled the life out of her beneath their horses’ hoofs, and went on
laughing. The mob laughed also.

“Tear that paper up,” said Godwin. Wulf did so, saying:

“Our Rosamund has a brave heart. Well, we are of the same blood, and
will not fail her.”

Now they were come to the open space in front of the narrow bridge,
where, tier on tier, the multitude were ranged, kept back from its
centre by lines of guards. On the flat roofed houses also they were
crowded thick as swarming bees, on the circling walls, and on the
battlements that protected the far end of the bridge, and the houses of
the outer city. Before the bridge was a low gateway, and upon its roof
sat the Al-je-bal, clad in his scarlet robe of festival, and by his
side, the moonlight gleaming on her jewels, Rosamund. In front, draped
in a rich garment, a dagger of gems in her dark hair, stood the
interpreter or “mouth” Masouda, and behind were _daïs_ and guards.

The brethren rode to the space before the arch and halted, saluting
with their pennoned spears. Then from the further side advanced another
procession, which, opening, revealed the knight Lozelle riding on his
great black horse, and a huge man and a fierce he seemed in his armour.

“What!” he shouted, glowering at them. “Am I to fight one against two?
Is this your chivalry?”

“Nay, nay, Sir Traitor,” answered Wulf. “Nay, nay betrayer of Christian
maids to the power of the heathen dog; you have fought Godwin, now it
is the turn of Wulf. Kill Wulf and Godwin remains. Kill Godwin and God
remains. Knave, you look your last upon the moon.”

Lozelle heard, and seemed to go mad with rage, or fear, or both.

“Lord Sinan,” he shouted in Arabic, “this is murder. Am I, who have
done you so much service, to be butchered for your pleasure by the
lovers of that woman, whom you would honour with the name of wife?”

Sinan heard, and stared at him with dull, angry eyes.

“Ay, you may stare,” went on the maddened Lozelle, “but it is true—they
are her lovers, not her brothers. Would men take so much pains for a
sister’s sake, think you? Would they swim into this net of yours for a
sister’s sake?”

Sinan held up his hand for silence.

“Let the lots be cast,” he said, “for whatever these men are, this
fight must go on, and it shall be fair.”

So a _daï_, standing by himself, cast lots upon the ground, and having
read them, announced that Lozelle must run the first course from the
further side of the bridge. Then one took his bridle to lead him
across. As he passed the brethren he grinned in their faces and said:

“At least this is sure, you also look your last upon the moon. I am
avenged already. The bait that hooked me is a meal for yonder pike, and
he will kill you both before her eyes to whet his appetite.”

But the brethren answered nothing.

The black horse of Lozelle grew dim in the distance of the moonlit
bridge, and vanished beneath the farther archway that led to the outer
city. Then a herald cried, Masouda translating his words, which another
herald echoed from beyond the gulf.

“Thrice will the trumpets blow. At the third blast of the trumpets the
knights shall charge and meet in the centre of the bridge.
Thenceforward they may fight as it pleases them, ahorse, or afoot, with
lance, with sword, or with dagger, but to the vanquished no mercy will
be shown. If he be brought living from the bridge, living he shall be
cast into the gulf. Hear the decree of the Al-je-bal!”

Then Wulf’s horse was led forward to the entrance of the bridge, and
from the further side was led forward the horse of Lozelle.

“Good luck, brother,” said Godwin, as he passed him. “Would that I rode
this course instead of you.”

“Your turn may come, brother,” answered the grim Wulf, as he set his
lance in rest.

Now from some neighbouring tower pealed out the first long blast of
trumpets, and dead silence fell on all the multitude. Grooms came
forward to look to girth and bridle and stirrup strap, but Wulf waved
them back.

“I mind my own harness,” he said.

The second blast blew, and he loosened the great sword in its scabbard,
that sword which had flamed in his forbear’s hand upon the turrets of
Jerusalem.

“Your gift,” he cried back to Rosamund, and her answer came clear and
sweet:

“Bear it like your fathers, Wulf. Bear it as it was last borne in the
hall at Steeple.”

Then there was another silence—a silence long and deep. Wulf looked at
the white and narrow ribbon of the bridge, looked at the black gulf on
either side, looked at the blue sky above, in which floated the great
globe of the golden moon. Then he leant forward and patted Smoke upon
the neck.

For the third time the trumpets blew, and from either end of that
bridge, two hundred paces long, the knights flashed towards each other
like living bolts of steel. The multitude rose to watch; even Sinan
rose. Only Rosamund sat still, gripping the cushions with her hands.
Hollow rang the hoofs of the horses upon the stonework, swifter and
swifter they flew, lower and lower bent the knights upon their saddles.
Now they were near, and now they met. The spears seemed to shiver, the
horses to hustle together on the narrow way and overhang its edge, then
on came the black horse towards the inner city, and on sped Smoke
towards the further gulf.

“They have passed! They have passed!” roared the multitude.

Look! Lozelle approached, reeling in his saddle, as well he might, for
the helm was torn from his head and blood ran from his skull where the
lance had grazed it.

“Too high, Wulf; too high,” said Godwin sadly. “But oh! if those laces
had but held!”

Soldiers caught the horse and turned it.

“Another helm!” cried Lozelle.

“Nay,” answered Sinan; “yonder knight has lost his shield. New
lances—that is all.”

So they gave him a fresh lance, and, presently, at the blast of the
trumpets again the horses were seen speeding together over the narrow
way. They met, and lo! Lozelle, torn from his saddle, but still
clinging to the reins, was flung backwards, far backwards, to fall on
the stonework of the bridge. Down, too, beneath the mighty shock went
his black horse, a huddled heap, and lay there struggling.

“Wulf will fall over him!” cried Rosamund. But Smoke did not fall; the
stallion gathered itself together—the moonlight shone so clear that
every watcher saw it—and since stop it could not, leapt straight over
the fallen black horse—ay, and over the rider beyond—and sped on in its
stride. Then the black found its feet again and galloped forward to the
further gate, and Lozelle also found his feet and turned to run.

“Stand! Stand, coward!” yelled ten thousand voices, and, hearing them,
he drew his sword and stood.

Within three great strides Wulf dragged his charger to its haunches,
then wheeled it round.

“Charge him!” shouted the multitude; but Wulf remained seated, as
though unwilling to attack a horseless man. Next he sprang from his
saddle, and accompanied by the horse Smoke, which followed him as a dog
follows its master, walked slowly towards Lozelle, as he walked casting
away his lance and drawing the great, cross-hilted sword.

Again the silence fell, and through it rang the cry of Godwin:

“_A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy!_”

“_A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy!_” came back Wulf’s answer from the bridge, and
his voice echoed thin and hollow in the spaces of the gulf. Yet they
rejoiced to hear it, for it told them that he was sound and strong.

Wulf had no shield and Lozelle had no helm—the fight was even. They
crouched opposite each other, the swords flashed aloft in the
moonlight; from far away came the distant clank of steel, a soft,
continual clamour of iron on iron. A blow fell on Wulf’s mail, who had
nought wherewith to guard himself, and he staggered back. Another blow,
another, and another, and back, still back he reeled—back to the edge
of the bridge, back till he struck against the horse that stood behind
him, and, resting there a moment, as it seemed, regained his balance.

Then there was a change. Look, he rushed forward, wielding the great
blade in both hands. The stroke lit upon Lozelle’s shield and seemed to
shear it in two, for in that stillness all could hear the clang of its
upper half as it fell upon the stones. Beneath the weight of it he
staggered, sank to his knee, gained his feet again, and in his turn
gave back. Yes, now it was Lozelle who rocked and reeled. Ay, by St.
Chad! Lozelle who went down beneath that mighty blow which missed the
head but fell upon his shoulder, and lay there like a log, till
presently the moonlight shone upon his mailed hand stretched upward in
a prayer for mercy. From house-top and terrace wall, from soaring gates
and battlements, the multitude of the people of the Assassins gathered
on either side the gulf broke into a roar that beat up the mountain
sides like a voice of thunder. And the roar shaped itself to these
words:

“Kill him! kill him! _kill him!_”

Sinan held up his hand, and a sudden silence fell. Then he, too,
screamed in his thin voice:

“Kill him! He is conquered!”

But the great Wulf only leaned upon the cross-handle of his brand, and
looked at the fallen foe. Presently he seemed to speak with him; then
Lozelle lifted the blade that lay beside him and gave it to him in
token of surrender. Wulf handled it awhile, shook it on high in
triumph, and whirled it about his head till it shone in the moonlight.
Next, with a shout he cast it from him far into the gulf, where it was
seen for a moment, an arc of gleaming light, and the next was gone.

Now, taking no more heed of the conquered knight, Wulf turned and began
to walk towards his horse.

Scarcely was his back towards him when Lozelle was on his feet again, a
dagger in his hand.

“Look behind you!” yelled Godwin; but the spectators, pleased that the
fight was not yet done, broke into a roar of cheers. Wulf heard and
swung round. As he faced Lozelle the dagger struck him on the breast,
and well must it have been for him that his mail was good. To use his
sword he had neither space nor time, but ere the next stroke could fall
Wulf’s arms were about Lozelle, and the fight for life begun.

To and fro they reeled and staggered, whirling round and round, till
none could tell which of them was Wulf or which his foe. Now they were
on the edge of the abyss, and, in that last dread strain for mastery,
seemed to stand there still as stone. Then one man began to bend down.
See! his head hung over. Further and further he bent, but his arms
could not be loosened.

“They will both go!” cried the multitude in their joy.

Look! A dagger flashed. Once, twice, thrice it gleamed, and those
wrestlers fell apart, while from deep down in the gulf came the thud of
a fallen body.

“Which—oh, which?” cried Rosamund from her battlement.

“Sir Hugh Lozelle,” answered Godwin in a solemn voice.

Then the head of Rosamund fell forward on her breast, and for a while
she seemed to sleep.

Wulf went to his horse, turned it about on the bridge, and throwing his
arm around its neck, rested for a space. Then he mounted and walked
slowly towards the inner gate. Pushing through the guard and officers,
Godwin rode out to meet him.

“Bravely done, brother,” he said, when they came face to face. “Say,
are you hurt?”

“Bruised and shaken—no more,” answered Wulf.

“A good beginning, truly. Now for the rest,” said Godwin. Then he
glanced over his shoulder, and added, “See, they are leading Rosamund
away, but Sinan remains, to speak with you doubtless, for Masouda
beckons.”

“What shall we do?” asked Wulf. “Make a plan, brother, for my head
swims.”

“Hear what he has to say. Then, as your horse is not wounded either,
ride for it when I give the signal as Masouda bade us. There is no
other way. Pretend that you are wounded.”

So, Godwin leading, while the multitude roared a welcome to the
conquering Wulf who had borne himself so bravely for their pleasure,
they rode to the mouth of the bridge and halted in the little space
before the archway. There Al-je-bal spoke by Masouda.

“A noble fray,” he said. “I did not think that Franks could fight so
well; Say, Sir Knight, will you feast with me in my palace?”

“I thank you, lord,” answered Wulf, “but I must rest while my brother
tends my hurts,” and he pointed to blood upon his mail. “To-morrow, if
it pleases you.”

Sinan stared at them and stroked his beard, while they trembled,
waiting for the word of fate.

It came.

“Good. So be it. To-morrow I wed the lady Rose of Roses, and you
two—her brothers—shall give her to me, as is fitting,” and he sneered.
“Then also you shall receive the reward of valour—a great reward, I
promise you.”

While he spoke Godwin, staring upward, had noted a little wandering
cloud floating across the moon. Slowly it covered it, and the place
grew dim.

“Now,” he whispered, and bowing to the Al-je-bal, they pushed their
horses through the open gate where the mob closed in on them, thus for
a little while holding back the escort from following on their heels.
They spoke to Flame and Smoke, and the good horses plunged onward side
by side, separating the crowd as the prows of boats separate the water.
In ten paces it grew thin, in thirty it was behind them, for all folk
were gathered about the archway where they could see, and none beyond.
Forward they cantered, till the broad road turned to the left, and in
that faint light they were hidden.

“Away!” said Godwin, shaking his reins.

Forward leapt the horses at speed. Again Godwin turned, taking that
road which ran round the city wall and through the gardens, leaving the
guest-castle to the left, whereas their escort followed that whereby
they had come, which passed along the main street of the inner town,
thinking that they were ahead of them. Three minutes more and they were
in the lonely gardens, in which that night no women wandered and no
neophytes dreamed in the pavilions.

“Wulf,” said Godwin, as they swept forward, skimming the turf like
swallows, “draw your sword and be ready. Remember the secret cave may
be guarded, and, if so, we must kill or be killed.”

Wulf nodded, and next instant two long blades flashed in the moonlight,
for the little cloud had passed away. Within a hundred paces of them
rose the tall rock, but between it and the mound were two mounted
guards. These heard the beating of horses’ hoofs, and wheeling about,
stared to see two armed knights sweeping down upon them like a
whirlwind. They called to them to stop, hesitating, then rode forward a
few paces, as though wondering whether this were not a vision.

In a moment the brethren were on them. The soldiers lifted their
lances, but ere they could thrust the sword of Godwin had caught one
between neck and shoulder and sunk to his breast bone, while the sword
of Wulf, used as a spear, had pierced the other through and through, so
that those men fell dead by the door of the mound, never knowing who
had slain them.

The brethren pulled upon their bridles and spoke to Flame and Smoke,
halting them within a score of yards. Then they wheeled round and
sprang from their saddles. One of the dead guards still held his
horses’s reins, and the other beast stood by snorting. Godwin caught it
before it stirred, then, holding all four of them, threw the key to
Wulf and bade him unlock the door. Soon it was done, although he
staggered at the task; then he held the horses, while one by one Godwin
led them in, and that without trouble, for the beasts thought that this
was but a cave-hewn stable of a kind to which they were accustomed.

“What of the dead men?” said Wulf.

“They had best keep us company,” answered Godwin, and, running out, he
carried in first one and then the other.

“Swift!” he said, as he threw down the second corpse. “Shut the door. I
caught sight of horsemen riding through the trees. Nay, they saw
nothing.”

So they locked the massive door and barred it, and with beating hearts
waited in the dark, expecting every moment to hear soldiers battering
at its timbers. But no sound came; the searchers, if such they were,
had passed on to seek elsewhere.

Now while Wulf made shift to fasten up the horses near the mouth of the
cave, Godwin gathered stones as large as he could lift, and piled them
up against the door, till they knew that it would take many men an hour
or more to break through.

For this door was banded with iron and set fast in the living rock.




Chapter XV.
The Flight to Emesa


Then came the weariest time of waiting the brethren had ever known, or
were to know, although at first they did not feel it so long and heavy.
Water trickled from the walls of this cave, and Wulf, who was parched
with thirst, gathered it in his hands and drank till he was satisfied.
Then he let it run upon his head to cool its aching; and Godwin bathed
such of his brother’s hurts and bruises as could be come at, for he did
not dare to remove the hauberk, and so gave him comfort.

When this was done, and he had looked to the saddles and trappings of
the horses, Wulf told of all that had passed between him and Lozelle on
the bridge. How at the first onset his spear had caught in the links of
and torn away the head-piece of his foe, who, if the lacings had not
burst, would have been hurled to death, while that of Lozelle struck
his buckler fair and shattered on it, rending it from his arm. How they
pushed past each other, and for a moment the fore hoofs of Smoke hung
over the abyss, so that he thought he was surely sped: How at the next
course Lozelle’s spear passed beneath his arm, while his, striking full
upon Sir Hugh’s breast, brought down the black horse and his rider as
though a thunderbolt had smitten them, and how Smoke, that could not
check its furious pace, leapt over them, as a horse leaps a-hunting:
How he would not ride down Lozelle, but dismounted to finish the fray
in knightly fashion, and, being shieldless, received the full weight of
the great sword upon his mail, so that he staggered back and would have
fallen had he not struck against the horse.

Then he told of the blows that followed, and of his last that wounded
Lozelle, shearing through his mail and felling him as an ox is felled
by the butcher: How also, when he sprang forward to kill him, this
mighty and brutal man had prayed for mercy, prayed it in the name of
Christ and of their own mother, whom as a child he knew in Essex: How
he could not slaughter him, being helpless, but turned away, saying
that he left him to be dealt with by Al-je-bal, whereupon this
traitorous dog sprang up and strove to knife him. He told also of their
last fearful struggle, and how, shaken as he was by the blow upon his
back, although the point of the dagger had not pierced his mail, he
strove with Lozelle, man to man; till at length his youth, great
natural strength, and the skill he had in wrestling, learnt in many a
village bout at home, enabled him to prevail, and, while they hung
together on the perilous edge of the gulf, to free his right hand, draw
his poniard, and make an end.

“Yet,” added Wulf, “never shall I forget the look of that man’s eyes as
he fell backwards, or the whistling scream which came from his pierced
throat.”

“At least there is a rogue the less in the world, although he was a
brave one in his own knavish fashion,” answered Godwin. “Moreover, my
brother,” he added, placing his arm about Wulf’s neck, “I am glad it
fell to you to fight him, for at the last grip your might overcame,
where I, who am not so strong, should have failed. Further, I think you
did well to show mercy, as a good knight should; that thereby you have
gained great honour, and that if his spirit can see through the
darkness, our dead uncle is proud of you now, as I am, my brother.”

“I thank you,” replied Wulf simply; “but, in this hour of torment, who
can think of such things as honour gained?”

Then, lest he should grow stiff, who was sorely bruised beneath his
mail, they began to walk up and down the cave from where the horses
stood to where the two dead Assassins lay by the door, the faint light
gleaming upon their stern, dark features. Ill company they seemed in
that silent, lonely place.

The time crept on; the moon sank towards the mountains.

“What if they do not come?” asked Wulf.

“Let us wait to think of it till dawn,” answered Godwin.

Again they walked the length of the cave and back.

“How can they come, the door being barred?” asked Wulf.

“How did Masouda come and go?” answered Godwin. “Oh, question me no
more; it is in the hand of God.”

“Look,” said Wulf, in a whisper. “Who stand yonder at the end of the
cave—there by the dead men?”

“Their spirits, perchance,” answered Godwin, drawing his sword and
leaning forward. Then he looked, and true enough there stood two
figures faintly outlined in the gloom. They glided towards them, and
now the level moonlight shone upon their white robes and gleamed in the
gems they wore.

“I cannot see them,” said a voice. “Oh, those dead soldiers—what do
they portend?”

“At least yonder stand their horses,” answered another voice.

Now the brethren guessed the truth, and, like men in a dream, stepped
forward from the shadow of the wall.

“Rosamund!” they said.

“Oh Godwin! oh Wulf!” she cried in answer. “Oh, Jesu, I thank Thee, I
thank Thee—Thee, and this brave woman!” and, casting her arms about
Masouda, she kissed her on the face.

Masouda pushed her back, and said, in a voice that was almost harsh:
“It is not fitting, Princess, that your pure lips should touch the
cheek of a woman of the Assassins.”

But Rosamund would not be repulsed.

“It is most fitting,” she sobbed, “that I should give you thanks who
but for you must also have become ‘a woman of the Assassins,’ or an
inhabitant of the House of Death.”

Then Masouda kissed her back, and, thrusting her away into the arms of
Wulf, said roughly:

“So, pilgrims Peter and John, your patron saints have brought you
through so far; and, John, you fight right well. Nay, do not stop for
our story, if you wish us to live to tell it. What! You have the
soldiers’ horses with your own? Well done! I did not credit you with so
much wit. Now, Sir Wulf, can you walk? Yes; so much the better; it will
save you a rough ride, for this place is steep, though not so steep as
one you know of. Now set the princess upon Flame, for no cat is
surer-footed than that horse, as you may remember, Peter. I who know
the path will lead it. John, take you the other two; Peter, do you
follow last of all with Smoke, and, if they hang back, prick them with
your sword. Come, Flame, be not afraid, Flame. Where I go, you can
come,” and Masouda thrust her way through the bushes and over the edge
of the cliff, talking to the snorting horse and patting its neck.

A minute more, and they were scrambling down a mountain ridge so steep
that it seemed as though they must fall and be dashed to pieces at the
bottom. Yet they fell not, for, made as it had been to meet such hours
of need, this road was safer than it appeared, with ridges cut in the
rock at the worst places.

Down they went, and down, till at length, panting, but safe, they stood
at the bottom of the darksome gulf where only the starlight shone, for
here the rays of the low moon could not reach.

“Mount,” said Masouda. “Princess, stay you on Flame; he is the surest
and the swiftest. Sir Wulf, keep your own horse Smoke; your brother and
I will ride those of the soldiers. Though not very swift, doubtless
they are good beasts, and accustomed to such roads.” Then she leapt to
the saddle as a woman born in the desert can, and pushed her horse in
front.

For a mile or more Masouda led them along the rocky bottom of the gulf,
where because of the stones they could only travel at a foot pace, till
they came to a deep cleft on the left hand, up which they began to
ride. By now the moon was quite behind the mountains, and such faint
light as came from the stars began to be obscured with drifting clouds.
Still, they stumbled on till they reached a little glade where water
ran and grass grew.

“Halt,” said Masouda. “Here we must wait till dawn for in this darkness
the horses cannot keep their footing on the stones. Moreover, all about
us lie precipices, over one of which we might fall.”

“But they will pursue us,” pleaded Rosamund.

“Not until they have light to see by,” answered Masouda, “or at least
we must take the risk, for to go forward would be madness. Sit down and
rest a while, and let the horses drink a little and eat a mouthful of
grass, holding their reins in our hands, for we and they may need all
our strength before to-morrow’s sun is set. Sir Wulf, say, are you much
hurt?”

“But very little,” he answered in a cheerful voice; “a few bruises
beneath my mail—that is all, for Lozelle’s sword was heavy. Tell us, I
pray you, what happened after we rode away from the castle bridge.”

“This, knights. The princess here, being overcome, was escorted by the
slaves back to her chambers, but Sinan bade me stay with him awhile
that he might speak to you through me. Do you know what was in his
mind? To have you killed at once, both of you, whom Lozelle had told
him were this lady’s lovers, and not her brothers. Only he feared that
there might be trouble with the people, who were pleased with the
fighting, so held his hand. Then he bade you to the supper, whence you
would not have returned; but when Sir Wulf said that he was hurt, I
whispered to him that what he wished to do could best be done on the
morrow at the wedding-feast when he was in his own halls, surrounded by
his guards.

“‘Ay,’ he answered, ‘these brethren shall fight with them until they
are driven into the gulf. It will be a goodly sight for me and my queen
to see.’”

“Oh! horrible, horrible!” said Rosamund; while Godwin muttered:

“I swear that I would have fought, not with his guards, but with Sinan
only.”

“So he suffered you to go, and I left him also. Before I went he spoke
to me, bidding me bring the princess to him privately within two hours
after we had supped, as he wished to speak to her alone about the
ceremony of her marriage on the morrow, and to make her gifts. I
answered aloud that his commands should be obeyed, and hurried to the
guest-castle. There I found your lady recovered from her faintness, but
mad with fear, and forced her to eat and drink.

“The rest is short. Before the two hours were gone a messenger came,
saying that the Al-je-bal bade me do what he had commanded.

“‘Return,’ I answered; ‘the princess adorns herself. We follow
presently alone, as it is commanded.’

“Then I threw this cloak about her and bade her be brave, and, if we
failed, to choose whether she would take Sinan or death for lord. Next,
I took the ring you had, the Signet of the dead Al-je-bal, who gave it
to your kinsman, and held it before the slaves, who bowed and let me
pass. We came to the guards, and to them again I showed the ring. They
bowed also, but when they saw that we turned down the passage to the
left and not to the right, as we should have done to come to the doors
of the inner palace, they would have stopped us.

“‘Acknowledge the Signet,’ I answered. ‘Dogs, what is it to you which
road the Signet takes?’ Then they also let us pass.

“Now, following the passage, we were out of the guest house and in the
gardens, and I led her to what is called the prison tower, whence runs
the secret way. Here were more guards whom I bade open in the name of
Sinan.

“They said: ‘We obey not. This place is shut save to the Signet
itself.’

“‘Behold it!’ I answered. The officer looked and said: ‘It is the very
Signet, sure enough, and there is no other.’

“Yet he paused, studying the black stone veined with the red dagger and
the ancient writing on it.

“‘Are you, then, weary of life?’ I asked. ‘Fool, the Al-je-bal himself
would keep a tryst within this house, which he enters secretly from the
palace. Woe to you if he does not find his lady there!’

“‘It is the Signet that he must have sent, sure enough,’ the captain
said again, ‘to disobey which is death.’

“‘Yes, open, open,’ whispered his companions.

“So they opened, though doubtfully, and we entered, and I barred the
door behind us. Then, to be short, through the darkness of the tower
basement, guiding ourselves by the wall, we crept to the entrance of
that way of which I know the secret. Ay, and along all its length and
through the rock door of escape at the end which I set so that none can
turn it, save skilled masons with their tools, and into the cave where
we found you. It was no great matter, having the Signet, although
without the Signet it had not been possible to-night, when every gate
is guarded.”

“No great matter!” gasped Rosamund. “Oh, Godwin and Wulf! if you could
know how she thought of and made ready everything; if you could have
seen how all those cruel men glared at us, searching out our very
souls! If you could have heard how high she answered them, waving that
ring before their eyes and bidding them to obey its presence, or to
die!”

“Which they surely have done by now,” broke in Masouda quietly, “though
I do not pity them, who were wicked. Nay; thank me not; I have done
what I promised to do, neither less nor more, and—I love danger and a
high stake. Tell us your story, Sir Godwin.”

So, seated there on the grass in the darkness, he told them of their
mad ride and of the slaying of the guards, while Rosamund raised her
hands and thanked Heaven for its mercies, and that they were without
those accursed walls.

“You may be within them again before sunset,” said Masouda grimly.

“Yes,” answered Wulf, “but not alive. Now what plan have you? To ride
for the coast towns?”

“No,” replied Masouda; “at least not straight, since to do so we must
pass through the country of the Assassins, who by this day’s light will
be warned to watch for us. We must ride through the desert mountain
lands to Emesa, many miles away, and cross the Orontes there, then down
into Baalbec, and so back to Beirut.”

“Emesa?” said Godwin. “Why Saladin holds that place, and of Baalbec the
lady Rosamund is princess.”

“Which is best?” asked Masouda shortly. “That she should fall into the
hands of Salah-ed-din, or back into those of the master of the
Assassins? Choose which you wish.”

“I choose Salah-ed-din,” broke in Rosamund, “for at least he is my
uncle, and will do me no wrong.” Nor, knowing the case, did the others
gainsay her.

Now at length the summer day began to break, and while it was still too
dark to travel, Godwin and Rosamund let the horses graze, holding them
by their bridles. Masouda, also, taking off the hauberk of Wulf,
doctored his bruises as best she could with the crushed leaves of a
bush that grew by the stream, having first washed them with water, and
though the time was short, eased him much. Then, so soon as the dawn
was grey, having drunk their fill and, as they had nothing else, eaten
some watercress that grew in the stream, they tightened their saddle
girths and started. Scarcely had they gone a hundred yards when, from
the gulf beneath, that was hidden in grey mists, they heard the sound
of horse’s hoofs and men’s voices.

“Push on,” said Masouda, “Al-je-bal is on our tracks.”

Upwards they climbed through the gathering light, skirting the edge of
dreadful precipices which in the gloom it would have been impossible to
pass, till at length they reached a great table land, that ran to the
foot of some mountains a dozen miles or more away. Among those
mountains soared two peaks, set close together. To these Masouda
pointed, saying that their road ran between them, and that beyond lay
the valley of the Orontes. While she spoke, far behind them they heard
the sound of men shouting, although they could see nothing because of
the dense mist.

“Push on,” said Masouda; “there is no time to spare,” and they went
forward, but only at a hand gallop, for the ground was still rough and
the light uncertain.

When they had covered some six miles of the distance between them and
the mountain pass, the sun rose suddenly and sucked up the mist. This
was what they saw. Before them lay a flat, sandy plain; behind, the
stony ground that they had traversed, and riding over it, two miles
from them, some twenty men of the Assassins.

“They cannot catch us,” said Wulf; but Masouda pointed to the right,
where the mist still hung, and said:

“Yonder I see spears.”

Presently it thinned, and there a league away they saw a great body of
mounted soldiers—perhaps there were four hundred.

“Look,” she said; “they have come round during the night, as I feared
they would. Now we must cross the path before them or be taken,” and
she struck her horse fiercely with a stick she had cut at the stream.
Half a mile further on a shout from the great body of men to their
right, which was answered by another shout from those behind, told them
that they were seen.

“On!” said Masouda. “The race will be close.” So they began to gallop
their best.

Two miles were done, but although that behind was far off, the great
cloud of dust to their right grew ever nearer till it seemed as though
it must reach the mouth of the mountain pass before them. Then Godwin
spoke:

“Wulf and Rosamund ride on. Your horses are swift and can outpace them.
At the crest of the mountain pass wait a while to breathe the beasts,
and see if we come. If not, ride on again, and God be with you.”

“Aye,” said Masouda, “ride and head for the Emesa bridge—it can be seen
from far—and there yield yourselves to the officers of Salah-ed-din.”

They hung back, but in a stern voice Godwin repeated:

“Ride, I command you both.”

“For Rosamund’s sake, so be it,” answered Wulf.

Then he called to Smoke and Flame, and they stretched themselves out
upon the sand and passed thence swifter than swallows. Soon Godwin and
Masouda, toiling behind, saw them enter the mouth of the pass.

“Good,” she said. “Except those of their own breed, there are no horses
in Syria that can catch those two. They will come to Emesa, have no
fear.”

“Who was the man who brought them to us?” asked Godwin, as they
galloped side by side, their eyes fixed upon the ever-nearing cloud of
dust, in which the spear points sparkled.

“My father’s brother—my uncle, as I called him,” she answered. “He is a
sheik of the desert, who owns the ancient breed that cannot be bought
for gold.”

“Then you are not of the Assassins, Masouda?”

“No; I may tell you, now that the end seems near. My father was an
Arab, my mother a noble Frank, a French woman, whom he found starving
in the desert after a fight, and took to his tent and made his wife.
The Assassins fell upon us and killed him and her, and captured me as a
child of twelve. Afterwards, when I grew older, being beautiful in
those days, I was taken to the harem of Sinan, and, although in secret
I had been bred up a Christian by my mother, they swore me of his
accursed faith. Now you will understand why I hate him so sorely who
murdered my father and my mother, and made me what I am; why I hold
myself so vile also. Yes, I have been forced to serve as his spy or be
killed, who, although he believed me his faithful slave, desired first
to be avenged upon him.”

“I do not hold you vile,” panted Godwin, as he spurred his labouring
steed. “I hold you most noble.”

“I rejoice to hear it before we die,” she answered, looking him in the
eyes in such a fashion that he dropped his head before her burning
gaze, “who hold you dear, Sir Godwin, for whose sake I have dared these
things, although I am nought to you. Nay, speak not; the lady Rosamund
has told me all that story—except its answer.”

Now they were off the sand over which they had been racing side by
side, and beginning to breast the mountain slope, nor was Godwin sorry
that the clatter of their horses’ hoofs upon the stones prevented
further speech between them. So far they had outpaced the Assassins,
who had a longer and a rougher road to travel; but the great cloud of
dust was not seven hundred yards away, and in front of it, shaking
their spears, rode some of the best mounted of their soldiers.

“These horses still have strength; they are better than I thought
them,” cried Masouda. “They will not gain on us across the mountains,
but afterwards—”

For the next league they spoke no more, who must keep their horses from
falling as they toiled up the steep path. At length they reached the
crest, and there, on the very top of it, saw Wulf and Rosamund standing
by Flame and Smoke.

“They rest,” Godwin said, then he shouted, “Mount! mount! The foe is
close.”

So they climbed to their saddles again, and, all four of them together
began to descend the long slope that stretched to the plain two leagues
beneath. Far off across this plain ran a broad silver streak, beyond
which from that height they could see the walls of a city.

“The Orontes!” cried Masouda. “Cross that, and we are safe.” But Godwin
looked first at his horse, then at Masouda, and shook his head.

Well might he do so, for, stout-hearted as they were, the beasts were
much distressed that had galloped so far without drawing rein. Down the
steep road they plunged, panting; indeed at times it was hard to keep
them on their feet.

“They will reach the plain—no more,” said Godwin, and Masouda nodded.

The descent was almost done, and not a mile behind them the white-robed
Assassins streamed endlessly. Godwin plied his spurs and Masouda her
whip, although with little hope, for they knew that the end was near.
Down the last declivity they rushed, till suddenly, as they reached its
foot, Masouda’s horse reeled, stopped, and sank to the ground, while
Godwin’s pulled up beside it.

“Ride on!” he cried to Rosamund and Wulf in front; but they would not.
He stormed at them, but they replied: “Nay, we will die together.”

Masouda looked at the horses Flame and Smoke, which seemed but little
troubled.

“So be it,” she said; “they have carried double before, and must again.
Mount in front of the lady, Sir Godwin; and, Sir Wulf, give me your
hand, and you will learn what this breed can do.”

So they mounted. Forward started Flame and Smoke with a long, swinging
gallop, while from the Assassins above, who thought that they held
them, went up a shout of rage and wonder.

“Their horses are also tired, and we may beat them yet,” called the
dauntless Masouda. But Godwin and Wulf looked sadly at the ten miles of
plain between them and the river bank.

On they went, and on. A quarter of it was done. Half of it was done,
but now the first of the _fedaï_ hung upon their flanks not two hundred
yards behind. Little by little this distance lessened. At length they
were scarcely fifty yards away, and one of them flung a spear. In her
terror Rosamund sobbed aloud.

“Spur the horses, knights,” cried Masouda, and for the first time they
spurred them.

At the sting of the steel Flame and Smoke sprang forward as though they
had but just left their stable door, and the gap between pursuers and
pursued widened. Two more miles were done, and scarce seven furlongs
from them they saw the broad mouth of the bridge, while the towers of
Emesa beyond seemed so close that in this clear air they could discern
the watchmen outlined against the sky. Then they descended a little
valley, and lost sight of bridge and town.

At the rise of the opposing slope the strength of Flame and Smoke at
last began to fail beneath their double burdens. They panted and
trembled; and, save in short rushes, no longer answered to the spur.
The Assassins saw, and came on with wild shouts. Nearer and nearer they
drew, and the sound of their horses’ hoofs beating on the sand was like
the sound of thunder. Now once more they were fifty yards away, and now
but thirty, and again the spears began to flash, though none struck
them.

Masouda screamed to the horses in Arabic, and gallantly did they
struggle, plunging up the hill with slow, convulsive bounds. Godwin and
Wulf looked at each other, then, at a signal, checked their speed,
leapt to earth, and, turning, drew their swords.

“On!” they cried, and lightened of their weight, once more the reeling
horses plunged forward.

The Assassins were upon them. Wulf struck a mighty blow and emptied the
saddle of the first, then was swept to earth. As he fell from behind
him he heard a scream of joy, and struggling to his knees, looked
round. Lo! from over the crest of the rise rushed squadron upon
squadron of turbaned cavalry, who, as they came, set their lances in
rest, and shouted:

“_Salah-ed-din! Salah-ed-din!_”

The Assassins saw also, and turned to fly—too late!

“A horse! A horse!” screamed Godwin in Arabic; and presently— how he
never knew—found himself mounted and charging with the Saracens.

To Wulf, too, a horse was brought, but he could not struggle to its
saddle. Thrice he strove, then fell backwards and lay upon the sand,
waving his sword and shouting where he lay, while Masouda stood by him,
a dagger in her hand, and with her Rosamund upon her knees.

Now the pursuers were the pursued, and dreadful was the reckoning that
they must pay. Their horses were outworn and could not fly at speed.
Some of the _fedaï_ were cut down upon them. Some dismounted, and
gathering themselves in little groups, fought bravely till they were
slain, while a few were taken prisoners. Of all that great troup of men
not a score won back alive to Masyaf to make report to their master of
how the chase of his lost bride had ended.

A while later and Wulf from his seat upon the ground saw Godwin riding
back towards him, his red sword in his hand. With him rode a sturdy,
bright-eyed man gorgeously apparelled, at the sight of whom Rosamund
sprang to her feet; then, as he dismounted, ran forward and with a
little cry cast her arms about him.

“Hassan! Prince Hassan! Is it indeed you? Oh, God be praised!” she
gasped, then, had not Masouda caught her, would have fallen.

The Emir looked at her, her long hair loose, her face stained, her veil
torn, but still clad in the silk and gleaming gems with which she had
been decked as the bride-elect of Al-je-bal. Then low to the earth he
bent his knee, while the grave Saracens watched, and taking the hem of
her garment, he kissed it.

“Allah be praised indeed!” he said. “I, His unworthy servant, thank Him
from my heart, who never thought to see you living more. Soldiers,
salute. Before you stands the lady Rose of the World, princess of
Baalbec and niece of your lord, Salah-ed-din, Commander of the
Faithful.”

Then in stately salutation to this dishevelled, outworn, but still
queenly woman, uprose hand, and spear, and scimitar, while Wulf cried
from where he lay:

“Why, it is our merchant of the drugged wine—none other! Oh! Sir
Saracen, does not the memory of that chapman’s trick shame you now?”

The emir Hassan heard and grew red, muttering in his beard:

“Like you, Sir Wulf, I am the slave of Fate, and must obey. Be not
bitter against me till you know all.”

“I am not bitter,” answered Wulf, “but I always pay for my drink, and
we will settle that score yet, as I have sworn.”

“Hush!” broke in Rosamund. “Although he stole me, he is also my
deliverer and friend through many a peril, and, had it not been for
him, by now—” and she shuddered.

“I do not know all the story, but, Princess, it seems that you should
thank not me, but these goodly cousins of yours and those splendid
horses,” and Hassan pointed to Smoke and Flame, which stood by
quivering, with hollow flanks and drooping heads.

“There is another whom I must thank also, this noble woman, as you will
call her also when you hear the story,” said Rosamund, flinging her arm
about the neck of Masouda.

“My master will reward her,” said Hassan. “But oh! lady, what must you
think of me who seemed to desert you so basely? Yet I reasoned well. In
the castle of that son of Satan, Sinan,” and he spat upon the ground,
“I could not have aided you, for there he would only have butchered me.
But by escaping I thought that I might help, so I bribed the Frankish
knave with the priceless Star of my House,” and he touched the great
jewel that he wore in his turban, “and with what money I had, to loose
my bonds, and while he pouched the gold I stabbed him with his own
knife and fled. But this morning I reached yonder city in command of
ten thousand men, charged to rescue you if I could; if not, to avenge
you, for the ambassadors of Salah-ed-din informed me of your plight. An
hour ago the watchmen on the towers reported that they saw two horses
galloping across the plain beneath a double burden, pursued by soldiers
whom from their robes they took to be Assassins. So, as I have a
quarrel with the Assassins, I crossed the bridge, formed up five
hundred men in a hollow, and waited, never guessing that it was you who
fled. You know the rest—and the Assassins know it also, for,” he added
grimly, “you have been well avenged.”

“Follow it up,” said Wulf, “and the vengeance shall be better, for I
will show you the secret way into Masyaf—or, if I cannot, Godwin
will—and there you may hurl Sinan from his own towers.”

Hassan shook his head and answered:

“I should like it well, for with this magician my master also has an
ancient quarrel. But he has other feuds upon his hands,” and he looked
meaningly at Wulf and Godwin, “and my orders were to rescue the
princess and no more. Well, she has been rescued, and some hundreds of
heads have paid the price of all that she has suffered. Also, that
secret way of yours will be safe enough by now. So there I let the
matter bide, glad enough that it has ended thus. Only I warn you
all—and myself also—to walk warily, since, if I know aught of him,
Sinan’s _fedaïs_ will henceforth dog the steps of everyone of us,
striving to bring us to our ends by murder. Now here come litters;
enter them, all of you, and be borne to the city, who have ridden far
enough to-day. Fear not for your horses; they shall be led in gently
and saved alive, if skill and care can save them. I go to count the
slain, and will join you presently in the citadel.”

So the bearers came and lifted up Wulf, and helped Godwin from his
horse—for now that all was over he could scarcely stand—and with him
Rosamund and Masouda. Placing them in the litters, they carried them,
escorted by cavalry, across the bridge of the Orontes into the city of
Emesa, where they lodged them in the citadel.

Here also, after giving them a drink of barley gruel, and rubbing their
backs and legs with ointment, they led the horses Smoke and Flame,
slowly and with great trouble, for these could hardly stir, and laid
them down on thick beds of straw, tempting them with food, which after
awhile they ate. The four—Rosamund, Masouda, Godwin, and Wulf—ate also
of some soup with wine in it, and after the hurts of Wulf had been
tended by a skilled doctor, went to their beds, whence they did not
rise again for two days.




Chapter XVI.
The Sultan Saladin


In the third morning Godwin awoke to see the ray of sunrise streaming
through the latticed window.

They fell upon another bed near-by where Wulf still lay sleeping, a
bandage on his head that had been hurt in the last charge against the
Assassins, and other bandages about his arms and body, which were much
bruised in the fight upon the dreadful bridge.

Wondrous was it to Godwin to watch him lying there sleeping healthily,
notwithstanding his injuries, and to think of what they had gone
through together with so little harm; to think, also, of how they had
rescued Rosamund out of the very mouth of that earthly hell of which he
could see the peaks through the open window-place—out of the very hands
of that fiend, its ruler. Reckoning the tale day by day, he reflected
on their adventures since they landed at Beirut, and saw how Heaven had
guided their every step.

In face of the warnings that were given them, to visit the Al-je-bal in
his stronghold had seemed a madness. Yet there, where none could have
thought that she would be, they had found Rosamund. There they had been
avenged upon the false knight Sir Hugh Lozelle, who had betrayed her,
first to Saladin, then to Sinan, and sent him down to death and
judgment; and thence they had rescued Rosamund.

Oh, how wise they had been to obey the dying words of their uncle, Sir
Andrew, who doubtless was given foresight at the end! God and His
saints had helped them, who could not have helped themselves, and His
minister had been Masouda. But for Masouda, Rosamund would by now be
lost or dead, and they, if their lives were still left to them, would
be wanderers in the great land of Syria, seeking for one who never
could be found.

Why had Masouda done these things, again and again putting her own life
upon the hazard to save theirs and the honour of another woman? As he
asked himself the question Godwin felt the red blood rise to his face.
Because she hated Sinan, who had murdered her parents and degraded her,
she said; and doubtless that had to do with the matter. But it was no
longer possible to hide the truth. She loved him, and had loved him
from the first hour when they met. He had always suspected it—in that
wild trial of the horses upon the mountain side, when she sat with her
arms about him and her face pressed against his face; when she kissed
his feet after he had saved her from the lion, and many another time.

But as they followed Wulf and Rosamund up the mountain pass while the
host of the Assassins thundered at their heels, and in broken gasps she
had told him of her sad history, then it was that he grew sure. Then,
too, he had said that he held her not vile, but noble, as indeed he
did; and, thinking their death upon them, she had answered that she
held him dear, and looked on him as a woman looks upon her only love—a
message in her eyes that no man could fail to read. Yet if this were
so, why had Masouda saved Rosamund, the lady to whom she knew well that
he was sworn? Reared among those cruel folk who could wade to their
desire through blood and think it honour, would she not have left her
rival to her doom, seeing that oaths do not hold beyond the grave?

An answer came into the heart of Godwin, at the very thought of which
he turned pale and trembled. His brother was also sworn to Rosamund,
and she in her soul must be sworn to one of them. Was it not to Wulf,
Wulf who was handsomer and more strong than he, to Wulf, the conqueror
of Lozelle? Had Rosamund told Masouda this? Nay, surely not.

Yet women can read each other’s hearts, piercing veils through which no
man may see, and perchance Masouda had read the heart of Rosamund. She
stood behind her during the dreadful duel at the gate, and watched her
face when Wulf’s death seemed sure; she might have heard words that
broke in agony from her lips in those moments of torment.

Oh, without doubt it was so, and Masouda had protected Rosamund because
she knew that her love was for Wulf and not for him. The thought was
very bitter, and in its pain Godwin groaned aloud, while a fierce
jealousy of the brave and handsome knight who slept at his side,
dreaming, doubtless, of the fame that he had won and the reward by
which it would be crowned, gripped his vitals like the icy hand of
death. Then Godwin remembered the oath that they two had sworn far away
in the Priory at Stangate, and the love passing the love of woman which
he bore towards this brother, and the duty of a Christian warrior
whereto he was vowed, and hiding his face in his pillow he prayed for
strength.

It would seem that it came to him—at least, when he lifted his head
again the jealousy was gone, and only the great grief remained. Fear
remained also—for what of Masouda? How should he deal with her? He was
certain that this was no fancy which would pass—until her life passed
with it, and, beautiful as she was, and noble as she was, he did not
wish her love. He could find no answer to these questions, save
this—that things must go on as they were decreed. For himself, he,
Godwin, would strive to do his duty, to keep his hands clean, and await
the end, whatever that might be.

Wulf woke up, stretched his arms, exclaimed because that action hurt
him, grumbled at the brightness of the light upon his eyes, and said
that he was very hungry. Then he arose, and with the help of Godwin,
dressed himself, but not in his armour. Here, with the yellow-coated
soldiers of Saladin, grave-faced and watchful, pacing before their
door—for night and day they were trebly guarded lest Assassins should
creep in—there was no need for mail. In the fortress of Masyaf, indeed,
where they were also guarded, it had been otherwise. Wulf heard the
step of the sentries on the cemented pavement without, and shook his
great shoulders as though he shivered.

“That sound makes my backbone cold,” he said. “For a moment, as my eyes
opened, I thought that we were back again in the guest chambers of
Al-je-bal, where folk crept round us as we slept and murderers marched
to and fro outside the curtains, fingering their knife-points. Well,
whatever there is to come, thank the Saints, that is done with. I tell
you, brother, I have had enough of mountains, and narrow bridges, and
Assassins. Henceforth, I desire to live upon a flat with never a hill
in sight, amidst honest folk as stupid as their own sheep, who go to
church on Sundays and get drunk, not with hachich, but on brown ale,
brought to them by no white-robed sorceress, but by a draggle-tailed
wench in a tavern, with her musty bedstraw still sticking in her hair.
Give me the Saltings of Essex with the east winds blowing over them,
and the primroses abloom upon the bank, and the lanes fetlock deep in
mud, and for your share you may take all the scented gardens of Sinan
and the cups and jewels of his ladies, with the fightings and
adventures of the golden East thrown in.”

“I never sought these things, and we are a long way from Essex,”
answered Godwin shortly.

“No,” said Wulf, “but they seem to seek you. What news of Masouda? Have
you seen her while I slept, which has been long?”

“I have seen no one except the apothecary who tended you, the slaves
who brought us food, and last evening the prince Hassan, who came to
see how we fared. He told me that, like yourself, Rosamund and Masouda
slept.”

“I am glad to hear it,” answered Wulf, “for certainly their rest was
earned. By St. Chad! what a woman is this Masouda! A heart of fire and
nerves of steel! Beautiful, too—most beautiful; and the best horsewoman
that ever sat a steed. Had it not been for her—By Heaven! when I think
of it I feel as though I loved her—don’t you?”

“No,” said Godwin, still more shortly.

“Ah, well, I daresay she can love enough for two who does nothing by
halves, and, all things considered,” he added, with one of his great
laughs, “I am glad it is I of whom she thinks so little—yes, I who
adore her as though she were my patron saint. Hark! the guards
challenge,” and, forgetting where he was, he snatched at his sword.

Then the door opened, and through it appeared the emir Hassan, who
saluted them in the name of Allah, searching them with his quiet eyes.

“Few would judge, to look at you, Sir Knights,” he said with a smile,
“that you have been the guests of the Old Man of the Mountain, and left
his house so hastily by the back door. Three days more and you will be
as lusty as when we met beyond the seas upon the wharf by a certain
creek. Oh, you are brave men, both of you, though you be infidels, from
which error may the Prophet guide you; brave men, the flower of
knighthood. Ay, I, Hassan, who have known many Frankish knights, say it
from my heart,” and, placing his hand to his turban, he bowed before
them in admiration that was not feigned.

“We thank you, Prince, for your praise,” said Godwin gravely, but Wulf
stepped forward, took his hand, and shook it.

“That was an ill trick, Prince, which you played us yonder in England,”
he said, “and one that brought as good a warrior as ever drew a
sword—our uncle Sir Andrew D’Arcy—to an end sad as it was glorious.
Still, you obeyed your master, and because of all that has happened
since, I forgive you, and call you friend, although should we ever meet
in battle I still hope to pay you for that drugged wine.”

Here Hassan bowed, and said softly:

“I admit that the debt is owing; also that none sorrow more for the
death of the noble lord D’Arcy than I, your servant, who, by the will
of God, brought it upon him. When we meet, Sir Wulf, in war—and that, I
think, will be an ill hour for me—strike, and strike home; I shall not
complain. Meanwhile, we are friends, and in very truth all that I have
is yours. But now I come to tell you that the princess Rose of the
World—Allah bless her footsteps!—is recovered from her fatigues, and
desires that you should breakfast with her in an hour’s time. Also the
doctor waits to tend your bruises, and slaves to lead you to the bath
and clothe you. Nay, leave your hauberk; here the faith of Salah-ed-din
and of his servants is your best armour.”

“Still, I think that we will take them,” said Godwin, “for faith is a
poor defence against the daggers of these Assassins, who dwell not so
far away.”

“True,” answered Hassan; “I had forgotten.” So thus they departed.

An hour later they were led to the hall, where presently came Rosamund,
and with her Masouda and Hassan.

She was dressed in the rich robes of an Eastern lady, but the gems with
which she had been adorned as the bride elect of Al-je-bal were gone;
and when she lifted her veil the brethren saw that though her face was
still somewhat pallid, her strength had come back to her, and the
terror had left her eyes. She greeted them with sweet and gentle words,
thanking first Godwin and then Wulf for all that they had done, and
turning to Masouda, who stood by, stately, and watchful, thanked her
also. Then they sat down, and ate with light hearts and a good
appetite.

Before their meal was finished, the guard at the door announced that
messengers had arrived from the Sultan. They entered, grey-haired men
clad in the robes of secretaries, whom Hassan hastened to greet. When
they were seated and had spoken with him awhile, one of them drew forth
a letter, which Hassan, touching his forehead with it in token of
respect, gave to Rosamund. She broke its seal, and, seeing that it was
in Arabic, handed it to her cousin, saying:

“Do you read it, Godwin, who are more learned than I.”

So he read aloud, translating the letter sentence by sentence. This was
its purport:

“Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, the Strong-to-aid, to his
niece beloved, Rose of the World, princess of Baalbec:—

“Our servant, the emir Hassan, has sent us tidings of your rescue from
the power of the accursed lord of the Mountain, Sinan, and that you are
now safe in our city of Emesa, guarded by many thousands of our
soldiers, and with you a woman named Masouda, and your kinsmen, the two
Frankish knights, by whose skill in arms and courage you were saved.
Now this is to command you to come to our court at Damascus so soon as
you may be fit to travel, knowing that here you will be received with
love and honour. Also I invite your kinsmen to accompany you, since I
knew their father, and would welcome knights who have done such great
deeds, and the woman Masouda with them. Or, if they prefer it, all
three of them may return to their own lands and peoples.

“Hasten, my niece, lady Rose of the World, hasten, for my spirit seeks
you, and my eyes desire to look upon you. In the name of Allah,
greeting.”

“You have heard,” said Rosamund, as Godwin finished reading the scroll.
“Now, my cousins, what will you do?”

“What else but go with you, whom we have come so far to seek?” answered
Wulf, and Godwin nodded his head in assent.

“And you, Masouda?”

“I, lady? Oh, I go also, since were I to return yonder,” and she nodded
towards the mountains, “my greeting would be one that I do not wish.”

“Do you note their words, prince Hassan?” asked Rosamund.

“I expected no other,” he answered with a bow. “Only, knights, you must
give me a promise, for even in the midst of my army such is needful
from men who can fly like birds out of the fortress of Masyaf and from
the knives of the Assassins—who are mounted, moreover, on the swiftest
horses in Syria that have been trained to carry a double burden,” and
he looked at them meaningly. “It is that upon this journey you will not
attempt to escape with the princess, whom you have followed from
over-sea to rescue her out of the hand of Salah-ed-din.”

Godwin drew from his tunic the cross which Rosamund had left him in the
hall at Steeple, and saying: “I swear upon this holy symbol that during
our journey to Damascus I will attempt no escape with or without my
cousin Rosamund,” he kissed it.

“And I swear the same upon my sword,” added Wulf, laying his hand upon
the silver hilt of the great blade which had been his forefather’s.

“A security that I like better,” said Hassan with a smile, “but in
truth, knights, your word is enough for me.” Then he looked at Masouda
and went on, still smiling: “Nay it is useless; for women who have
dwelt yonder oaths have no meaning. Lady, we must be content to watch
you, since my lord has bidden you to his city, which, fair and brave as
you are, to be plain, I would not have done.”

Then he turned to speak to the secretaries, and Godwin, who was noting
all, saw Masouda’s dark eyes follow him and in them a very strange
light.

“Good,” they seemed to say; “as you have written, so shall you read.”

That same afternoon they started for Damascus, a great army of
horsemen. In its midst, guarded by a thousand spears, Rosamund was
borne in a litter. In front of her rode Hassan, with his yellow-robed
bodyguard; at her side, Masouda; and behind—for, notwithstanding his
hurts, Wulf would not be carried—the brethren, mounted upon ambling
palfreys. After them, led by slaves, came the chargers, Flame and
Smoke, recovered now, but still walking somewhat stiffly, and then rank
upon rank of turbaned Saracens. Through the open curtains of her litter
Rosamund beckoned to the brethren, who pushed alongside of her.

“Look,” she said, pointing with her hand.

They looked, and there, bathed in the glory of the sinking sun, saw the
mountains crowned far, far away with the impregnable city and fortress
of Masyaf, and below it the slopes down which they had ridden for their
lives. Nearer to them flashed the river bordered by the town of Emesa.
Set at intervals along its walls were spears, looking like filaments
against the flaming, sunset sky, and on each of them a black dot, which
was the head of an Assassin, while from the turrets above, the golden
banner of Saladin fluttered in the evening wind. Remembering all that
she had undergone in that fearful home of devil-worshippers, and the
fate from which she had been snatched, Rosamund shuddered.

“It burns like a city in hell,” she said, staring at Masyaf, environed
by that lurid evening light and canopied with black, smoke-like clouds.
“Oh! such I think will be its doom.”

“I trust so,” answered Wulf fervently. “At least, in this world and the
next we have done with it.”

“Yes,” added Godwin in his thoughtful voice; “still, out of that evil
place we won good, for there we found Rosamund, and there, my brother,
you conquered in such a fray as you can never hope to fight again,
gaining great glory, and perhaps much more.”

Then reining in his horse, Godwin fell back behind the litter, while
Wulf wondered, and Rosamund watched him with dreaming eyes.

That evening they camped in the desert, and next morning, surrounded by
wandering tribes of Bedouins mounted on their camels, marched on again,
sleeping that night in the ancient fortress of Baalbec, whereof the
garrison and people, having been warned by runners of the rank and
titles of Rosamund came out to do her homage as their lady.

Hearing of it, she left her litter, and mounting a splendid horse which
they had sent her as a present, rode to meet them, the brethren, in
full armour and once more bestriding Flame and Smoke, beside her, and a
guard of Saladin’s own Mameluks behind. Solemn, turbaned men, who had
been commanded so to do by messengers from the Sultan, brought her the
keys of the gates on a cushion, minstrels and soldiers marched before
her, whilst crowding the walls and running alongside came the citizens
in their thousands. Thus she went on, through the open gates, past the
towering columns of ruined temples once a home of the worship of
heathen gods, through courts and vaults to the citadel surrounded by
its gardens that in dead ages had been the Acropolis of forgotten Roman
emperors.

Here in the portico Rosamund turned her horse, and received the
salutations of the multitude as though she also were one of the world’s
rulers. Indeed, it seemed to the brethren watching her as she sat upon
the great white horse and surveyed the shouting, bending crowd with
flashing eyes, splendid in her bearing and beautiful to see, a prince
at her stirrup and an army at her back, that none of those who had trod
that path before her could have seemed greater or more glorious in the
hour of their pride than did this English girl, who by the whim of Fate
had suddenly been set so high. Truly by blood and nature she was fitted
to be a queen. Yet as Rosamund sat thus the pride passed from her face,
and her eyes fell.

“Of what are you thinking?” asked Godwin at her side.

“That I would we were back among the summer fields at Steeple,” she
answered, “for those who are lifted high fall low. Prince Hassan, give
the captains and people my thanks and bid them be gone. I would rest.”

Thus for the first and last time did Rosamund behold her ancient fief
of Baalbec, which her grandsire, the great Ayoub, had ruled before her.

That night there was feasting in the mighty, immemorial halls, and
singing and minstrelsy and the dancing of fair women and the giving of
gifts. For Baalbec, where birth and beauty were ever welcome, did
honour to its lady, the favoured niece of the mighty Salah-ed-din. Yet
there were some who murmured that she would bring no good fortune to
the Sultan or this his city, who was not all of the blood of Ayoub, but
half a Frank, and a Cross worshipper, though even these praised her
beauty and her royal bearing. The brethren they praised also, although
these were unbelievers, and the tale of how Wulf had fought the traitor
knight upon the Narrow Way, and of how they had led their kinswoman
from the haunted fortress of Masyaf, was passed from mouth to mouth. At
dawn the next day, on orders received from the Sultan, they left
Baalbec, escorted by the army and many of the notables of the town.
That afternoon they drew rein upon the heights which overlook the city
of Damascus, Bride of the Earth, set amidst its seven streams and
ringed about with gardens, one of the most beautiful and perhaps the
most ancient city in the world. Then they rode down to the bounteous
plain, and as night fell, having passed the encircling gardens, were
escorted through the gates of Damascus, outside of which most of the
army halted and encamped.

Along the narrow streets, bordered by yellow, flat-roofed houses, they
rode slowly, looking now at the motley, many-coloured crowds, who
watched them with grave interest, and now at the stately buildings,
domed mosques and towering minarets, which everywhere stood out against
the deep blue of the evening sky. Thus at length they came to an open
space planted like a garden, beyond which was seen a huge and fantastic
castle that Hassan told them was the palace of Salah-ed-din. In its
courtyard they were parted, Rosamund being led away by officers of
state, whilst the brethren were taken to chambers that had been
prepared, where, after they had bathed, they were served with food.
Scarcely had they eaten it when Hassan appeared, and bade them follow
him. Passing down various passages and across a court they came to some
guarded doors, where the soldiers demanded that they should give up
their swords and daggers.

“It is not needful,” said Hassan, and they let them go by. Next came
more passages and a curtain, beyond which they found themselves in a
small, domed room, lit by hanging silver lamps and paved in tesselated
marbles, strewn with rich rugs and furnished with cushioned couches.

At a sign from Hassan the brethren stood still in the centre of this
room, and looked about them wondering. The place was empty and very
silent; they felt afraid—of what they knew not. Presently curtains upon
its further side opened and through them came a man turbaned and
wrapped in a dark robe, who stood awhile in the shadow, gazing at them
beneath the lamps.

The man was not very tall, and slight in build, yet about him was much
majesty, although his garb was such as the humblest might have worn. He
came forward, lifting his head, and they saw that his features were
small and finely cut; that he was bearded, and beneath his broad brow
shone thoughtful yet at times piercing eyes which were brown in hue.
Now the prince Hassan sank to his knees and touched the marble with his
forehead, and, guessing that they were in the presence of the mighty
monarch Saladin, the brethren saluted in their western fashion.
Presently the Sultan spoke in a low, even voice to Hassan, to whom he
motioned that he should rise, saying:

“I can see that you trust these knights, Emir,” and he pointed to their
great swords.

“Sire,” was the answer, “I trust them as I trust myself. They are brave
and honourable men, although they be infidels.”

The Sultan stroked his beard.

“Ay,” he said, “infidels. It is a pity, yet doubtless they worship God
after their own fashion. Noble to look on also, like their father, whom
I remember well, and, if all I hear is true, brave indeed. Sir Knights,
do you understand my language?”

“Sufficiently to speak it, lord,” answered Godwin, “who have learned it
since childhood, yet ill enough.”

“Good. Then tell me, as soldiers to a soldier, what do you seek from
Salah-ed-din?”

“Our cousin, the lady Rosamund, who, by your command, lord, was stolen
from our home in England.”

“Knights, she is your cousin, that I know, as surely as I know that she
is my niece. Tell me now, is she aught more to you?” and he searched
them with those piercing eyes.

Godwin looked at Wulf, who said in English:

“Speak the whole truth, brother. From that man nothing can be hid.”

Then Godwin answered:

“Sire, we love her, and are affianced to her.”

The Sultan stared at them in surprise.

“What! Both of you?” he asked.

“Yes, both.”

“And does she love you both?”

“Yes,” replied Godwin, “both, or so she says.”

Saladin stroked his beard and considered them, while Hassan smiled a
little.

“Then, knights,” he said presently, “tell me, which of you does she
love best?”

“That, sire, is known to her alone. When the time comes, she will say,
and not before.”

“I perceive,” said Saladin, “that behind this riddle hides a story. If
it is your good pleasure, be seated, and set it out to me.”

So they sat down on the divan and obeyed, keeping nothing back from the
beginning to the end, nor, although the tale was long, did the Sultan
weary of listening.

“A great story, truly,” he said, when at length they had finished, “and
one in which I seem to see the hand of Allah. Sir Knights, you will
think that I have wronged you—ay, and your uncle, Sir Andrew, who was
once my friend, although an older man than I, and who, by stealing away
my sister, laid the foundations of this house of love and war and woe,
and perchance of happiness unforeseen.

“Now listen. The tale that those two Frankish knaves, the priest and
the false knight Lozelle, told to you was true. As I wrote to your
uncle in my letter, I dreamed a dream. Thrice I dreamed it; that this
niece of mine lived, and that if I could bring her here to dwell at my
side she should save the shedding of much blood by some noble deed of
hers—ay, of the blood of tens of thousands; and in that dream I saw her
face. Therefore I stretched out my arm and took her from far away. And
now, through you—yes, through you—she has been snatched from the power
of the great Assassin, and is safe in my court, and therefore
henceforth I am your friend.”

“Sire, have you seen her?” asked Godwin.

“Knights, I have seen her, and the face is the face of my dreams, and
therefore I know full surely that in those dreams God spoke. Listen,
Sir Godwin and Sir Wulf,” Saladin went on in a changed voice, a stern,
commanding voice. “Ask of me what you will, and, Franks though you are,
it shall be given you for your service’s sake—wealth, lands, titles,
all that men desire and I can grant—but ask not of me my niece, Rose of
the World, princess of Baalbec, whom Allah has brought to me for His
own purposes. Know, moreover, that if you strive to steal her away you
shall certainly die; and that if she escapes from me and I recapture
her, then she shall die. These things I have told her already, and I
swear them in the name of Allah. Here she is, and in my house she must
abide until the vision be fulfilled.”

Now in their dismay the brethren looked at each other, for they seemed
further from their desire than they had been even in the castle of
Sinan. Then a light broke upon the face of Godwin, and he stood up and
answered:

“Dread lord of all the East, we hear you and we know our risk. You have
given us your friendship; we accept it, and are thankful, and seek no
more. God, you say, has brought our lady Rosamund to you for His own
purposes, of which you have no doubt since her face is the very face of
your dreams. Then let His purposes be accomplished according to His
will, which may be in some way that we little guess. We abide His
judgment Who has guided us in the past, and will guide us in the
future.”

“Well spoken,” replied Saladin. “I have warned you, my guests,
therefore blame me not if I keep my word; but I ask no promise from you
who would not tempt noble knights to lie. Yes, Allah has set this
strange riddle; by Allah let it be answered in His season.”

Then he waved his hand to show that the audience was ended.




Chapter XVII.
The Brethren Depart from Damascus


At the court of Saladin Godwin and Wulf were treated with much honour.
A house was given them to dwell in, and a company of servants to
minister to their comfort and to guard them. Mounted on their swift
horses, Flame and Smoke, they were taken out into the desert to hunt,
and, had they so willed, it would have been easy for them to
out-distance their retinue and companions and ride away to the nearest
Christian town. Indeed, no hand would have been lifted to stay them who
were free to come or go. But whither were they to go without Rosamund?

Saladin they saw often, for it pleased him to tell them tales of those
days when their father and uncle were in the East, or to talk with them
of England and the Franks, and even now and again to reason with Godwin
on matters of religion. Moreover, to show his faith in them, he gave
them the rank of officers of his own bodyguard, and when, wearying of
idleness, they asked it of him, allowed them to take their share of
duty in the guarding of his palace and person. This, at a time when
peace still reigned between Frank and Saracen, the brethren were not
ashamed to do, who received no payment for their services.

Peace reigned indeed, but Godwin and Wulf could guess that it would not
reign for long. Damascus and the plain around it were one great camp,
and every day new thousands of wild tribesmen poured in and took up the
quarters that had been prepared for them. They asked Masouda, who knew
everything, what it meant. She answered:

“It means the _Jihad_, the Holy War, which is being preached in every
mosque throughout the East. It means that the great struggle between
Cross and Crescent is at hand, and then, pilgrims Peter and John, you
will have to choose your standard.”

“There can be little doubt about that,” said Wulf.

“None,” replied Masouda, with one of her smiles, “only it may pain you
to have to make war upon the princess of Baalbec and her uncle, the
Commander of the Faithful.” Then she went, still smiling.

For this was the trouble of it: Rosamund, their cousin and their love,
had in truth become the princess of Baalbec—for them. She lived in
great state and freedom, as Saladin had promised that she should live
in his letter to Sir Andrew D’Arcy. No insult or violence were offered
to her faith; no suitor was thrust upon her. But she was in a land
where women do not consort with men, especially if they be high-placed.
As a princess of the empire of Saladin, she must obey its rules, even
to veiling herself when she went abroad, and exchanging no private
words with men. Godwin and Wulf prayed Saladin that they might be
allowed to speak with her from time to time, but he only answered
shortly:

“Sir Knights, our customs are our customs. Moreover, the less you see
of the princess of Baalbec the better I think it will be for her, for
you, whose blood I do not wish to have upon my hands, and for myself,
who await the fulfilment of that dream which the angel brought.”

Then the brethren left his presence sore at heart, for although they
saw her from time to time at feasts and festivals, Rosamund was as far
apart from them as though she sat in Steeple Hall—ay, and further. Also
they came to see that of rescuing her from Damascus there was no hope
at all. She dwelt in her own palace, whereof the walls were guarded
night and day by a company of the Sultan’s Mameluks, who knew that they
were answerable for her with their lives. Within its walls, again,
lived trusted eunuchs, under the command of a cunning fellow named
Mesrour, and her retinue of women, all of them spies and watchful. How
could two men hope to snatch her from the heart of such a host and to
spirit her out of Damascus and through its encircling armies?

One comfort, however, was left to them. When she reached the court
Rosamund had prayed of the Sultan that Masouda should not be separated
from her, and this because of the part she had played in his niece’s
rescue from the power of Sinan, he had granted, though doubtfully.
Moreover, Masouda, being a person of no account except for her beauty,
and a heretic, was allowed to go where she would and to speak with whom
she wished. So, as she wished to speak often with Godwin, they did not
lack for tidings of Rosamund.

From her they learned that in a fashion the princess was happy
enough—who would not be that had just escaped from Al-je-bal?—yet weary
of the strange Eastern life, of the restraints upon her, and of her
aimless days; vexed also that she might not mix with the brethren. Day
by day she sent them her greetings, and with them warnings to attempt
nothing—not even to see her—since there was no hope that they would
succeed. So much afraid of them was the Sultan, Rosamund said, that
both she and they were watched day and night, and of any folly their
lives would pay the price. When they heard all this the brethren began
to despair, and their spirits sank so low that they cared not what
should happen to them.

Then it was that a chance came to them of which the issue was to make
them still more admired by Saladin and to lift Masouda to honour. One
hot morning they were seated in the courtyard of their house beside the
fountain, staring at the passers-by through the bars of the bronze
gates and at the sentries who marched to and fro before them. This
house was in one of the principal thoroughfares of Damascus, and in
front of it flowed continually an unending, many-coloured stream of
folk.

There were white-robed Arabs of the desert, mounted on their grumbling
camels; caravans of merchandise from Egypt or elsewhere; asses laden
with firewood or the grey, prickly growth of the wild thyme for the
bakers’ ovens; water-sellers with their goatskin bags and chinking
brazen cups; vendors of birds or sweetmeats; women going to the bath in
closed and curtained litters, escorted by the eunuchs of their
households; great lords riding on their Arab horses and preceded by
their runners, who thrust the crowd asunder and beat the poor with
rods; beggars, halt, maimed, and blind, beseeching alms; lepers, from
whom all shrank away, who wailed their woes aloud; stately companies of
soldiers, some mounted and some afoot; holy men, who gave blessings and
received alms; and so forth, without number and without end.

Godwin and Wulf, seated in the shade of the painted house, watched them
gloomily. They were weary of this ever-changing sameness, weary of the
eternal glare and glitter of this unfamiliar life, weary of the
insistent cries of the mullahs on the minarets, of the flash of the
swords that would soon be red with the blood of their own people;
weary, too, of the hopeless task to which they were sworn. Rosamund was
one of this multitude; she was the princess of Baalbec, half an Eastern
by her blood, and growing more Eastern day by day—or so they thought in
their bitterness. As well might two Saracens hope to snatch the queen
of England from her palace at Westminster, as they to drag the princess
of Baalbec out of the power of a monarch more absolute than any king of
England.

So they sat silent since they had nothing to say, and stared now at the
passing crowd, and now at the thin stream of water falling continually
into the marble basin.

Presently they heard voices at the gate, and, looking up, saw a woman
wrapped in a long cloak, talking with the guard, who with a laugh
thrust out his arm, as though to place it round her. Then a knife
flashed, and the soldier stepped back, still laughing, and opened the
wicket. The woman came in. It was Masouda. They rose and bowed to her,
but she passed before them into the house. Thither they followed, while
the soldier at the gate laughed again, and at the sound of his mockery
Godwin’s cheek grew red. Even in the cool, darkened room she noticed
it, and said, bitterly enough:

“What does it matter? Such insults are my daily bread whom they
believe—” and she stopped.

“They had best say nothing of what they believe to me,” muttered
Godwin.

“I thank you,” Masouda answered, with a sweet, swift smile, and,
throwing off her cloak, stood before them unveiled, clad in the white
robes that befitted her tall and graceful form so well, and were
blazoned on the breast with the cognizance of Baalbec. “Well for you,”
she went on, “that they hold me to be what I am not, since otherwise I
should win no entry to this house.”

“What of our lady Rosamund?” broke in Wulf awkwardly, for, like Godwin,
he was pained.

Masouda laid her hand upon her breast as though to still its heaving,
then answered:

“The princess of Baalbec, my mistress, is well and as ever, beautiful,
though somewhat weary of the pomp in which she finds no joy. She sent
her greetings, but did not say to which of you they should be
delivered, so, pilgrims, you must share them.”

Godwin winced, but Wulf asked if there were any hope of seeing her, to
which Masouda answered:

“None,” adding, in a low voice, “I come upon another business. Do you
brethren wish to do Salah-ed-din a service?”

“I don’t know. What is it?” asked Godwin gloomily.

“Only to save his life—for which he may be grateful, or may not,
according to his mood.”

“Speak on,” said Godwin, “and tell us how we two Franks can save the
life of the Sultan of the East.”

“Do you still remember Sinan and his _fedaïs?_ Yes—they are not easily
forgotten, are they? Well, to-night he has plotted to murder
Salah-ed-din, and afterwards to murder you if he can, and to carry away
your lady Rosamund if he can, or, failing that, to murder her also. Oh!
the tale is true enough. I have it from one of them under the
Signet—surely that Signet has served us well—who believes, poor fool,
that I am in the plot. Now, you are the officers of the bodyguard who
watch in the ante-chamber to-night, are you not? Well, when the guard
is changed at midnight, the eight men who should replace them at the
doors of the room of Salah-ed-din will not arrive; they will be decoyed
away by a false order. In their stead will come eight murderers,
disguised in the robes and arms of Mameluks. They look to deceive and
cut you down, kill Salah-ed-din, and escape by the further door. Can
you hold your own awhile against eight men, think you?”

“We have done so before and will try,” answered Wulf. “But how shall we
know that they are not Mameluks?”

“Thus—they will wish to pass the door, and you will say, ‘Nay, sons of
Sinan,’ whereon they will spring on you to kill you. Then be ready and
shout aloud.”

“And if they overcome us,” asked Godwin, “then the Sultan would be
slain?”

“Nay, for you must lock the door of the chamber of Salah-ed-din and
hide away the key. The sound of the fighting will arouse the outer
guard ere hurt can come to him. Or,” she added, after thinking awhile,
“perhaps it will be best to reveal the plot to the Sultan at once.”

“No, no,” answered Wulf; “let us take the chance. I weary of doing
nothing here. Hassan guards the outer gate. He will come swiftly at the
sound of blows.”

“Good,” said Masouda; “I will see that he is there and awake. Now
farewell, and pray that we may meet again. I say nothing of this story
to the princess Rosamund until it is done with.” Then throwing her
cloak about her shoulders, she turned and went.

“Is that true, think you?” asked Wulf of Godwin.

“We have never found Masouda to be a liar,” was his answer. “Come; let
us see to our armour, for the knives of those _fedaï_ are sharp.”

It was near midnight, and the brethren stood in the small, domed
ante-chamber, from which a door opened into the sleeping rooms of
Saladin. The guard of eight Mameluks had left them, to be met by their
relief in the courtyard, according to custom, but no relief had as yet
appeared in the ante-chamber.

“It would seem that Masouda’s tale is true,” said Godwin, and going to
the door he locked it, and hid the key beneath a cushion.

Then they took their stand in front of the locked door, before which
hung curtains, standing in the shadow with the light from the hanging
silver lamps pouring down in front of them. Here they waited awhile in
silence, till at length they heard the tramp of men, and eight
Mameluks, clad in yellow above their mail, marched in and saluted.

“Stand!” said Godwin, and they stood a minute, then began to edge
forward.

“Stand!” said both the brethren again, but still they edged forward.

“Stand, sons of Sinan!” they said a third time, drawing their swords.

Then with a hiss of disappointed rage the _fedaï_ came at them.

“_A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy!_ Help for the Sultan!” shouted the brethren, and
the fray began.

Six of the men attacked them, and while they were engaged with these
the other two slipped round and tried the door, only to find it fast.
Then they also turned upon the brethren, thinking to take the key from
off their bodies. At the first rush two of the _fedaï_ went down
beneath the sweep of the long swords, but after that the murderers
would not come close, and while some engaged them in front, others
strove to pass and stab them from behind. Indeed, a blow from one of
their long knives fell upon Godwin’s shoulder, but the good mail turned
it.

“Give way,” he cried to Wulf, “or they will best us.”

So suddenly they gave way before them till their backs were against the
door, and there they stood, shouting for help and sweeping round them
with their swords into reach of which the _fedaï_ dare not come. Now
from without the chamber rose a cry and tumult, and the sound of heavy
blows falling upon the gates that the murderers had barred behind them,
while upon the further side of the door, which he could not open, was
heard the voice of the Sultan demanding to know what passed.

The _fedaï_ heard these sounds also, and read in them their doom.
Forgetting caution in their despair and rage, they hurled themselves
upon the brethren, for they thought that if they could get them down
they might still break through the door and slay Salah-ed-din before
they themselves were slain. But for awhile the brethren stopped their
rush with point and buckler, wounding two of them sorely; and when at
length they closed in upon them, the gates were burst, and Hassan and
the outer guard were at hand.

A minute later and, but little hurt, Godwin and Wulf were leaning on
their swords, and the _fedaï_, some of them dead or wounded and some of
them captive, lay before them on the marble floor. Moreover, the door
had been opened, and through it came the Sultan in his nightgear.

“What has chanced?” he asked, looking at them doubtfully.

“Only this, lord,” answered Godwin; “these men came to kill you and we
held them off till help arrived.”

“Kill me! My own guard kill me?”

“They are not your guard; they are _fedaï_, disguised as your guard,
and sent by Al-je-bal, as he promised.”

Now Salah-ed-din turned pale, for he who feared nothing else was all
his life afraid of the Assassins and their lord, who thrice had striven
to murder him.

“Strip the armour from those men,” went on Godwin, “and I think that
you will find truth in my words, or, if not, question such of them as
still live.”

They obeyed, and there upon the breast of one of them, burnt into his
skin, was the symbol of the blood-red dagger. Now Saladin saw, and
beckoned the brethren aside.

“How knew you of this?” he asked, searching them with his piercing
eyes.

“Masouda, the lady Rosamund’s waiting woman, warned us that you, lord,
and we, were to be murdered tonight by eight men, so we made ready.”

“Why, then, did you not tell me?”

“Because,” answered Wulf, “we were not sure that the news was true, and
did not wish to bring false tidings and be made foolish. Because, also,
my brother and I thought that we could hold our own awhile against
eight of Sinan’s rats disguised as soldiers of Saladin.”

“You have done it well, though yours was a mad counsel,” answered the
Sultan. Then he gave his hand first to one and next to the other, and
said, simply:

“Sir Knights, Salah-ed-din owes his life to you. Should it ever come
about that you owe your lives to Salah-ed-din, he will remember this.”

Thus this business ended. On the morrow those of the _fedaï_ who
remained alive were questioned, and confessing freely that they had
been sent to murder Salah-ed-din who had robbed their master of his
bride, the two Franks who had carried her off, and the woman Masouda
who had guided them, they were put to death cruelly enough. Also many
others in the city were seized and killed on suspicion, so that for
awhile there was no more fear from the Assassins.

Now from that day forward Saladin held the brethren in great
friendship, and pressed gifts upon them and offered them honours. But
they refused them all, saying that they needed but one thing of him,
and he knew what it was—an answer at which his face sank.

One morning he sent for them, and, except for the presence of prince
Hassan, the most favourite of his emirs, and a famous imaum, or priest
of his religion, received them alone.

“Listen,” he said briefly, addressing Godwin. “I understand that my
niece, the princess of Baalbec, is beloved by you. Good. Subscribe the
Koran, and I give her to you in marriage, for thus also she may be led
to the true faith, whom I have sworn not to force thereto, and I gain a
great warrior and Paradise a brave soul. The imaum here will instruct
you in the truth.”

Thus he spoke, but Godwin only stared at him with eyes set wide in
wonderment, and answered:

“Sire, I thank you, but I cannot change my faith to win a woman,
however dearly I may love her.”

“So I thought,” said Saladin with a sigh, “though indeed it is sad that
superstition should thus blind so brave and good a man. Now, Sir Wulf,
it is your turn. What say you to my offer? Will you take the princess
and her dominions with my love thrown in as a marriage portion?”

Wulf thought a moment, and as he thought there arose in his mind a
vision of an autumn afternoon that seemed years and years ago, when
they two and Rosamund had stood by the shrine of St. Chad on the shores
of Essex, and jested of this very matter of a change of faith. Then he
answered, with one of his great laughs:

“Ay, sire, but on my own terms, not on yours, for if I took these I
think that my marriage would lack blessings. Nor, indeed, would
Rosamund wish to wed a servant of your Prophet, who if it pleased him
might take other wives.”

Saladin leant his head upon his hand, and looked at them with
disappointed eyes, yet not unkindly.

“The knight Lozelle was a Cross-worshipper,” he said, “but you two are
very different from the knight Lozelle, who accepted the Faith when it
was offered to him—”

“To win your trade,” said Godwin, bitterly.

“I know not,” answered Saladin, “though it is true the man seems to
have been a Christian among the Franks, who here was a follower of the
Prophet. At least, he is dead at your hands, and though he sinned
against me and betrayed my niece to Sinan, peace be with his soul. Now
I have one more thing to say to you. That Frank, Prince Arnat of Karak,
whom you call Reginald de Chatillon—accursed be his name!—” and he spat
upon the ground, “has once more broken the peace between me and the
king of Jerusalem, slaughtering my merchants, and stealing my goods. I
will suffer this shame no more, and very shortly I unfurl my standards,
which shall not be folded up again until they float upon the mosque of
Omar and from every tower top in Palestine. Your people are doomed. I,
Yusuf Salah-ed-din,” and he rose as he said the words, his very beard
bristling with wrath, “declare the Holy War, and will sweep them to the
sea. Choose now, you brethren. Do you fight for me or against me? Or
will you give up your swords and bide here as my prisoners?”

“We are the servants of the Cross,” answered Godwin, “and cannot lift
steel against it and thereby lose our souls.” Then he spoke with Wulf,
and added, “As to your second question, whether we should bide here in
chains. It is one that our lady Rosamund must answer, for we are sworn
to her service. We demand to see the princess of Baalbec.”

“Send for her, Emir,” said Saladin to the prince Hassan, who bowed and
departed.

A while later Rosamund came, looking beautiful but, as they saw when
she threw back her veil, very white and weary. She bowed to Saladin,
and the brethren, who were not allowed to touch her hand, bowed to her,
devouring her face with eager eyes.

“Greeting, my uncle,” she said to the Sultan, “and to you, my cousins,
greeting also. What is your pleasure with me?”

Saladin motioned to her to be seated and bade Godwin set out the case,
which he did very clearly, ending:

“Is it your wish, Rosamund, that we stay in this court as prisoners, or
go forth to fight with the Franks in the great war that is to be?”

Rosamund looked at them awhile, then answered:

“To whom were you sworn the first? Was it to the service of our Lord,
or to the service of a woman? I have said.”

“Such words as we expected from you, being what you are,” exclaimed
Godwin, while Wulf nodded his head in assent, and added:

“Sultan, we ask your safe conduct to Jerusalem, and leave this lady in
your charge, relying on your plighted word to do no violence to her
faith and to protect her person.”

“My safe conduct you have,” replied Saladin, “and my friendship also.
Nor, indeed, should I have thought well of you had you decided
otherwise. Now, henceforth we are enemies in the eyes of all men, and I
shall strive to slay you as you will strive to slay me. But as regards
this lady, have no fear. What I have promised shall be fulfilled. Bid
her farewell, whom you will see no more.”

“Who taught your lips to say such words, O Sultan?” asked Godwin. “Is
it given to you to read the future and the decrees of God?”

“I should have said,” answered Saladin, “‘Whom you will see no more if
I am able to keep you apart.’ Can you complain who, both of you, have
refused to take her as a wife?”

Here Rosamund looked up wondering, and Wulf broke in:

“Tell her the price. Tell her that she was asked to wed either of us
who would bow the knee to Mahomet, and to be the head of his harem, and
I think that she will not blame us.”

“Never would I have spoken again to him who answered otherwise,”
exclaimed Rosamund, and Saladin frowned at the words. “Oh! my uncle,”
she went on, “you have been kind to me and raised me high, but I do not
seek this greatness, nor are your ways my ways, who am of a faith that
you call accursed. Let me go, I beseech you, in care of these my
kinsmen.”

“And your lovers,” said Saladin bitterly. “Niece, it cannot be. I love
you well, but did I know even that your life must pay the price of your
sojourn here, here you still should stay, since, as my dream told me,
on you hang the lives of thousands, and I believe that dream. What,
then, is your life, or the lives of these knights, or even my life,
that any or all of them should turn the scale against those of
thousands. Oh! everything that my empire can give is at your feet, but
here you stay until the dream be accomplished, and,” he added, looking
at the brethren, “death shall be the portion of any who would steal you
from my hand.”

“Until the dream be accomplished?” said Rosamund catching at the words.
“Then, when it is accomplished, shall I be free?”

“Ay,” answered the Sultan; “free to come or to go, unless you attempt
escape, for then you know your certain doom.”

“It is a decree. Take note, my cousins, it is a decree. And you, prince
Hassan, remember it also. Oh! I pray with all my soul I pray, that it
was no lying spirit who brought you that dream, my uncle, though how I
shall bring peace, who hitherto have brought nothing except war and
bloodshed, I know not. Now go, my cousins but, if you will, leave me
Masouda, who has no other friends. Go, and take my love and blessing
with you, ay, and the blessing of Jesu and His saints which shall
protect you in the hour of battle, and bring us together again.”

So spoke Rosamund and threw her veil before her face that she might
hide her tears.

Then Godwin and Wulf stepped to where she stood by the throne of
Saladin, bent the knee before her, and, taking her hand, kissed it in
farewell, nor did the Sultan say them nay. But when she was gone and
the brethren were gone, he turned to the emir Hassan and to the great
imaum who had sat silent all this while, and said:

“Now tell me, you who are old and wise, which of those men does the
lady love? Speak, Hassan, you who know her well.”

But Hassan shook his head. “One or the other. Both or neither—I know
not,” he answered. “Her counsel is too close for me.”

Then Saladin turned to the imaum—a cunning, silent man.

“When both the infidels are about to die before her face, as I still
hope to see them do, we may learn the answer. But unless she wills it,
never before,” he replied, and the Sultan noted his saying.

Next morning, having been warned that they would pass there by Masouda,
Rosamund, watching through the lattice of one of her palace windows,
saw the brethren go by. They were fully armed and, mounted on their
splendid chargers Flame and Smoke, looked glorious men as, followed by
their escort of swarthy, turbaned Mameluks, they rode proudly side by
side, the sunlight glinting on their mail. Opposite to her house they
halted awhile, and, knowing that Rosamund watched, although they could
not see her, drew their swords and lifted them in salute. Then
sheathing them again, they rode forward in silence, and soon were lost
to sight.

Little did Rosamund guess how different they would appear when they
three met again. Indeed, she scarcely dared to hope that they would
ever meet, for she knew well that even if the war went in favour of the
Christians she would be hurried away to some place where they would
never find her. She knew well also that from Damascus her rescue was
impossible, and that although Saladin loved them, as he loved all who
were honest and brave, he would receive them no more as friends, for
fear lest they should rob him of her, whom he hoped in some way
unforeseen would enable him to end his days in peace. Moreover, the
struggle between Cross and Crescent would be fierce and to the death,
and she was sure that where was the closest fighting there in the midst
of it would be found Godwin and Wulf. Well might it chance, therefore,
that her eyes had looked their last upon them.

Oh! she was great. Gold was hers, with gems more than she could count,
and few were the weeks that did not bring her added wealth or gifts.
She had palaces to dwell in—alone; gardens to wander in—alone; eunuchs
and slaves to rule over—alone. But never a friend had she, save the
woman of the Assassins, to whom she clung because she, Masouda, had
saved her from Sinan, and who clung to her, why, Rosamund could not be
sure, for there was a veil between their spirits.

They were gone—they were gone! Even the sound of their horses’ hoofs
had died away, and she was desolate as a child lost in a city full of
folk. Oh! and her heart was filled with fears for them, and most of all
for one of them. If he should not come back into it, what would her
life be?

Rosamund bowed her head and wept; then, hearing a sound behind her,
turned to see that Masouda was weeping also.

“Why do you weep?” she asked.

“The maid should copy her mistress,” answered Masouda with a hard
laugh; “but, lady, why do you weep? At least you are beloved, and, come
what may, nothing can take that from you. You are not of less value
than the good horse between the rider’s knees, or the faithful hound
that runs at his side.”

A thought rose in Rosamund’s mind—a new and terrible thought. The eyes
of the two women met, and those of Rosamund asked, “Which?” anxiously
as once in the moonlight she had asked it with her voice from the gate
above the Narrow Way. Between them stood a table inlaid with ivory and
pearl, whereon the dust from the street had gathered through the open
lattice. Masouda leaned over, and with her forefinger wrote a single
Arabic letter in the dust upon the table, then passed her hand across
it.

Rosamund’s breast heaved twice or thrice and was still. Then she asked:

“Why did not you who are free go with him?”

“Because he prayed me to bide here and watch over the lady whom he
loved. So to the death—I watch.”

Slowly Masouda spoke, and the heavy words seemed like blood dropping
from a death wound. Then she sank forward into the arms of Rosamund.




Chapter XVIII.
Wulf Pays for the Drugged Wine


Many a day had gone by since the brethren bade farewell to Rosamund at
Damascus. Now, one burning July night, they sat upon their horses, the
moonlight gleaming on their mail. Still as statues they sat, looking
out from a rocky mountain top across that grey and arid plain which
stretches from near Nazareth to the lip of the hills at whose foot lies
Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee. Beneath them, camped around the
fountain of Seffurieh, were spread the hosts of the Franks to which
they did sentinel; thirteen hundred knights, twenty thousand foot, and
hordes of Turcopoles—that is, natives of the country, armed after the
fashion of the Saracens. Two miles away to the southeast glimmered the
white houses of Nazareth, set in the lap of the mountains. Nazareth,
the holy city, where for thirty years lived and toiled the Saviour of
the world. Doubtless, thought Godwin, His feet had often trod that
mountain whereon they stood, and in the watered vales below His hands
had sped the plow or reaped the corn. Long, long had His voice been
silent, yet to Godwin’s ears it still seemed to speak in the murmur of
the vast camp, and to echo from the slopes of the Galilean hills, and
the words it said were: “I bring not peace, but a sword.”

To-morrow they were to advance, so rumour said, across yonder desert
plain and give battle to Saladin, who lay with all his power by Hattin,
above Tiberias.

Godwin and his brother thought that it was a madness; for they had seen
the might of the Saracens and ridden across that thirsty plain beneath
the summer sun. But who were they, two wandering, unattended knights,
that they should dare to lift up their voices against those of the
lords of the land, skilled from their birth in desert warfare? Yet
Godwin’s heart was troubled and fear took hold of him, not for himself,
but for all the countless army that lay asleep yonder, and for the
cause of Christendom, which staked its last throw upon this battle.

“I go to watch yonder; bide you here,” he said to Wulf, and, turning
the head of Flame, rode some sixty yards over a shoulder of the rock to
the further edge of the mountain which looked towards the north. Here
he could see neither the camp, nor Wulf, nor any living thing, but
indeed was utterly alone. Dismounting, and bidding the horse stand,
which it would do like a dog, he walked forward a few steps to where
there was a rock, and, kneeling down, began to pray with all the
strength of his pure, warrior heart.

“O Lord,” he prayed, “Who once wast man and a dweller in these
mountains, and knowest what is in man, hear me. I am afraid for all the
thousands who sleep round Nazareth; not for myself, who care nothing
for my life, but for all those, Thy servants and my brethren. Yes, and
for the Cross upon which Thou didst hang, and for the faith itself
throughout the East. Oh! give me light! Oh! let me hear and see, that I
may warn them, unless my fears are vain!”

So he murmured to Heaven above and beat his hands against his brow,
praying, ever praying, as he had never prayed before, that wisdom and
vision might be given to his soul.

It seemed to Godwin that a sleep fell on him—at least, his mind grew
clouded and confused. Then it cleared again, slowly, as stirred water
clears, till it was bright and still; yet another mind to that which
was his servant day by day which never could see or hear those things
he saw and heard in that strange hour. Lo! he heard the spirits pass,
whispering as they went; whispering, and, as it seemed to him, weeping
also for some great woe which was to be; weeping yonder over Nazareth.
Then like curtains the veils were lifted from his eyes, and as they
swung aside he saw further, and yet further.

He saw the king of the Franks in his tent beneath, and about him the
council of his captains, among them the fierce-eyed master of the
Templars, and a man whom he had seen in Jerusalem where they had been
dwelling, and knew for Count Raymond of Tripoli, the lord of Tiberias.
They were reasoning together, till, presently, in a rage, the Master of
the Templars drew his sword and dashed it down upon the table.

Another veil was lifted, and lo! he saw the camp of Saladin, the
mighty, endless camp, with its ten thousand tents, amongst which the
Saracens cried to Allah through all the watches of the night. He saw
the royal pavilion, and in it the Sultan walked to and fro alone—none
of his emirs, not even his son, were with him. He was lost in thought,
and Godwin read his thought.

It was: “Behind me the Jordan and the Sea of Galilee, into which, if my
flanks were turned, I should be driven, I and all my host. In front the
territories of the Franks, where I have no friend; and by Nazareth
their great army. Allah alone can help me. If they sit still and force
me to advance across the desert and attack them before my army melts
away, then I am lost. If they advance upon me round the Mountain Tabor
and by the watered land, I may be lost. But if—oh! if Allah should make
them mad, and they should strike straight across the desert—then, then
they are lost, and the reign of the Cross in Syria is forever at an
end. I will wait here. I will wait here....”

Look! near to the pavilion of Saladin stood another tent, closely
guarded, and in it on a cushioned bed lay two women. One was Rosamund,
but she slept sound; and the other was Masouda, and she was waking, for
her eyes met his in the darkness.

The last veil was withdrawn, and now Godwin saw a sight at which his
soul shivered. A fire-blackened plain, and above it a frowning
mountain, and that mountain thick, thick with dead, thousands and
thousands and thousands of dead, among which the hyenas wandered and
the night-birds screamed. He could see their faces, many of them he
knew again as those of living men whom he had met in Jerusalem and
elsewhere, or had noted with the army. He could hear also the moanings
of the few who were yet alive.

About that field—yes, and in the camp of Saladin, where lay more
dead—his body seemed to wander searching for something, he knew not
what, till it came to him that it was the corpse of Wulf for which he
sought and found it not—nay, nor his own either. Then once more he
heard the spirits pass—a very great company, for to them were gathered
all those dead—heard them pass away, wailing, ever more faintly wailing
for the lost cause of Christ, wailing over Nazareth.

Godwin awoke from his dream trembling, mounted his horse, and rode back
to Wulf. Beneath, as before, lay the sleeping camp, yonder stretched
the brown desert, and there sat Wulf watching both.

“Tell me,” asked Godwin, “how long is it since I left you?”

“Some few minutes—ten perhaps,” answered his brother.

“A short while to have seen so much,” replied Godwin. Then Wulf looked
at him curiously and asked:

“What have you seen?”

“If I told you, Wulf, you would not believe.”

“Tell me, and I will say.”

So Godwin told him all, and at the end asked him, “What think you?”

Wulf considered awhile, and answered:

“Well, brother, you have touched no wine to-day, so you are not drunk,
and you have done nothing foolish, so you are not mad. Therefore it
would seem that the saints have been talking to you, or, at least, so I
should think of any other man whom I knew to be as good as you are. Yet
it is folk like you that see visions, and those visions are not always
true, for sometimes, I believe, the devil is their showman. Our watch
is ended, for I hear the horses of the knights who come to relieve us.
Listen; this is my counsel. In the camp yonder is our friend with whom
we travelled from Jerusalem, Egbert, the bishop of Nazareth, who
marches with the host. Let us go to him and lay this matter before him,
for he is a holy man and learned; no false, self-seeking priest.”

Godwin nodded in assent, and presently, when the other knights were
come and they had made their report to them, they rode off together to
the tent of Egbert, and, leaving their horses in charge of a servant,
entered.

Egbert was an Englishman who had spent more than thirty years of his
life in the East, whereof the suns had tanned his wrinkled face to the
hue of bronze, that seemed the darker in contrast with his blue eyes
and snow-white hair and beard. Entering the tent, they found him at his
prayers before a little image of the Virgin, and stood with bowed heads
until he had finished. Presently he rose, and greeting them with a
blessing, asked them what they needed.

“Your counsel, holy father,” answered Wulf. “Godwin, set out your
tale.”

So, having seen that the tent flap was closed and that none lingered
near, Godwin told him his dream.

The old man listened patiently, nor did he seem surprised at this
strange story, since in those days men saw—or thought they saw—many
such visions, which were accepted by the Church as true.

When he had finished Godwin asked of him as he had asked of Wulf: “What
think you, holy father? Is this a dream, or is it a message? And if so,
from whom comes the message?”

“Godwin D’Arcy,” he answered, “in my youth I knew your father. It was I
who shrove him when he lay dying of his wounds, and a nobler soul never
passed from earth to heaven. After you had left Damascus, when you were
the guest of Saladin, we dwelt together in the same lodging in
Jerusalem, and together we travelled here, during all which time I
learned to know you also as the worthy son of a worthy sire—no
dissolute knight, but a true servant of the Church. It well may be that
to such a one as you foresight has been given, that through you those
who rule us may be warned, and all Christendom saved from great sorrow
and disgrace. Come; let us go to the king, and tell this story, for he
still sits in council yonder.”

So they went out together and rode to the royal tent. Here the bishop
was admitted, leaving them without.

Presently he returned and beckoned to them, and as they passed, the
guards whispered to them:

“A strange council, sirs, and a fateful!”

Already it was near midnight, but still the great pavilion was crowded
with barons and chief captains who sat in groups, or sat round a narrow
table made of boards placed upon trestles. At the head of that table
sat the king, Guy of Lusignan, a weak-faced man, clad in splendid
armour. On his right was the white-haired Count Raymond of Tripoli, and
on his left the black-bearded, frowning Master of the Templars, clad in
his white mantle on the left breast of which the red cross was
blazoned.

Words had been running high, their faces showed it, but just then a
silence reigned as though the disputants were weary, and the king
leaned back in his chair, passing his hand to and fro across his
forehead. He looked up, and seeing the bishop, asked peevishly:

“What is it now? Oh! I remember, some tale from those tall twin
knights. Well, bring them forward and speak it out, for we have no time
to lose.”

So the three of them came forward and at Godwin’s prayer the bishop
Egbert told of the vision that had come to him not more than an hour
ago while he kept watch upon the mountain top. At first one or two of
the barons seemed disposed to laugh, but when they looked at Godwin’s
high and spiritual face, their laughter died away, for it did not seem
wonderful to them that such a man should see visions. Indeed, as the
tale of the rocky hill and the dead who were stretched upon it went on,
they grew white with fear, and whitest of them all was the king, Guy of
Lusignan.

“Is all this true, Sir Godwin?” he asked, when the bishop had finished.

“It is true, my lord king,” answered Godwin.

“His word is not enough,” broke in the Master of the Templars. “Let him
swear to it on the Holy Rood, knowing that if he lies it will blast his
soul to all eternity.” And the council muttered, “Ay, let him swear.”

Now there was an annexe to the tent, rudely furnished as a chapel, and
at the end of this annexe a tall, veiled object. Rufinus, the bishop of
Acre, who was clad in the armour of a knight, went to the object, and
drawing the veil, revealed a broken, blackened cross, set around with
jewels, that stood about the height of a man above the ground, for all
the lower part was gone.

At the sight of it Godwin and every man present there fell upon his
knees, for since St. Helena found it, over seven centuries before, this
had been accounted the most precious relic in all Christendom; the very
wood upon which the Saviour suffered, as, indeed, it may have been.

Millions had worshipped it, tens of thousands had died for it, and now,
in the hour of this great struggle between Christ and the false prophet
it was brought from its shrine that the host which escorted it might
prove invincible in battle. Soldiers who fought around the very Cross
could not be defeated, they said, for, if need were, legions of angels
would come to aid them.

Godwin and Wulf stared at the relic with wonder, fear, and adoration.
There were the nail marks, there was the place where the scroll of
Pilate had been affixed above the holy head—almost could they seem to
see that Form divine and dying.

“Now,” broke in the voice of the Master of the Templars, “let Sir
Godwin D’Arcy swear to the truth of his tale upon this Rood.”

Rising from his knees Godwin advanced to the Cross, and laying his hand
upon the wood, said: “Upon the very Rood I swear that not much more
than an hour ago I saw the vision which has been told to the king’s
highness and to all; that I believe this vision was sent to me in
answer to my prayer to preserve our host and the holy city from the
power of the Saracen, and that it is a true foreshadowing of what will
come about should we advance upon the Sultan. I can say no more. I
swear, knowing that if I lie eternal damnation is my doom.”

The bishop drew back the covering over the Cross, and in silence the
council took their seats again about the table. Now the king was very
pale, and fearful; indeed a gloom lay upon all of them.

“It would seem,” he said, “that here a messenger has been sent to us
from heaven. Dare we disobey his message?”

The Grand Templar lifted his rugged, frowning face. “A messenger from
heaven, said you, king? To me he seems more like a messenger from
Saladin. Tell us, Sir Godwin, were not you and your brother once the
Sultan’s guests at Damascus?”

“That is so, my lord Templar. We left before the war was declared.”

“And,” went on the Master, “were you not officers of the Sultan’s
bodyguard?”

Now all looked intently at Godwin, who hesitated a little, foreseeing
how his answer would be read, whereon Wulf spoke in his loud voice:

“Ay, we acted as such for awhile, and—doubtless you have heard the
story—saved Saladin’s life when he was attacked by the Assassins.”

“Oh!” said the Templar with bitter sarcasm, “you saved Saladin’s life,
did you? I can well believe it. You, being Christians, who above
everything should desire the death of Saladin, saved his life! Now, Sir
Knights, answer me one more question—”

“Sir Templar, with my tongue or with my sword?” broke in Wulf, but the
king held up his hand and bade him be silent.

“A truce to your tavern ruffling, young sir, and answer,” went on the
Templar. “Or, rather, do you answer, Sir Godwin. Is your cousin,
Rosamund, the daughter of Sir Andrew D’Arcy, a niece of Saladin, and
has she been created by him princess of Baalbec, and is she at this
moment in his city of Damascus?”

“She is his niece,” answered Godwin quietly; “she is the princess of
Baalbec, but at this moment she is not in Damascus.”

“How do you know that, Sir Godwin?”

“I know it because in the vision of which you have been told I saw her
sleeping in a tent in the camp of Saladin.”

Now the council began to laugh, but Godwin, with a set, white face,
went on:

“Ay, my lord Templar, and near that very blazoned tent I saw scores of
the Templars and of the Hospitallers lying dead. Remember it when the
dreadful hour comes and you see them also.”

Now the laughter died away, and a murmur of fear ran round the board,
mixed with such words as “Wizardry.” “He has learnt it from the
Paynims.” “A black sorcerer, without doubt.”

Only the Templar, who feared neither man nor spirit, laughed, and gave
him the lie with his eyes.

“You do not believe me,” said Godwin, “nor will you believe me when I
say that while I was on guard on yonder hill-top I saw you wrangling
with the Count of Tripoli—ay, and draw your sword and dash it down in
front of him upon this very table.”

Now again the council stared and muttered, for they too had seen this
thing; but the Master answered:

“He may have learnt it otherwise than from an angel. Folk have been in
and out of this tent. My lord king, have we more time to waste upon
these visions of a knight of whom all we know for certain is, that like
his brother, he has been in the service of Saladin, which they left, he
says, in order to fight against him in this war. It may be so; it is
not for us to judge; though were the times different I would inform
against Sir Godwin D’Arcy as a sorcerer, and one who has been in
traitorous communication with our common foe.”

“And I would thrust the lie down your throat with my sword’s point!”
shouted Wulf.

But Godwin only shrugged: his shoulders and said nothing, and the
Master went on, taking no heed.

“King, we await your word, and it must be spoken soon, for in four
hours it will be dawn. Do we march against Saladin like bold, Christian
men, or do we bide here like cowards?”

Then Count Raymond of Tripoli rose, and said:

“Before you answer, king, hear me, if it be for the last time, who am
old in war and know the Saracens. My town of Tiberias is sacked; my
vassals have been put to the sword by thousands; my wife is imprisoned
in her citadel, and soon must yield, if she be not rescued. Yet I say
to you, and to the barons here assembled, better so than that you
should advance across the desert to attack Saladin. Leave Tiberias to
its fate and my wife with it, and save your army, which is the last
hope of the Christians of the East. Christ has no more soldiers in
these lands, Jerusalem has no other shield. The army of the Sultan is
larger than yours; his cavalry are more skilled. Turn his flank—or,
better still, bide here and await his attack, and victory will be to
the soldiers of the Cross. Advance and the vision of that knight at
whom you scoff will come true, and the cause of Christendom be lost in
Syria. I have spoken, and for the last time.”

“Like his friend the knight of Visions,” sneered the Grand Master, “the
count Raymond is an old ally of Saladin. Will you take such coward
council? On—on! and smite these heathen dogs, or be forever shamed. On,
in the name of the Cross! The Cross is with us!”

“Ay,” answered Raymond, “for the last time.”

Then there arose a tumult through which every man shouted to his
fellow, some saying one thing and some another, while the king sat at
the head of the board, his face hidden in his hands. Presently he
lifted it, and said:

“I command that we march at dawn. If the count Raymond and these
brethren think the words unwise, let them leave us and remain here
under guard until the issue be known.”

Now followed a great silence, for all there knew that the words were
fateful, in the midst of which Count Raymond said:

“Nay, I go with you,” while Godwin echoed, “And we go also to show
whether or not we are the spies of Saladin.”

Of these speeches none of them seemed to take heed, for all were lost
in their own thoughts. One by one they rose, bowed to the king, and
left the tent to give their commands and rest awhile, before it was
time to ride. Godwin and Wulf went also, and with them the bishop of
Nazareth, who wrung his hands and seemed ill at ease. But Wulf
comforted him, saying:

“Grieve no more, father; let us think of the joy of battle, not of the
sorrow by which it may be followed.”

“I find no joy in battles,” answered the holy Egbert.

When they had slept awhile, Godwin and Wulf rose and fed their horses.
After they had washed and groomed them, they tested and did on their
armour, then took them down to the spring to drink their fill, as their
masters did. Also Wulf, who was cunning in war, brought with him four
large wineskins which he had provided against this hour, and filling
them with pure water, fastened two of them with thongs behind the
saddle of Godwin and two behind his own. Further, he filled the
water-bottles at their saddle-bows, saying:

“At least we will be among the last to die of thirst.”

Then they went back and watched the host break its camp, which it did
with no light heart, for many of them knew of the danger in which they
stood; moreover, the tale of Godwin’s vision had been spread abroad.
Not knowing where to go, they and Egbert, the bishop of Nazareth—who
was unarmed and rode upon a mule, for stay behind he would not—joined
themselves to the great body of knights who followed the king. As they
did so, the Templars, five hundred strong, came up, a fierce and
gallant band, and the Master, who was at their head, saw the brethren
and called out, pointing to the wineskins which were hung behind their
saddles:

“What do these water-carriers here among brave knights who trust in God
alone?”

Wulf would have answered, but Godwin bade him be silent, saying:

“Fall back; we will find less ill-omened company.”

So they stood on one side and bowed themselves as the Cross went by,
guarded by the mailed bishop of Acre. Then came Reginald of Chatillon,
Saladin’s enemy, the cause of all this woe, who saw them and cried:

“Sir Knights, whatever they may say, I know you for brave men, for I
have heard the tale of your doings among the Assassins. There is room
for you among my suite—follow me.”

“As well him as another,” said Godwin. “Let us go where we are led.” So
they followed him.

By the time that the army reached Kenna, where once the water was made
wine, the July sun was already hot, and the spring was so soon drunk
dry that many men could get no water. On they pushed into the desert
lands below, which lay between them and Tiberias, and were bordered on
the right and left by hills. Now clouds of dust were seen moving across
the plains, and in the heart of them bodies of Saracen horsemen, which
continually attacked the vanguard under Count Raymond, and as
continually retreated before they could be crushed, slaying many with
their spears and arrows. Also these came round behind them, and charged
the rearguard, where marched the Templars and the light-armed troops
named Turcopoles, and the band of Reginald de Chatillon, with which
rode the brethren.

From noon till near sundown the long harassed line, broken now into
fragments, struggled forward across the rough, stony plain, the burning
heat beating upon their armour till the air danced about it as it does
before a fire. Towards evening men and horses became exhausted, and the
soldiers cried to their captains to lead them to water. But in that
place there was no water. The rearguard fell behind, worn out with
constant attacks that must be repelled in the burning heat, so that
there was a great gap between it and the king who marched in the
centre. Messages reached them to push on, but they could not, and at
length camp was pitched in the desert near a place called Marescalcia,
and upon this camp Raymond and his vanguard were forced back. As Godwin
and Wulf rode up, they saw him come in bringing his wounded with him,
and heard him pray the king to push on and at all hazards to cut his
way through to the lake, where they might drink—ay, and heard the king
say that he could not, since the soldiers would march no more that day.
Then Raymond wrung his hands in despair and rode back to his men,
crying aloud:

“Alas! alas! Oh! Lord God, alas! We are dead, and Thy Kingdom is lost.”

That night none slept, for all were athirst, and who can sleep with a
burning throat? Now also Godwin and Wulf were no longer laughed at
because of the water-skins they carried on their horses. Rather did
great nobles come to them, and almost on their knees crave for the boon
of a single cup. Having watered their horses sparingly from a bowl,
they gave what they could, till at length only two skins remained, and
one of these was spilt by a thief, who crept up and slashed it with his
knife that he might drink while the water ran to waste. After this the
brethren drew their swords and watched, swearing that they would kill
any man who so much as touched the skin which was left. All that long
night through there arose a confused clamour from the camp, of which
the burden seemed to be, “Water! Give us water!” while from without
came the shouts of the Saracens calling upon Allah. Here, too, the hot
ground was covered with scrub dried to tinder by the summer drought,
and to this the Saracens set fire so that the smoke rolled down on the
Christian host and choked them, and the place became a hell.

Day dawned at last; and the army was formed up in order of battle, its
two wings being thrown forward. Thus they struggled on, those of them
that were not too weak to stir, who were slaughtered as they lay. Nor
as yet did the Saracens attack them, since they knew that the sun was
stronger than all their spears. On they laboured towards the northern
wells, till about mid-day the battle began with a flight of arrows so
thick that for awhile it hid the heavens.

After this came charge and counter-charge, attack and repulse, and
always above the noise of war that dreadful cry for water. What chanced
Godwin and Wulf never knew, for the smoke and dust blinded them so that
they could see but a little way. At length there was a last furious
charge, and the knights with whom they were clove the dense mass of
Saracens like a serpent of steel, leaving a broad trail of dead behind
them. When they pulled rein and wiped the sweat from their eyes it was
to find themselves with thousands of others upon the top of a steep
hill, of which the sides were thick with dry grass and bush that
already was being fired.

“The Rood! The Rood! Rally round the Rood!” said a voice, and looking
behind them they saw the black and jewelled fragment of the true Cross
set upon a rock, and by it the bishop of Acre. Then the smoke of the
burning grass rose up and hid it from their sight.

Now began one of the most hideous fights that is told of in the history
of the world. Again and again the Saracens attacked in thousands, and
again and again they were driven back by the desperate valour of the
Franks, who fought on, their jaws agape with thirst. A blackbearded man
stumbled up to the brethren, his tongue protruding from his lips, and
they knew him for the Master of the Templars.

“For the love of Christ, give me to drink,” he said, recognizing them
as the knights at whom he had mocked as water-carriers.

They gave him of the little they had left, and while they and their
horses drank the rest themselves, saw him rush down the hill refreshed,
shaking his red sword. Then came a pause, and they heard the voice of
the bishop of Nazareth, who had clung to them all this while, saying,
as though to himself:

“And here it was that the Saviour preached the Sermon on the Mount.
Yes, He preached the words of peace upon this very spot. Oh! it cannot
be that He will desert us—it cannot be.”

While the Saracens held off, the soldiers began to put up the king’s
pavilion, and with it other tents, around the rock on which stood the
Cross.

“Do they mean to camp here?” asked Wulf bitterly.

“Peace,” answered Godwin; “they hope to make a wall about the Rood. But
it is of no avail, for this is the place of my dream.”

Wulf shrugged his shoulders. “At least, let us die well,” he said.

Then the last attack began. Up the hillside rose dense volumes of
smoke, and with the smoke came the Saracens. Thrice they were driven
back; thrice they came on. At the fourth onset few of the Franks could
fight more, for thirst had conquered them on this waterless hill of
Hattin. They lay down upon the dry grass with gaping jaws and
protruding tongues, and let themselves be slain or taken prisoners. A
great company of Saracen horsemen broke through the ring and rushed at
the scarlet tent. It rocked to and fro, then down it fell in a red
heap, entangling the king in its folds.

At the foot of the Cross, Rufinus, the bishop of Acre, still fought on
bravely. Suddenly an arrow struck him in the throat, and throwing his
arms wide, he fell to earth. Then the Saracens hurled themselves upon
the Rood, tore it from its place, and with mockery and spittings bore
it down the hill towards their camp, as ants may be seen carrying a
little stick into their nest, while all who were left alive of the
Christian army stared upwards, as though they awaited some miracle from
Heaven. But no angels appeared in the brazen sky, and knowing that God
had deserted them, they groaned aloud in their shame and wretchedness.

“Come,” said Godwin to Wulf in a strange, quiet voice. “We have seen
enough. It is time to die. Look! yonder below us are the Mameluks, our
old regiment, and amongst them Saladin, for I see his banner. Having
had water, we and our horses are still fresh and strong. Now, let us
make an end of which they will tell in Essex yonder. Charge for the
flag of Saladin!”

Wulf nodded, and side by side they sped down the hill. Scimitars
flashed at them, arrows struck upon their mail and the shields blazoned
with the Death’s-head D’Arcy crest. Through it all they went unscathed,
and while the army of the Saracens stared, at the foot of the Horn of
Hattin turned their horses’ heads straight for the royal standard of
Saladin. On they struggled, felling or riding down a foe at every
stride. On, still on, although Flame and Smoke bled from a score of
wounds.

They were among the Mameluks, where their line was thin; by Heaven!
they were through them, and riding straight at the well-known figure of
the Sultan, mounted on his white horse with his young son and his emir,
the prince Hassan, at his side.

“Saladin for you, Hassan for me,” shouted Wulf.

Then they met, and all the host of Islam cried out in dismay as they
saw the Commander of the Faithful and his horse borne to the earth
before the last despairing charge of these mad Christian knights.
Another instant, and the Sultan was on his feet again, and a score of
scimitars were striking at Godwin. His horse Flame sank down dying, but
he sprang from the saddle, swinging the long sword. Now Saladin
recognized the crest upon his buckler, and cried out:

“Yield you, Sir Godwin! You have done well—yield you!”

But Godwin, who would not yield, answered:

“When I am dead—not before.”

Thereupon Saladin spoke a word, and while certain of his Mameluks
engaged Godwin in front, keeping out of reach of that red and terrible
sword, others crept up behind, and springing on him, seized his arms
and dragged him to the ground, where they bound him fast.

Meanwhile Wulf had fared otherwise, for it was his horse Smoke, already
stabbed to the vitals, that fell as he plunged on prince Hassan. Yet he
also arose but little hurt, and cried out:

“Thus, Hassan, old foe and friend, we meet at last in war. Come, I
would pay the debt I owe you for that drugged wine, man to man and
sword to sword.”

“Indeed, it is due, Sir Wulf,” answered the prince, laughing. “Guards,
touch not this brave knight who has dared so much to reach me. Sultan,
I ask a boon. Between Sir Wulf and me there is an ancient quarrel that
can only be washed away in blood. Let it be decided here and now, and
let this be your decree—that if I fall in fair fight, none shall set
upon my conqueror, and no vengeance shall be taken for my blood.”

“Good,” said Saladin. “Then Sir Wulf shall be my prisoner and no more,
as his brother is already. I owe it to the men who saved my life when
we were friends. Give the Frank to drink that the fight may be fair.”

So they gave Wulf a cup of which he drank, and when he had done it was
handed to Godwin. For even the Mameluks knew and loved these brethren
who had been their officers, and praised the fierce charge that they
had dared to make alone.

Hassan sprang to the ground, saying:

“Your horse is dead, Sir Wulf, so we must fight afoot.”

“Generous as ever,” laughed Wulf. “Even the poisoned wine was a gift!”

“If so, for the last time, I fear me,” answered Hassan with a smile.

Then they faced each other, and oh! the scene was strange. Up on the
slopes of Hattin the fight still raged. There amidst the smoke and
fires of the burning grass little companies of soldiers stood back to
back while the Saracens wheeled round them, thrusting and cutting at
them till they fell. Here and there knights charged singly or in
groups, and so came to death or capture. About the plain hundreds of
foot soldiers were being slaughtered, while their officers were taken
prisoners. Towards the camp of Saladin a company advanced with sounds
of triumph, carrying aloft a black stump which was the holy Rood, while
others drove or led mobs of prisoners, among them the king and his
chosen knights.

The wilderness was red with blood, the air was rent with shouts of
victory and cries of agony or despair. And there, in the midst of it
all, ringed round with grave, courteous Saracens, stood the emir, clad
above his mail in his white robe and jewelled turban, facing the great
Christian knight, with harness hacked and reddened, the light of battle
shining in his fierce eyes, and a smile upon his stained features.

For those who watched the battle was forgotten—or, rather, its interest
was centred on this point.

“It will be a good fight,” said one of them to Godwin, whom they had
suffered to rise, “for though your brother is the younger and the
heavier man, he is hurt and weary, whereas the emir is fresh and
unwounded. Ah! they are at it!”

Hassan had struck first and the blow went home. Falling upon the point
of Wulf’s steel helm, the heavy, razoredged scimitar glanced from it
and shore away the links from the flap which hung upon his shoulder,
causing the Frank to stagger. Again he struck, this time upon the
shield, and so heavily that Wulf came to his knees.

“Your brother is sped,” said the Saracen captain to Godwin, but Godwin
only answered:

“Wait.”

As he spoke Wulf twisted his body out of reach of a third blow, and
while Hassan staggered forward with the weight of the missed stroke,
placed his hand upon the ground, and springing to his feet, ran
backwards six or eight paces.

“He flies!” cried the Saracens; but again Godwin said, “Wait.” Nor was
there long to wait.

For now, throwing aside his buckler and grasping the great sword in
both his hands, with a shout of “_A D’Arcy! A D’Arcy!_” Wulf leapt at
Hassan as a wounded lion leaps. The sword wheeled and fell, and lo! the
shield of the Saracen was severed in two. Again it fell, and his
turbaned helm was cloven. A third time, and the right arm and shoulder
with the scimitar that grasped it seemed to spring from his body, and
Hassan sank dying to the ground.

Wulf stood and looked at him, while a murmur of grief went up from
those who watched, for they loved this emir. Hassan beckoned to the
victor with his left hand, and throwing down his sword to show that he
feared no treachery, Wulf came to him and knelt beside him.

“A good stroke,” Hassan said faintly, “that could shear the double
links of Damascus steel as though it were silk. Well, as I told you
long ago, I knew that the hour of our meeting in war would be an ill
hour for me, and my debt is paid. Farewell, brave knight. Would I could
hope that we should meet in Paradise! Take that star jewel, the badge
of my House, from my turban and wear it in memory of me. Long, long and
happy be your days.”

Then, while Wulf held him in his arms, Saladin came up and spoke to
him, till he fell back and was dead.

Thus died Hassan, and thus ended the battle of Hattin, which broke the
power of the Christians in the East.




Chapter XIX.
Before the Walls of Ascalon


When Hassan was dead, at a sign from Saladin a captain of the Mameluks
named Abdullah unfastened the jewel from the emir’s turban and handed
it to Wulf. It was a glorious star-shaped thing, made of great emeralds
set round with diamonds, and the captain Abdullah, who like all
Easterns loved such ornaments, looked at it greedily, and muttered:

“Alas! that an unbeliever should wear the enchanted Star, the ancient
Luck of the House of Hassan!” a saying that Wulf remembered.

He took the jewel, then turned to Saladin and said, pointing to the
dead body of Hassan:

“Have I your peace, Sultan, after such a deed?”

“Did I not give you and your brother to drink?” asked Saladin with
meaning. “Whoever dies, you are safe. There is but one sin which I will
not pardon you—you know what it is,” and he looked at them. “As for
Hassan, he was my beloved friend and servant, but you slew him in fair
fight, and his soul is now in Paradise. None in my army will raise a
blood feud against you on that score.”

Then dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand, he turned to
receive a great body of Christian prisoners that, panting and stumbling
like over-driven sheep, were being thrust on towards the camp with
curses, blows and mockery by the victorious Saracens.

Among them the brethren rejoiced to see Egbert, the gentle and holy
bishop of Nazareth, whom they had thought dead. Also, wounded in many
places, his hacked harness hanging about him like a beggar’s rags,
there was the black-browed Master of the Templars, who even now could
be fierce and insolent.

“So I was right,” he mocked in a husky voice, “and here you are, safe
with your friends the Saracens, Sir Knights of the visions and the
water-skins—”

“From which you were glad enough to drink just now,” said Godwin.
“Also,” he added sadly, “all the vision is not done.” And turning, he
looked towards a blazoned tent which with the Sultan’s great pavilion,
and not far behind it, was being pitched by the Arab camp-setters. The
Master saw and remembered Godwin’s vision of the dead Templars.

“Is it there that you mean to murder me, traitor and wizard?” he asked.

Then rage took hold of Godwin and he answered him:

“Were it not for your plight, here and now I would thrust those words
down your throat, as, should we both live, I yet shall hope to do. You
call us traitors. Is it the work of traitors to have charged alone
through all this host until our horses died beneath us?”—he pointed to
where Smoke and Flame lay with glazing eyes—“to have unhorsed Saladin
and to have slain this prince in single combat?” and he turned to the
body of the emir Hassan, which his servants were carrying away.

“You speak of me as wizard and murderer,” he went on, “because some
angel brought me a vision which, had you believed it, Templar, would
have saved tens of thousands from a bloody death, the Christian kingdom
from destruction, and yonder holy thing from mockery,” and with a
shudder he glanced at the Rood which its captors had set up upon a rock
not far away with a dead knight tied to its black arms. “You, Sir
Templar, are the murderer who by your madness and ambition have brought
ruin on the cause of Christ, as was foretold by the count Raymond.”

“That other traitor who also has escaped,” snarled the Master.

Then Saracen guards dragged him away, and they were parted.

By now the pavilion was up and Saladin entered it, saying:

“Bring before me the king of the Franks and prince Arnat, he who is
called Reginald of Chatillon.”

Then a thought struck him, and he called to Godwin and Wulf, saying:

“Sir Knights, you know our tongue; give up your swords to the
officer—they shall be returned to you—and come, be my interpreters.”

So the brethren followed him into the tent, where presently were
brought the wretched king and the grey-haired Reginald de Chatillon,
and with them a few other great knights who, even in the midst of their
misery, stared at Godwin and Wulf in wonderment. Saladin read the look,
and explained lest their presence should be misunderstood:

“King and nobles, be not mistaken. These knights are my prisoners, as
you are, and none have shown themselves braver to-day, or done me and
mine more damage. Indeed, had it not been for my guards, within the
hour I should have fallen beneath the sword of Sir Godwin. But as they
know Arabic, I have asked them to render my words into your tongue. Do
you accept them as interpreters? If not, others must be found.”

When they had translated this, the king said that he accepted them,
adding to Godwin:

“Would that I had also accepted you two nights gone as an interpreter
of the will of Heaven!”

The Sultan bade his captains be seated, and seeing their terrible
thirst, commanded slaves to bring a great bowl of sherbet made of
rose-water cooled with snow, and with his own hand gave it to king Guy.
He drank in great gulps, then passed the bowl to Reginald de Chatillon,
whereon Saladin cried out to Godwin:

“Say to the king it is he and not I who gives this man to drink. There
is no bond of salt between me and the prince Arnat.”

Godwin translated, sorrowfully enough, and Reginald, who knew the
habits of the Saracens, answered:

“No need to explain, Sir Knight, those words are my death-warrant.
Well, I never expected less.”

Then Saladin spoke again.

“Prince Arnat, you strove to take the holy city of Mecca and to
desecrate the tomb of the Prophet, and then I swore to kill you. Again,
when in a time of peace a caravan came from Egypt and passed by
Esh-Shobek, where you were, forgetting your oath, you fell upon them
and slew them. They asked for mercy in the name of Allah, saying that
there was truce between Saracen and Frank. But you mocked them, telling
them to seek aid from Mahomet, in whom they trusted. Then for the
second time I swore to kill you. Yet I give you one more chance. Will
you subscribe the Koran and embrace the faith of Islam? Or will you
die?”

Now the lips of Reginald turned pale, and for a moment he swayed upon
his seat. Then his courage came back to him, and he answered in a
strong voice:

“Sultan, I will have none of your mercy at such a price, nor do I bow
the knee to your dog of a false prophet, who perish in the faith of
Christ, and, being weary of the world, am content to go to Him.”

Saladin sprang to his feet, his very beard bristling with wrath, and
drawing his sabre, shouted aloud:

“You scorn Mahomet! Behold! I avenge Mahomet upon you! Take him away!”
And he struck him with the flat of his scimitar.

Then Mameluks leapt upon the prince. Dragging him to the entrance of
the tent, they forced him to his knees and there beheaded him in sight
of the soldiers and of the other prisoners.

Thus, bravely enough, died Reginald de Chatillon, whom the Saracens
called prince Arnat. In the hush that followed this terrible deed king
Guy said to Godwin:

“Ask the Sultan if it is my turn next.”

“Nay,” answered Saladin; “kings do not kill kings, but that
truce-breaker has met with no more than his deserts.”

Then came a scene still more dreadful. Saladin went to the door of his
tent, and standing over the body of Reginald, bade them parade the
captive Templars and Hospitallers before him. They were brought to the
number of over two hundred, for it was easy to distinguish them by the
red and white crosses on their breasts.

“These also are faith-breakers,” he shouted, “and of their unclean
tribes will I rid the world. Ho! my emirs and doctors of the law,” and
he turned to the great crowd of his captains about him, “take each of
you one of them and kill him.”

Now the emirs hung back, for though fanatics they were brave, and loved
not this slaughter of defenceless men, and even the Mameluks murmured
aloud.

But Saladin cried again:

“They are worthy of death, and he who disobeys my command shall himself
be slain.”

“Sultan,” said Godwin, “we cannot witness such a crime; we ask that we
may die with them.”

“Nay,” he answered; “you have eaten of my salt, and to kill you would
be murder. Get you to the tent of the princess of Baalbec yonder, for
there you will see nothing of the death of these Franks, your
fellow-worshippers.”

So the brethren turned, and led by a Mameluk, fled aghast for the first
time in their lives, past the long lines of Templars and Hospitallers,
who in the last red light of the dying day knelt upon the sand and
prayed, while the emirs came up to kill them.

They entered the tent, none forbidding them, and at the end of it saw
two women crouched together on some cushions, who rose, clinging to
each other. Then the women saw also and sprang forward with a cry of
joy, saying:

“So you live—you live!”

“Ay, Rosamund,” answered Godwin, “to see this shame—would God that we
did not—whilst others die. They murder the knights of the holy Orders.
To your knees and pray for their passing souls.”

So they knelt down and prayed till the tumult died away, and they knew
that all was done.

“Oh, my cousins,” said Rosamund, as she staggered to her feet at
length, “what a hell of wickedness and bloodshed is this in which we
dwell! Save me from it if you love me—I beseech you save me!”

“We will do our best,” they answered; “but let us talk no more of these
things which are the decree of God—lest we should go mad. Tell us your
story.”

But Rosamund had little to tell, except that she had been well treated,
and always kept by the person of the Sultan, marching to and fro with
his army, for he awaited the fulfilment of his dream concerning her.
Then they told her all that had chanced to them; also of the vision of
Godwin and its dreadful accomplishment, and of the death of Hassan
beneath the sword of Wulf. At that story Rosamund wept and shrank from
him a little, for though it was this prince who had stolen her from her
home, she loved Hassan. Yet when Wulf said humbly:

“The fault is not mine; it was so fated. Would that I had died instead
of this Saracen!”

Rosamund answered: “No, no; I am proud that you should have conquered.”

But Wulf shook his head, and said:

“I am not proud. Although weary with that awful battle, I was still the
younger and stronger man, though at first he well-nigh mastered me by
his skill and quickness. At least we parted friends. Look, he gave me
this,” and he showed her the great emerald badge which the dying prince
had given him.

Masouda, who all this while had sat very quiet, came forward and looked
at it.

“Do you know,” she asked, “that this jewel is very famous, not only for
its value, but because it is said to have belonged to one of the
children of the prophet, and to bring good fortune to its owner?”

Wulf smiled.

“It brought little to poor Hassan but now, when my grandsire’s sword
shore the Damascus steel as though it were wet clay.”

“And sent him swift to Paradise, where he would be, at the hands of a
gallant foe,” answered Masouda. “Nay, all his life this emir was happy
and beloved, by his sovereign, his wives, his fellows and his servants,
nor do I think that he would have desired another end whose wish was to
die in battle with the Franks. At least there is scarce a soldier in
the Sultan’s army who would not give all he has for yonder trinket,
which is known throughout the land as the Star of Hassan. So beware,
Sir Wulf, lest you be robbed or murdered, although you have eaten the
salt of Salah-ed-din.”

“I remember the captain Abdullah looking at it greedily and lamenting
that the Luck of the House of Hassan should pass to an unbeliever,”
said Wulf. “Well, enough of this jewel and its dangers; I think Godwin
has words to say.”

“Yes,” said Godwin. “We are here in your tent through the kindness of
Saladin, who did not wish us to witness the death of our comrades, but
to-morrow we shall be separated again. Now if you are to escape—”

“I will escape! I must escape, even if I am recaptured and die for it,”
broke in Rosamund passionately.

“Speak low,” said Masouda. “I saw the eunuch Mesrour pass the door of
the tent, and he is a spy—they all are spies.”

“If you are to escape,” repeated Godwin in a whisper, “it must be
within the next few weeks while the army is on the march. The risk is
great to all of us—even to you, and we have no plan. But, Masouda, you
are clever; make one, and tell it to us.”

She lifted her head to speak, when suddenly a shadow fell upon them. It
was that of the head eunuch, Mesrour, a fat, cunning-faced man, with a
cringing air. Low he bowed before them, saying:

“Your pardon, O Princess. A messenger has come from Salah-ed-din
demanding the presence of these knights at the banquet that he has made
ready for his noble prisoners.”

“We obey,” said Godwin, and rising they bowed to Rosamund and to
Masouda, then turned to go, leaving the star jewel where they had been
seated.

Very skilfully Mesrour covered it with a fold of his robe, and under
shelter of the fold slipped down his hand and grasped it, not knowing
that although she seemed to be turned away, Masouda was watching him
out of the corner of her eye. Waiting till the brethren reached the
tent door, she called out:

“Sir Wulf, are you already weary of the enchanted Star of Fortune, or
would you bequeath it to us?”

Now Wulf came back, saying heavily:

“I forgot the thing—who would not at such a time? Where is it? I left
it on the cushion.”

“Try the hand of Mesrour,” said Masouda, whereat with a very crooked
smile the eunuch produced it, and said:

“I wished to show you, Sir Knight, that you must be careful with such
gems as these, especially in a camp where there are many dishonest
persons.”

“I thank you,” answered Wulf as he took it; “you have shown me.” Then,
followed by the sound of Masouda’s mocking laughter, they left the
tent.

The Sultan’s messenger led them forward, across ground strewn with the
bodies of the murdered Templars and Hospitallers, lying as Godwin had
seen them in his dream on the mountain top near Nazareth. Over one of
these corpses Godwin stumbled in the gloom, so heavily, that he fell to
his knees. He searched the face in the starlight, to find it was that
of a knight of the Hospitallers of whom he had made a friend at
Jerusalem—a very good and gentle Frenchman, who had abandoned high
station and large lands to join the order for the love of Christ and
charity. Such was his reward on earth—to be struck down in cold blood,
like an ox by its butcher. Then, muttering a prayer for the repose of
this knight’s soul, Godwin rose and, filled with horror, followed on to
the royal pavilion, wondering why such things were.

Of all the strange feasts that they ever ate the brethren found this
the strangest and the most sad. Saladin was seated at the head of the
table with guards and officers standing behind him, and as each dish
was brought he tasted it and no more, to show that it was not poisoned.
Not far from him sat the king of Jerusalem and his brother, and all
down the board great captive nobles, to the number of fifty or more.
Sorry spectacles were these gallant knights in their hewn and
blood-stained armour, pale-faced, too, with eyes set wide in horror at
the dread deeds they had just seen done. Yet they ate, and ate
ravenously, for now that their thirst was satisfied, they were mad with
hunger. Thirty thousand Christians lay dead on the Horn and plain of
Hattin; the kingdom of Jerusalem was destroyed, and its king a
prisoner. The holy Rood was taken as a trophy. Two hundred knights of
the sacred Orders lay within a few score of yards of them, butchered
cruelly by those very emirs and doctors of the law who stood grave and
silent behind their master’s seat, at the express command of that
merciless master. Defeated, shamed, bereaved—yet they ate, and, being
human, could take comfort from the thought that having eaten, by the
law of the Arabs, at least their lives were safe.

Saladin called Godwin and Wulf to him that they might interpret for
him, and gave them food, and they also ate who were compelled to it by
hunger.

“Have you seen your cousin, the princess?” he asked; “and how found you
her?” he asked presently.

Then, remembering over what he had fallen outside her tent, and looking
at those miserable feasters, anger took hold of Godwin, and he answered
boldly:

“Sire, we found her sick with the sights and sounds of war and murder;
shamed to know also that her uncle, the conquering sovereign of the
East, had slaughtered two hundred unarmed men.”

Wulf trembled at his words, but Saladin listened and showed no anger.

“Doubtless,” he answered, “she thinks me cruel, and you also think me
cruel—a despot who delights in the death of his enemies. Yet it is not
so, for I desire peace and to save life, not to destroy it. It is you
Christians who for hard upon a hundred years have drenched these sands
with blood, because you say that you wish to possess the land where
your prophet lived and died more than eleven centuries ago. How many
Saracens have you slain? Hundreds of thousands of them. Moreover, with
you peace is no peace. Those Orders that I destroyed tonight have
broken it a score of times. Well, I will bear no more. Allah has given
me and my army the victory, and I will take your cities and drive the
Franks back into the sea. Let them seek their own lands and worship God
there after their own fashion, and leave the East in quiet.

“Now, Sir Godwin, tell these captives for me that tomorrow I send those
of them who are unwounded to Damascus, there to await ransom while I
besiege Jerusalem and the other Christian cities. Let them have no
fear; I have emptied the cup of my anger; no more of them shall die,
and a priest of their faith, the bishop of Nazareth, shall stay with
their sick in my army to minister to them after their own rites.”

So Godwin rose and told them, and they answered not a word, who had
lost all hope and courage.

Afterwards he asked whether he and his brother were also to be sent to
Damascus.

Saladin replied, “No; he would keep them for awhile to interpret, then
they might go their ways without ransom.”

On the morrow, accordingly, the captives were sent to Damascus, and
that day Saladin took the castle of Tiberias, setting at liberty
Eschiva, the wife of Raymond, and her children. Then he moved on to
Acre, which he took, relieving four thousand Moslem captives, and so on
to other towns, all of which fell before him, till at length he came to
Ascalon, which he besieged in form, setting up his mangonels against
its walls.

The night was dark outside of Ascalon, save when the flashes of
lightning in the storm that rolled down from the mountains to the sea
lit it up, showing the thousands of white tents set round the city, the
walls and the sentries who watched upon them, the feathery palms that
stood against the sky, the mighty, snow-crowned range of Lebanon, and
encircling all the black breast of the troubled ocean. In a little open
space of the garden of an empty house that stood without the walls, a
man and a woman were talking, both of them wrapped in dark cloaks. They
were Godwin and Masouda.

“Well,” said Godwin eagerly, “is all ready?”

She nodded and answered:

“At length, all. To-morrow afternoon an assault will be made upon
Ascalon, but even if it is taken the camp will not be moved that night.
There will be great confusion, and Abdullah, who is somewhat sick, will
be the captain of the guard over the princess’s tent. He will allow the
soldiers to slip away to assist in the sack of the city, nor will they
betray him. At sunset but one eunuch will be on watch—Mesrour; and I
will find means to put him to sleep. Abdullah will bring the princess
to this garden disguised as his young son, and there you two and I
shall meet them.”

“What then?” asked Godwin.

“Do you remember the old Arab who brought you the horses Flame and
Smoke, and took no payment for them, he who was named Son of the Sand?
Well, as you know, he is my uncle, and he has more horses of that
breed. I have seen him, and he is well pleased at the tale of Flame and
Smoke and the knights who rode them, and more particularly at the way
in which they came to their end, which he says has brought credit to
their ancient blood. At the foot of this garden is a cave, which was
once a sepulchre. There we shall find the horses—four of them—and with
them my uncle, Son of the Sand, and by the morning light we will be a
hundred miles away and lie hid with his tribe until we can slip to the
coast and board a Christian ship. Does it please you?”

“Very well; but what is Abdullah’s price?”

“One only—the enchanted star, the Luck of the House of Hassan; for
nothing else will he take such risks. Will Sir Wulf give it?”

“Surely,” answered Godwin with a laugh.

“Good. Then it must be done to-night. When I return I will send
Abdullah to your tent. Fear not; if he takes the jewel he will give the
price, since otherwise he thinks it will bring him ill fortune.”

“Does the lady Rosamund know?” asked Godwin again.

She shook her head.

“Nay, she is mad to escape; she thinks of little else all day long. But
what is the use of telling her till the time comes? The fewer in such a
plot the better, and if anything goes wrong, it is well that she should
be innocent, for then—”

“Then death, and farewell to all things,” said Godwin; “nor indeed
should I grieve to say them good-bye. But, Masouda, you run great
peril. Tell me now, honestly, why do you do this?”

As he spoke the lightning flashed and showed her face as she stood
there against a background of green leaves and red lily flowers. There
was a strange look upon it—a look that made Godwin feel afraid, he knew
not of what.

“Why did I take you into my inn yonder in Beirut when you were the
pilgrims Peter and John? Why did I find you the best horses in Syria
and guide you to the Al-je-bal? Why did I often dare death by torment
for you there? Why did I save the three of you? And why, for all this
weary while, have I—who, after all, am nobly born—become the mock of
soldiers and the tire-woman of the princess of Baalbec?

“Shall I answer?” she went on, laughing. “Doubtless in the beginning
because I was the agent of Sinan, charged to betray such knights as you
are into his hands, and afterwards because my heart was filled with
pity and love for—the lady Rosamund.”

Again the lightning flashed, and this time that strange look had spread
from Masouda’s face to the face of Godwin.

“Masouda,” he said in a whisper, “oh! think me no vain fool, but since
it is best perhaps that both should know full surely, tell me, is it as
I have sometimes—”

“Feared?” broke in Masouda with her little mocking laugh. “Sir Godwin,
it is so. What does your faith teach—the faith in which I was bred, and
lost, but that now is mine again—because it is yours? That men and
women are free, or so some read it. Well, it or they are wrong. We are
not free. Was I free when first I saw your eyes in Beirut, the eyes for
which I had been watching all my life, and something came from you to
me, and I—the cast-off plaything of Sinan—loved you, loved you, loved
you—to my own doom? Yes, and rejoiced that it was so, and still rejoice
that it is so, and would choose no other fate, because in that love I
learned that there is a meaning in this life, and that there is an
answer to it in lives to be, otherwhere if not here. Nay, speak not. I
know your oath, nor would I tempt you to its breaking. But, Sir Godwin,
a woman such as the lady Rosamund cannot love two men,” and as she
spoke Masouda strove to search his face while the shaft went home.

But Godwin showed neither surprise nor pain.

“So you know what I have known for long,” he said, “so long that my
sorrow is lost in the hope of my brother’s joy. Moreover, it is well
that she should have chosen the better knight.”

“Sometimes,” said Masouda reflectively, “sometimes I have watched the
lady Rosamund, and said to myself, ‘What do you lack? You are
beautiful, you are highborn, you are learned, you are brave, and you
are good.’ Then I have answered, ‘You lack wisdom and true sight, else
you would not have chosen Wulf when you might have taken Godwin. Or
perchance your eyes are blinded also.’”

“Speak not thus of one who is my better in all things, I pray you,”
said Godwin in a vexed voice.

“By which you mean, whose arm is perhaps a little stronger, and who at
a pinch could cut down a few more Saracens. Well, it takes more than
strength to make a man—you must add spirit.”

“Masouda,” went on Godwin, taking no note of her words, “although we
may guess her mind, our lady has said nothing yet. Also Wulf may fall,
and then I fill his place as best I can. I am no free man, Masouda.”

“The love-sick are never free,” she answered.

“I have no right to love the woman who loves my brother; to her are due
my friendship and my reverence—no more.”

“She has not declared that she loves your brother; we may guess wrongly
in this matter. They are your words—not mine.”

“And we may guess rightly. What then?”

“Then,” answered Masouda, “there are many knightly Orders, or
monasteries, for those who desire such places—as you do in your heart.
Nay, talk no more of all these things that may or may not be. Back to
your tent, Sir Godwin, where I will send Abdullah to you to receive the
jewel. So, farewell, farewell.”

He took her outstretched hand, hesitated a moment, then lifted it to
his lips, and went. It was cold as that of a corpse, and fell against
her side again like the hand of a corpse. Masouda shrank back among the
flowers of the garden as though to hide herself from him and all the
world. When he had gone a few paces, eight or ten perhaps, Godwin
turned and glanced behind him, and at that moment there came a great
blaze of lightning. In its fierce and fiery glare he saw Masouda
standing with outstretched arms, pale, upturned face, closed eyes, and
parted lips. Illumined by the ghastly sheen of the levin her face
looked like that of one new dead, and the tall red lilies which climbed
up her dark, pall-like robe to her throat—yes, they looked like streams
of fresh-shed blood.

Godwin shuddered a little and went his way, but as she slid thence into
the black, embracing night, Masouda said to herself:

“Had I played a little more upon his gentleness and pity, I think that
he would have offered me his heart—after Rosamund had done with it and
in payment for my services. Nay, not his heart, for he has none on
earth, but his hand and loyalty. And, being honourable, he would have
kept his promise, and I, who have passed through the harem of
Al-je-bal, might yet have become the lady D’Arcy, and so lived out my
life and nursed his babes. Nay, Sir Godwin; when you love me—not
before; and you will never love me—until I am dead.”

Snatching a bloom of the lilies into her hand, the hand that he had
kissed, Masouda pressed it convulsively against her breast, till the
red juice ran from the crushed flower and stained her like a wound.
Then she glided away, and was lost in the storm and the darkness.




Chapter XX.
The Luck of the Star of Hassan


An hour later the captain Abdullah might have been seen walking
carelessly towards the tent where the brethren slept. Also, had there
been any who cared to watch, something else might have been seen in
that low moonlight, for now the storm and the heavy rain which followed
it had passed. Namely, the fat shape of the eunuch Mesrour, slipping
after him wrapped in a dark camel-hair cloak, such as was commonly worn
by camp followers, and taking shelter cunningly behind every rock and
shrub and rise of the ground. Hidden among some picketed dromedaries,
he saw Abdullah enter the tent of the brethren, then, waiting till a
cloud crossed the moon, Mesrour ran to it unseen, and throwing himself
down on its shadowed side, lay there like a drunken man, and listened
with all his ears. But the thick canvas was heavy with wet, nor would
the ropes and the trench that was dug around permit him, who did not
love to lie in the water, to place his head against it. Also, those
within spoke low, and he could only hear single words, such as
“garden,” “the star,” “princess.”

So important did these seem to him, however, that at length Mesrour
crept under the cords, and although he shuddered at its cold, drew his
body into the trench of water, and with the sharp point of his knife
cut a little slit in the taut canvas. To this he set his eye, only to
find that it served him nothing, for there was no light in the tent.
Still, men were there who talked in the darkness.

“Good,” said a voice—it was that of one of the brethren, but which he
could not tell, for even to those who knew them best they seemed to be
the same. “Good; then it is settled. To-morrow, at the hour arranged,
you bring the princess to the place agreed upon, disguised as you have
said. In payment for this service I hand you the Luck of Hassan which
you covet. Take it; here it is, and swear to do your part, since
otherwise it will bring no luck to you, for I will kill you the first
time we meet—yes, and the other also.”

“I swear it by Allah and his prophet,” answered Abdullah in a hoarse,
trembling voice.

“It is enough; see that you keep the oath. And now away; it is not safe
that you should tarry here.”

Then came the sound of a man leaving the tent. Passing round it
cautiously, he halted, and opening his hand, looked at its contents to
make sure that no trick had been played upon him in the darkness.
Mesrour screwed his head round to look also, and saw the light gleam
faintly on the surface of the splendid jewel, which he, too, desired so
eagerly. In so doing his foot struck a stone, and instantly Abdullah
glanced down to see a dead or drunken man lying almost at his feet.
With a swift movement he hid the jewel and started to walk away. Then
bethinking him that it would be well to make sure that this fellow was
dead or sleeping, he turned and kicked the prostrate Mesrour upon the
back and with all his strength. Indeed, he did this thrice, putting the
eunuch to the greatest agony.

“I thought I saw him move,” Abdullah muttered after the third kick; “it
is best to make sure,” and he drew his knife.

Now, had not terror paralysed him, Mesrour would have cried out, but
fortunately for himself, before he found his voice Abdullah had buried
the knife three inches deep in his fat thigh. With an effort Mesrour
bore this also, knowing that if he showed signs of life the next stroke
would be in his heart. Then, satisfied that this fellow, whoever he
might be, was either a corpse or insensible, Abdullah drew out the
knife, wiped it on his victim’s robe, and departed.

Not long afterwards Mesrour departed also, towards the Sultan’s house,
bellowing with rage and pain and vowing vengeance.

It was not long delayed.

That very night Abdullah was seized and put to the question. In his
suffering he confessed that he had been to the tent of the brethren and
received from one of them the jewel which was found upon him, as a
bribe to bring the princess to a certain garden outside the camp. But
he named the wrong garden. Further, when they asked which of the
brethren it was who bribed him, he said he did not know, as their
voices were alike, and their tent was in darkness; moreover, that he
believed there was only one man in it—at least he heard or saw no
other. He added that he was summoned to the tent by an Arab man whom he
had never seen before, but who told him that if he wished for what he
most desired and good fortune, he was to be there at a certain hour
after sunset. Then he fainted, and was put back in prison till the
morning by the command of Saladin.

When the morning came Abdullah was dead, who desired no more torments
with doom at the end of them, having made shift to strangle himself
with his robe. But first he had scrawled upon the wall with a piece of
charcoal:

“May that accursed Star of Hassan which tempted me bring better luck to
others, and may hell receive the soul of Mesrour.”

Thus died Abdullah, as faithful as he could be in such sore straits,
since he had betrayed neither Masouda nor his son, both of whom were in
the plot, and said that only one of the brethren was present in the
tent, whereas he knew well that the two of them were there and which of
these spoke and gave him the jewel.

Very early that morning the brethren, who were lying wakeful, heard
sounds without their tent, and looking out saw that it was surrounded
by Mameluks.

“The plot is discovered,” said Godwin to Wulf quietly, but with despair
in his face. “Now, my brother, admit nothing, even under torture, lest
others perish with us.”

“Shall we fight?” asked Wulf as they threw on their mail.

But Godwin answered:

“Nay, it would serve us nothing to kill a few brave men.”

Then an officer entered the tent, and commanded them to give up their
swords and to follow him to Saladin to answer a charge that had been
laid against them both, nor would he say any more. So they went as
prisoners, and after waiting awhile, were ushered into a large room of
the house where Saladin lodged, which was arranged as a court with a
dais at one end. Before this they were stood, till presently the Sultan
entered through the further door, and with him certain of his emirs and
secretaries. Also Rosamund, who looked very pale, was brought there,
and in attendance on her Masouda, calm-faced as ever.

The brethren bowed to them, but Saladin, whose eyes were full of rage,
took no notice of their salutation. For a moment there was silence,
then Saladin bade a secretary read the charge, which was brief. It was
that they had conspired to steal away the princess of Baalbec.

“Where is the evidence against us?” asked Godwin boldly. “The Sultan is
just, and convicts no man save on testimony.”

Again Saladin motioned to the secretary, who read the words that had
been taken down from the lips of the captain Abdullah. They demanded to
be allowed to examine the captain Abdullah, and learned that he was
already dead. Then the eunuch Mesrour was carried forward, for walk he
could not, owing to the wound that Abdullah had given him, and told all
his tale, how he had suspected Abdullah, and, following him, had heard
him and one of the brethren speaking in the tent, and the words that
passed, and afterwards seen Abdullah with the jewel in his hand.

When he had finished Godwin asked which of them he had heard speaking
with Abdullah, and he answered that he could not say, as their voices
were so alike, but one voice only had spoken.

Then Rosamund was ordered to give her testimony, and said, truly
enough, that she knew nothing of the plot and had not thought of this
flight. Masouda also swore that she now heard of it for the first time.
After this the secretary announced that there was no more evidence, and
prayed of the Sultan to give judgment in the matter.

“Against which of us,” asked Godwin, “seeing that both the dead and the
living witness declared they heard but one voice, and whose that voice
was they did not know? According to your own law, you cannot condemn a
man against whom there is no good testimony.”

“There is testimony against one of you,” answered Saladin sternly,
“that of two witnesses, as is required, and, as I have warned you long
ago, that man shall die. Indeed, both of you should die, for I am sure
that both are guilty. Still, you have been put upon your trial
according to the law, and as a just judge I will not strain the law
against you. Let the guilty one die by beheading at sundown, the hour
at which he planned to commit his crime. The other may go free with the
citizens of Jerusalem who depart to-night, bearing my message to the
Frankish leaders in that holy town.”

“Which of us, then, is to die, and which to go free?” asked Godwin.
“Tell us, that he who is doomed may prepare his soul.”

“Say you, who know the truth,” answered Saladin.

“We admit nothing,” said Godwin; “yet, if one of us must die, I as the
elder claim that right.”

“And I claim it as the younger. The jewel was Hassan’s gift to me; who
else could give it to Abdullah?” added Wulf, speaking for the first
time, whereat all the Saracens there assembled, brave men who loved a
knightly deed, murmured in admiration, and even Saladin said:

“Well spoken, both of you. So it seems that both must die.”

Then Rosamund stepped forward and threw herself upon her knees before
him, exclaiming:

“Sire, my uncle, such is not your justice, that two should be slain for
the offence of one, if offence there be. If you know not which is
guilty, spare them both, I beseech you.”

He stretched out his hand and raised her from her knees: then thought
awhile, and said:

“Nay, plead not with me, for however much you love him the guilty man
must suffer, as he deserves. But of this matter Allah alone knows the
truth, therefore let it be decided by Allah,” and he rested his head
upon his hand, looking at Wulf and Godwin as though to read their
souls.

Now behind Saladin stood that old and famous imaum who had been with
him and Hassan when he commanded the brethren to depart from Damascus,
who all this while had listened to everything that passed with a sour
smile. Leaning forward, he whispered in his master’s ear, who
considered a moment, then answered him:

“It is good. Do so.”

So the imaum left the court, and returned presently carrying two small
boxes of sandalwood tied with silk and sealed, so like each other that
none could tell them apart, which boxes he passed continually from his
right hand to his left and from his left hand to his right, then gave
them to Saladin.

“In one of these,” said the Sultan, “is that jewel known as the
enchanted Star and the Luck of the House of Hassan, which the prince
presented to his conqueror on the day of Hattin, and for the desire of
which my captain Abdullah became a traitor and was brought to death. In
the other is a pebble of the same weight. Come, my niece, take you
these boxes and give them to your kinsmen, to each the box you will.
The jewel that is called the Star of Hassan is magical, and has virtue,
so they say. Let it choose, therefore, which of these knights is ripe
for death, and let him perish in whose box the Star is found.”

“Now,” muttered the imaum into the ear of his master, “now at length we
shall learn which it is of these two men that the lady loves.”

“That is what I seek to know,” answered Saladin in the same low voice.

As she heard this decree Rosamund looked round wildly and pleaded:

“Oh! be not so cruel. I beseech you spare me this task. Let it be
another hand that is chosen to deal death to one of those of my own
blood with whom I have dwelt since childhood. Let me not be the blind
sword of fate that frees his spirit, lest it should haunt my dreams and
turn all my world to woe. Spare me, I beseech you.”

But Saladin looked at her very sternly and answered:

“Princess, you know why I have brought you to the East and raised you
to great honour here, why also I have made you my companion in these
wars. It is for my dream’s sake, the dream which told me that by some
noble act of yours you should save the lives of thousands. Yet I am
sure that you desire to escape, and plots are made to take you from me,
though of these plots you say that you and your woman”—and he looked
darkly at Masouda—“know nothing. But these men know, and it is right
that you, for whose sake if not by whose command the thing was done,
should mete out its reward, and that the blood of him whom you appoint,
which is spilt for you, should be on your and no other head. Now do my
bidding.”

For a moment Rosamund stared at the boxes, then suddenly she closed her
eyes, and taking them up at hazard, stretched out her arms, leaning
forward over the edge of the dais. Thereon, calmly enough the brethren
took, each of them, the box that was nearest to him, that in Rosamund’s
left hand falling to Godwin and that in her right to Wulf. Then she
opened her eyes again, stood still, and watched.

“Cousin,” said Godwin, “before we break this cord that is our chain of
doom, know well that, whatever chances, we blame you not at all. It is
God Who acts through you, and you are as innocent of the death of
either of us as of that plot whereof we stand accused.”

Then he began to unknot the silk which was bound about his box. Wulf,
knowing that it would tell all the tale, did not trouble himself as
yet, but looked around the room, thinking that, whether he lived or
died, never would he see a stranger sight. Every eye in it was fixed
upon the box in Godwin’s hand; even Saladin stared as though it held
his own destiny. No; not every one, for those of the old imaum were
fixed upon the face of Rosamund, which was piteous to see, for all its
beauty had left it, and even her parted lips were ashy. Masouda alone
still stood upright and unmoved, as though she watched some play, but
he noted that her rich-hued cheek grew pale and that beneath her robe
her hand was pressed upon her heart. The silence also was intense, and
broken only by the little grating noise of Godwin’s nails as, having no
knife to cut it, he patiently untied the silk.

“Trouble enough about one man’s life in a land where lives are cheap!”
exclaimed Wulf, thinking aloud, and at the sound of his voice all men
started, as though it had thundered suddenly in a summer sky. Then with
a laugh he tore the silk about his box asunder with his strong fingers,
and breaking the seal, shook out its contents. Lo! there on the floor
before him, gleaming green and white with emerald and diamond, lay the
enchanted Star of Hassan.

Masouda saw, and the colour crept back to her cheek. Rosamund saw also,
and nature was too strong for her, for in one bitter cry the truth
broke from her lips at last:

“Not Wulf! Not Wulf!” she wailed, and sank back senseless into
Masouda’s arms.

“Now, sire,” said the old imaum with a chuckle, “you know which of
those two the lady loves. Being a woman, as usual she chooses badly,
for the other has the finer spirit.”

“Yes, I know now,” said Saladin, “and I am glad to know, for the matter
has vexed me much.”

But Wulf, who had paled for a moment, flushed with joy as the truth
came home to him, and he understood the end of all their doubts.

“This Star is well named ‘The Luck,’” he said, as bending down he took
it from the floor and fastened it to his cloak above his heart, “nor do
I hold it dearly earned.” Then he turned to his brother, who stood by
him white and still, saying:

“Forgive me, Godwin, but such is the fortune of love and war. Grudge it
not to me, for when I am sped tonight this Luck—and all that hangs to
it—will be yours.”

So that strange scene ended.

The afternoon drew towards evening, and Godwin stood before Saladin in
his private chamber.

“What seek you now?” said the Sultan sternly.

“A boon,” answered Godwin. “My brother is doomed to die before
nightfall. I ask to die instead of him.”

“Why, Sir Godwin?”

“For two reasons, sire. As you learned to-day, at length the riddle is
answered. It is Wulf who is beloved of the lady Rosamund, and therefore
to kill him would be a crime. Further, it is I and not he whom the
eunuch heard bargaining with the captain Abdullah in the tent—I swear
it. Take your vengeance upon me, and let him go to fulfil his fate.”

Saladin pulled at his beard, then answered:

“If this is to be so, time is short, Sir Godwin. What farewells have
you to make? You say that you would speak with my niece Rosamund? Nay,
the princess you shall not see, and indeed cannot, for she lies
swooning in her chamber. Do you desire to meet your brother for the
last time?”

“No, sire, for then he might learn the truth and—”

“Refuse this sacrifice, Sir Godwin, which perchance will be scarcely to
his liking.”

“I wish to say good-bye to Masouda, she who is waiting woman to the
princess.”

“That you cannot do, for, know, I mistrust this Masouda, and believe
that she was at the bottom of your plot. I have dismissed her from the
person of the princess and from my camp, which she is to leave—if she
has not already left—with some Arabs who are her kin. Had it not been
for her services in the land of the Assassins and afterwards, I should
have put her to death.”

“Then,” said Godwin with a sigh, “I desire only to see Egbert the
bishop, that he may shrive me according to our faith and make note of
my last wishes.”

“Good; he shall be sent to you. I accept your statement that you are
the guilty man and not Sir Wulf, and take your life for his. Leave me
now, who have greater matters on my mind. The guard will seek you at
the appointed time.”

Godwin bowed and walked away with a steady step while Saladin, looking
after him, muttered:

“The world could ill spare so brave and good a man.”

Two hours later guards summoned Godwin from the place where he was
prisoned, and, accompanied by the old bishop who had shriven him, he
passed its door with a happy countenance, such as a bridegroom might
have worn. In a fashion, indeed, he was happy, whose troubles were done
with, who had few sins to mourn, whose faith was the faith of a child,
and who laid down his life for his friend and brother. They took him to
a vault of the great house where Saladin was lodged—a large, rough
place, lit with torches, in which waited the headsman and his
assistants. Presently Saladin entered, and, looking at him curiously,
said:

“Are you still of the same mind, Sir Godwin?”

“I am.”

“Good. Yet I have changed mine. You shall say farewell to your cousin,
as you desired. Let the princess of Baalbec be brought hither, sick or
well, that she may see her work. Let her come alone.”

“Sire,” pleaded Godwin, “spare her such a sight.”

But he pleaded in vain, for Saladin answered only, “I have said.”

A while passed, and Godwin, hearing the sweep of robes, looked up, and
saw the tall shape of a veiled woman standing in the corner of the
vault where the shadow was so deep that the torchlight only glimmered
faintly upon her royal ornaments.

“They told me that you were sick, princess, sick with sorrow, as well
you may be, because the man you love was about to die for you,” said
Saladin in a slow voice. “Now I have had pity on your grief, and his
life has been bought with another life, that of the knight who stands
yonder.”

The veiled form started wildly, then sank back against the wall.

“Rosamund,” broke in Godwin, speaking in French, “I beseech you, be
silent and do not unman me with words or tears. It is best thus, and
you know that it is best. Wulf you love as he loves you, and I believe
that in time you will be brought together. Me you do not love, save as
a friend, and never have. Moreover, I tell you this that it may ease
your pain and my conscience; I no longer seek you as my wife, whose
bride is death. I pray you, give to Wulf my love and blessing, and to
Masouda, that truest and most sweet woman, say, or write, that I offer
her the homage of my heart; that I thought of her in my last moments,
and that my prayer is we may meet again where all crooked paths are
straightened. Rosamund, farewell; peace and joy go with you through
many years, ay, and with your children’s children. Of Godwin I only ask
you to remember this, that he lived serving you, and so died.”

She heard and stretched out her arms, and, none forbidding him, Godwin
walked to where she stood. Without lifting her veil she bent forward
and kissed him, first upon the brow and next upon the lips; then with a
low, moaning cry, she turned and fled from that gloomy place, nor did
Saladin seek to stay her. Only to himself the Sultan wondered how it
came about that if it was Wulf whom Rosamund loved, she still kissed
Godwin thus upon the lips.

As he walked back to the death-place Godwin wondered also, first that
Rosamund should have spoken no single word, and secondly because she
had kissed him thus, even in that hour. Why or wherefore he did not
know, but there rose in his mind a memory of that wild ride down the
mountain steeps at Beirut, and of lips which then had touched his
cheek, and of the odour of hair that then was blown about his breast.
With a sigh he thrust the thought aside, blushing to think that such
memories should come to him who had done with earth and its delights,
knelt down before the headsman, and, turning to the bishop, said:

“Bless me, father, and bid them strike.”

Then it was that he heard a well-known footstep, and looked up to see
Wulf staring at him.

“What do you here, Godwin?” asked Wulf. “Has yonder fox snared both of
us?” and he nodded at Saladin.

“Let the fox speak,” said the Sultan with a smile. “Know, Sir Wulf,
that your brother was about to die in your place, and of his own wish.
But I refuse such sacrifice who yet have made use of it to teach my
niece, the princess, that should she continue in her plottings to
escape, or allow you to continue in them, certainly it will bring you
to your deaths, and, if need be, her also. Knights, you are brave men
whom I prefer to kill in war. Good horses stand without; take them as
my gift, and ride with these foolish citizens of Jerusalem. We may meet
again within its streets. Nay, thank me not. I thank you who have
taught Salah-ed-din how perfect a thing can be the love of brothers.”

The brethren stood awhile bewildered, for it is a strange thing thus to
come back from death to life. Each of them had made sure that he must
die within some few minutes, and pass through the blackness which walls
man in, to find he knew not what. And now, behold! the road that led to
that blackness turned again at its very edge, and ran forward through
the familiar things of earth to some end unknown. They were brave, both
of them, and accustomed to face death daily, as in such a place and
time all men must be; moreover, they had been shriven, and looked to
see the gates of Paradise open on their newborn sight.

Yet, since no man loves that journey, it was very sweet to know it done
with for a while, and that they still might hope to dwell in this world
for many years. Little wonder, then, that their brains swam, and their
eyes grew dim, as they passed from the shadow to the light again. It
was Wulf who spoke the first.

“A noble deed, Godwin, yet one for which I should not have thanked you
had it been accomplished, who then must have lived on by grace of your
sacrifice. Sultan, we are grateful for your boon of life, though had
you shed this innocent blood surely it would have stained your soul.
May we bid farewell to our cousin Rosamund before we ride?”

“Nay,” answered Saladin; “Sir Godwin has done that already—let it serve
for both. To-morrow she shall learn the truth of the story. Now go, and
return no more.”

“That must be as fate wills,” answered Godwin, and they bowed and went.

Outside that gloomy place of death their swords were given them, and
two good horses, which they mounted. Hence guides led them to the
embassy from Jerusalem that was already in the saddle, who were very
glad to welcome two such knights to their company. Then, having bid
farewell to the bishop Egbert, who wept for joy at their escape,
escorted for a while by Saladin’s soldiers, they rode away from Ascalon
at the fall of night.

Soon they had told each other all there was to tell. When he heard of
the woe of Rosamund Wulf well-nigh shed tears.

“We have our lives,” he said, “but how shall we save her? While Masouda
stayed with her there was some hope, but now I can see none.”

“There is none, except in God,” answered Godwin, “Who can do all
things—even free Rosamund and make her your wife. Also, if Masouda is
at liberty, we shall hear from her ere long; so let us keep a good
heart.”

But though he spoke thus, the soul of Godwin was oppressed with a fear
which he could not understand. It seemed as though some great terror
came very close to him, or to one who was near and dear. Deeper and
deeper he sank into that pit of dread of he knew not what, until at
length he could have cried aloud, and his brow was bathed with a sweat
of anguish. Wulf saw his face in the moonlight, and asked:

“What ails you, Godwin? Have you some secret wound?”

“Yes, brother,” he answered, “a wound in my spirit. Ill fortune
threatens us—great ill fortune.”

“That is no new thing,” said Wulf, “in this land of blood and sorrows.
Let us meet it as we have met the rest.”

“Alas! brother,” exclaimed Godwin, “I fear that Rosamund is in sore
danger—Rosamund or another.”

“Then,” answered Wulf, turning pale, “since we cannot, let us pray that
some angel may deliver her.”

“Ay,” said Godwin, and as they rode through the desert sands beneath
the silent stars, they prayed to the Blessed Mother, and to their
saints, St. Peter and St. Chad—prayed with all their strength. Yet the
prayer availed not. Sharper and sharper grew Godwin’s agony, till, as
the slow hours went by, his very soul reeled beneath this spiritual
pain, and the death which he had escaped seemed a thing desirable.

The dawn was breaking, and at its first sign the escort of Saladin’s
soldiers had turned and left them, saying that now they were safe in
their own country. All night they had ridden fast and far. The plain
was behind them, and their road ran among hills. Suddenly it turned,
and in the flaming lights of the new-born day showed them a sight so
beautiful that for a moment all that little company drew rein to gaze.
For yonder before them, though far away as yet, throned upon her hills,
stood the holy city of Jerusalem. There were her walls and towers, and
there, stained red as though with the blood of its worshippers, soared
the great cross upon the mosque of Omar—that cross which was so soon to
fall.

Yes, yonder was the city for which throughout the ages men had died by
tens and hundreds of thousands, and still must die until the doom was
done. Saladin had offered to spare her citizens if they consented to
surrender, but they would not. This embassy had told him that they had
sworn to perish with the holy Places, and now, looking at it in its
splendour, they knew that the hour was near, and groaned aloud.

Godwin groaned also, but not for Jerusalem. Oh! now the last terror was
upon him. Blackness surged round him, and in the blackness swords, and
a sound as of a woman’s voice murmuring his name. Clutching the pommel
of his saddle, he swayed to and fro, till suddenly the anguish passed.
A strange wind seemed to blow about him and lift his hair; a deep,
unearthly peace sank into his spirit; the world seemed far away and
heaven very near.

“It is over,” he said to Wulf. “I fear that Rosamund is dead.”

“If so, we must make haste to follow her,” answered Wulf with a sob.




Chapter XXI.
What Befell Godwin


At the village of Bittir, some seven miles from Jerusalem, the embassy
dismounted to rest, then again they pressed forward down the valley in
the hope of reaching the Zion Gate before the mid-day heat was upon
them. At the end of this valley swelled the shoulder of a hill whence
the eye could command its length, and on the crest of that shoulder
appeared suddenly a man and a woman, seated on beautiful horses. The
company halted, fearing lest these might herald some attack and that
the woman was a man disguised to deceive them. While they waited thus
irresolute, the pair upon the hill turned their horses’ heads, and
notwithstanding its steepness, began to gallop towards them very
swiftly. Wulf looked at them curiously and said to Godwin:

“Now I am put in mind of a certain ride which once we took outside the
walls of Beirut. Almost could I think that yonder Arab was he who sat
behind my saddle, and yonder woman she who rode with you, and that
those two horses were Flame and Smoke reborn. Note their whirlwind
pace, and strength, and stride.”

Almost as he finished speaking the strangers pulled up their steeds in
front of the company, to whom the man bowed his salutations. Then
Godwin saw his face, and knew him at once as the old Arab called Son of
the Sand, who had given them the horses Flame and Smoke.

“Sir,” said the Arab to the leader of the embassy, “I have come to ask
a favour of yonder knights who travel with you, which I think that
they, who have ridden my horses, will not refuse me. This woman,” and
he pointed to the closely-veiled shape of his companion, “is a relative
of mine whom I desire to deliver to friends in Jerusalem, but dare not
do so myself because the hilldwellers between here and there are
hostile to my tribe. She is of the Christian faith and no spy, but
cannot speak your language. Within the south gate she will be met by
her relatives. I have spoken.”

“Let the knights settle it,” said the commander, shrugging his
shoulders impatiently and spurring his horse.

“Surely we will take her,” said Godwin, “though what we shall do with
her if her friends are wanting I do not know. Come, lady, ride between
us.”

She turned her head to the Arab as though in question, and he repeated
the words, whereon she fell into the place that was shown to her
between and a little behind the brethren.

“Perhaps,” went on the Arab to Godwin, “by now you have learned more of
our tongue than you knew when we met in past days at Beirut, and rode
the mountain side on the good horses Flame and Smoke. Still, if so, I
pray you of your knightly courtesy disturb not this woman with your
words, nor ask her to unveil her face, since such is not the custom of
her people. It is but an hour’s journey to the city gate during which
you will be troubled with her. This is the payment that I ask of you
for the two good horses which, as I am told, bore you none so ill upon
the Narrow Way and across plain and mountain when you fled from Sinan,
also on the evil day of Hattin when you unhorsed Salah-ed-din and slew
Hassan.”

“It shall be as you wish,” said Godwin; “and, Son of the Sand, we thank
you for those horses.”

“Good. When you want more, let it be known in the market places that
you seek me,” and he began to turn his horse’s head.

“Stay,” said Godwin. “What do you know of Masouda, your niece? Is she
with you?”

“Nay,” answered the Arab in a low voice, “but she bade me be in a
certain garden of which you have heard, near Ascalon, at an appointed
hour, to take her away, as she is leaving the camp of Salah-ed-din. So
thither I go. Farewell.” Then with a reverence to the veiled lady, he
shook his reins and departed like an arrow by the road along which they
had come.

Godwin gave a sigh of relief. If Masouda had appointed to meet her
uncle the Arab, at least she must be safe. So it was no voice of hers
which seemed to whisper his name in the darkness of the night when
terror had ahold of him—terror, born perhaps of all that he had endured
and the shadow of death through which he had so lately passed. Then he
looked up, to find Wulf staring back at the woman behind him, and
reproved him, saying that he must keep to the spirit of the bargain as
well as to the letter, and that if he might not speak he must not look
either.

“That is a pity,” answered Wulf, “for though she is so tied up, she
must be a tall and noble lady by the way she sits her horse. The horse,
too, is noble, own cousin or brother to Smoke, I think. Perhaps she
will sell it when we get to Jerusalem.”

Then they rode on, and because they thought their honour in it, neither
spoke nor looked more at the companion of this adventure, though, had
they known it, she looked hard enough at them.

At length they reached the gate of Jerusalem, which was crowded with
folk awaiting the return of their ambassadors. They all passed through,
and the embassy was escorted thence by the chief people, most of the
multitude following them to know if they brought peace or war.

Now Godwin and Wulf stared at each other, wondering whither they were
to go and where to find the relatives of their veiled companion, of
whom they saw nothing. Out of the street opened an archway, and beyond
this archway was a garden, which seemed to be deserted. They rode into
it to take counsel, and their companion followed, but, as always, a
little behind them.

“Jerusalem is reached, and we must speak to her now,” said Wulf, “if
only to ask her whither she wishes to be taken.”

Godwin nodded, and they wheeled their horses round.

“Lady,” he said in Arabic, “we have fulfilled our charge. Be pleased to
tell us where are those kindred to whom we must lead you.”

“Here,” answered a soft voice.

They stared about the deserted garden in which stones and sacks of
earth had been stored ready for a siege, and finding no one, said:

“We do not see them.”

Then the lady let slip her cloak, though not her veil revealing the
robe beneath.

“By St. Peter!” said Godwin. “I know the broidery on that dress.
Masouda! Say, is it you, Masouda?”

As he spoke the veil fell also, and lo! before them was a woman like to
Masouda and yet not Masouda. The hair was dressed like hers; the
ornaments and the necklace made of the claws of the lion which Godwin
killed were hers; the skin was of the same rich hue; there even was the
tiny mole upon her cheek, but as the head was bent they could not see
her eyes. Suddenly, with a little moan she lifted it, and looked at
them.

“Rosamund! It is Rosamund herself!” gasped Wulf. “Rosamund disguised as
Masouda!”

And he fell rather than leapt from his saddle and ran to her,
murmuring, “God! I thank Thee!”

Now she seemed to faint and slid from her horse into his arms, and lay
there a moment, while Godwin turned aside his head.

“Yes,” said Rosamund, freeing herself, “it is I and no other, yet I
rode with you all this way and neither of you knew me.”

“Have we eyes that can pierce veils and woollen garments?” asked Wulf
indignantly; but Godwin said in a strange, strained voice:

“You are Rosamund disguised as Masouda. Who, then, was that woman to
whom I bade farewell before Saladin while the headsman awaited me; a
veiled woman who wore the robes and gems of Rosamund?”

“I know not, Godwin,” she answered, “unless it were Masouda clad in my
garments as I left her. Nor do I know anything of this story of the
headsman who awaited you. I thought—I thought it was for Wulf that he
waited—oh! Heaven, I thought that.”

“Tell us your tale,” said Godwin hoarsely.

“It is short,” she answered. “After the casting of the lot, of which I
shall dream till my death-day, I fainted. When I found my senses again
I thought that I must be mad, for there before me stood a woman dressed
in my garments, whose face seemed like my face, yet not the same.

“‘Have no fear,’ she said; ‘I am Masouda, who, amongst many other
things, have learned how to play a part. Listen; there is no time to
lose. I have been ordered to leave the camp; even now my uncle the Arab
waits without, with two swift horses. You, Princess, will leave in my
place. Look, you wear my robes and my face—almost; and are of my
height, and the man who guides you will know no difference. I have seen
to that, for although a soldier of Salah-ed-din, he is of my tribe. I
will go with you to the door, and there bid you farewell before the
eunuchs and the guards with weeping, and who will guess that Masouda is
the princess of Baalbec and that the princess of Baalbec is Masouda?’

“‘And whither shall I go?’ I asked.

“‘My uncle, Son of the Sand, will give you over to the embassy which
rides to Jerusalem, or failing that, will take you to the city, or
failing that, will hide you in the mountains among his own people. See,
here is a letter that he must read; I place it in your breast.’

“‘And what of you, Masouda?’ I asked again.

“‘Of me? Oh! it is all planned, a plan that cannot fail,’ she answered.
‘Fear not; I escape to-night—I have no time to tell you how—and will
join you in a day or two. Also, I think that you will find Sir Godwin,
who will bring you home to England.’

“‘But Wulf? What of Wulf?’ I asked again. ‘He is doomed to die, and I
will not leave him.’

“‘The living and the dead can keep no company,’ she answered.
‘Moreover, I have seen him, and all this is done by his most urgent
order. If you love him, he bids that you will obey.’”

“I never saw Masouda! I never spoke such words! I knew nothing of this
plot!” exclaimed Wulf, and the brethren looked at each other with white
faces.

“Speak on,” said Godwin; “afterwards we can debate.”

“Moreover,” continued Rosamund, bowing her head, “Masouda added these
words, ‘I think that Sir Wulf will escape his doom. If you would see
him again, obey his word, for unless you obey you can never hope to
look upon him living. Go, now, before we are both discovered, which
would mean your death and mine, who, if you go, am safe.’”

“How knew she that I should escape?” asked Wulf.

“She did not know it. She only said she knew to force Rosamund away,”
answered Godwin in the same strained voice. “And then?”

“And then—oh! having Wulf’s express commands, then I went, like one in
a dream. I remember little of it. At the door we kissed and parted
weeping, and while the guard bowed before her, she blessed me beneath
her breath. A soldier stepped forward and said, ‘Follow me, daughter of
Sinan,’ and I followed him, none taking any note, for at that hour,
although perhaps you did not see it in your prisons, a strange shadow
passed across the sun, of which all folk were afraid, thinking that it
portended evil, either to Saladin or Ascalon.*

* The eclipse, which overshadowed Palestine and caused much terror at
Jerusalem on 4th September, 1187, the day of the surrender of
Ascalon.—Author


“In the gloom we came to a place, where was an old Arab among some
trees, and with him two led horses. The soldier spoke to the Arab, and
I gave him Masouda’s letter, which he read. Then he put me on one of
the led horses and the soldier mounted the other, and we departed at a
gallop. All that evening and last night we rode hard, but in the
darkness the soldier left us, and I do not know whither he went. At
length we came to that mountain shoulder and waited there, resting the
horses and eating food which the Arab had with him, till we saw the
embassy, and among them two tall knights.

“‘See,’ said the old Arab, ‘yonder come the brethren whom you seek. See
and give thanks to Allah and to Masouda, who has not lied to you, and
to whom I must now return.’

“Oh! my heart wept as though it would burst, and I wept in my joy—wept
and blessed God and Masouda. But the Arab, Son of the Sand, told me
that for my life’s sake I must be silent and keep myself close veiled
and disguised even from you until we reached Jerusalem, lest perhaps if
they knew me the embassy might refuse escort to the princess of Baalbec
and niece of Saladin, or even give me up to him.

“Then I promised and asked, ‘What of Masouda?’ He said that he rode
back at speed to save her also, as had been arranged, and that was why
he did not take me to Jerusalem himself. But how that was to be done he
was not sure as yet; only he was sure that she was hidden away safely,
and would find a way of escape when she wished it. And—and—you know the
rest, and here, by the grace of God, we three are together again.”

“Ay,” said Godwin, “but where is Masouda, and what will happen to her
who has dared to venture such a plot as this? Oh! know you what this
woman did? I was condemned to die in place of Wulf—how, does not
matter; you will learn it afterwards—and the princess of Baalbec was
brought to say me farewell. There, under the very eyes of Saladin,
Masouda played her part and mimicked you so well that the Sultan was
deceived, and I, even I, was deceived. Yes, when for the first and last
time I embraced her, I was deceived, although, it is true, I wondered.
Also since then a great fear has been with me, although here again I
was deceived, for I thought I feared—for you.

“Now, hark you, Wulf; take Rosamund and lodge her with some lady in
this city, or, better still, place her in sanctuary with the nuns of
the Holy Cross, whence none will dare to drag her, and let her don
their habit. The abbess may remember you, for we have met her, and at
least she will not refuse Rosamund a refuge.”

“Yes, yes; I mind me she asked us news of folk in England. But you?
Where do you go, Godwin?” said his brother.

“I? I ride back to Ascalon to find Masouda.”

“Why?” asked Wulf. “Cannot Masouda save herself, as she told her uncle,
the Arab, she would do? And has he not returned thither to take her
away?”

“I do not know,” answered Godwin; “but this I do know, that for the
sake of Rosamund, and perhaps for my sake also, Masouda has run a
fearful risk. Bethink you, what will be the mood of Saladin when at
length he finds that she upon whom he had built such hopes has gone,
leaving a waiting woman decked out in her attire.”

“Oh!” broke in Rosamund. “I feared it, but I awoke to find myself
disguised, and she persuaded me that all was well; also that this was
done by the will of Wulf, whom she thought would escape.”

“That is the worst of if,” said Godwin. “To carry out her plan she held
it necessary to lie, as I think she lied when she said that she
believed we should both escape, though it is true that so it came
about. I will tell you why she lied. It was that she might give her
life to set you free to join me in Jerusalem.”

Now Rosamund, who knew the secret of Masouda’s heart, looked at him
strangely, wondering within herself how it came about that, thinking
Wulf dead or about to die, she should sacrifice herself that she,
Rosamund, might be sent to the care of Godwin. Surely it could not be
for love of her, although they loved each other well. From love of
Godwin then? How strange a way to show it!

Yet now she began to understand. So true and high was this great love
of Masouda’s that for Godwin’s sake she was ready to hide herself in
death, leaving him—now that, as she thought, his rival was removed—to
live on with the lady whom he loved; ay, and at the price of her own
life giving that lady to his arms. Oh! how noble must she be who could
thus plan and act, and, whatever her past had been, how pure and high
of soul! Surely, if she lived, earth had no grander woman; and if she
were dead, heaven had won a saint indeed.

Rosamund looked at Godwin, and Godwin looked at Rosamund, and there was
understanding in their eyes, for now both of them saw the truth in all
its glory and all its horror.

“I think that I should go back also,” said Rosamund.

“That shall not be,” answered Wulf. “Saladin would kill you for this
flight, as he has sworn.”

“That cannot be,” added Godwin. “Shall the sacrifice of blood be
offered in vain? Moreover it is our duty to prevent you.”

Rosamund looked at him again and stammered:

“If—if—that dreadful thing has happened, Godwin—if the sacrifice—oh!
what will it serve?”

“Rosamund, I know not what has chanced; I go to see. I care not what
may chance; I go to meet it. Through life, through death, and if there
be need, through all the fires of hell, I ride on till I find Masouda,
and kneel to her in homage—”

“And in love,” exclaimed Rosamund, as though the words broke from her
lips against her will.

“Mayhap,” Godwin answered, speaking more to himself than to her.

Then seeing the look upon his face, the set mouth and the flashing
eyes, neither of them sought to stay him further.

“Farewell, my liege-lady and cousin Rosamund,” Godwin said; “my part is
played. Now I leave you in the keeping of God in heaven and of Wulf on
earth. Should we meet no more, my counsel is that you two wed here in
Jerusalem and travel back to Steeple, there to live in peace, if it may
be so. Brother Wulf, fare you well also. We part to-day for the first
time, who from our birth have lived together and loved together and
done many a deed together, some of which we can look back upon without
shame. Go on your course rejoicing, taking the love and gladness that
Heaven has given you and living a good and Christian knight, mindful of
the end which draws on apace, and of eternity beyond.”

“Oh! Godwin, speak not thus,” said Wulf, “for in truth it breaks my
heart to hear such fateful words. Moreover, we do not part thus easily.
Our lady here will be safe enough among the nuns—more safe than I can
keep her. Give me an hour, and I will set her there and join you. Both
of us owe a debt to Masouda, and it is not right that it should be paid
by you alone.”

“Nay,” answered Godwin; “look upon Rosamund, and think what is about to
befall this city. Can you leave her at such a time?”

Then Wulf dropped his head, and trusting himself to speak no more
words, Godwin mounted his horse, and, without so much as looking back,
rode into the narrow street and out through the gateway, till presently
he was lost in the distance and the desert.

Wulf and Rosamund watched him go in silence, for they were choked with
tears.

“Little did I look to part with my brother thus,” said Wulf at length
in a thick and angry voice. “By God’s Wounds! I had more gladly died at
his side in battle than leave him to meet his doom alone.”

“And leave me to meet my doom alone,” murmured Rosamund; then added,
“Oh! I would that I were dead who have lived to bring all this woe upon
you both, and upon that great heart, Masouda. I say, Wulf, I would that
I were dead.”

“Like enough the wish will be fulfilled before all is done,” answered
Wulf wearily, “only then I pray that I may be dead with you, for now,
Rosamund, Godwin has gone, forever as I fear, and you alone are left to
me. Come; let us cease complaining, since to dwell upon these griefs
cannot help us, and be thankful that for a while, at least, we are
free. Follow me, Rosamund, and we will ride to this nunnery to find you
shelter, if we may.”

So they rode on through the narrow streets that were crowded with
scared people, for now the news was spread that the embassy had
rejected the terms of Saladin. He had offered to give the city food and
to suffer its inhabitants to fortify the walls, and to hold them till
the following Whitsuntide if, should no help reach them, they would
swear to surrender then. But they had answered that while they had life
they would never abandon the place where their God had died.

So now war was before them—war to the end; and who were they that must
bear its brunt? Their leaders were slain or captive, their king a
prisoner, their soldiers skeletons on the field of Hattin. Only the
women and children, the sick, the old, and the wounded remained—perhaps
eighty thousand souls in all—but few of whom could bear arms. Yet these
few must defend Jerusalem against the might of the victorious Saracen.
Little wonder that they wailed in the streets till the cry of their
despair went up to heaven, for in their hearts all of them knew that
the holy place was doomed and their lives were forfeited.

Pushing their path through this sad multitude, who took little note of
them, at length they came to the nunnery on the sacred Via Dolorosa,
which Wulf had seen when Godwin and he were in Jerusalem after they had
been dismissed by Saladin from Damascus. Its door stood in the shadow
of that arch where the Roman Pilate had uttered to all generations the
words “Behold the man!”

Here the porter told him that the nuns were at prayer in their chapel.
Wulf replied that he must see the lady abbess upon a matter which would
not delay, and they were shown into a cool and lofty room. Presently
the door opened, and through it came the abbess in her white robes—a
tall and stately Englishwoman, of middle age, who looked at them
curiously.

“Lady Abbess,” said Wulf, bowing low, “my name is Wulf D’Arcy. Do you
remember me?”

“Yes. We met in Jerusalem—before the battle of Hattin,” she answered.
“Also I know something of your story in this land—a very strange one.”

“This lady,” went on Wulf, “is the daughter and heiress of Sir Andrew
D’Arcy, my dead uncle, and in Syria the princess of Baalbec and the
niece of Saladin.”

The abbess started, and asked: “Is she, then, of their accursed faith,
as her garb would seem to show?”

“Nay, mother,” said Rosamund, “I am a Christian, if a sinful one, and I
come here to seek sanctuary, lest when they know who I am and he
clamours at their gates, my fellow Christians may surrender me to my
uncle, the Sultan.”

“Tell me the story,” said the abbess; and they told her briefly, while
she listened, amazed. When they had finished, she said:

“Alas! my daughter, how can we save you, whose own lives are at stake?
That belongs to God alone. Still, what we can we will do gladly, and
here, at least, you may rest for some short while. At the most holy
altar of our chapel you shall be given sanctuary, after which no
Christian man dare lay a hand upon you, since to do so is a sacrilege
that would cost him his soul. Moreover, I counsel that you be enrolled
upon our books as a novice, and don our garb. Nay,” she added with a
smile, noting the look of alarm on the face of Wulf, “the lady Rosamund
need not wear it always, unless such should be her wish. Not every
novice proceeds to the final vows.”

“Long have I been decked in gold-embroidered silks and priceless gems,”
answered Rosamund, “and now I seem to desire that white robe of yours
more than anything on earth.”

So they led Rosamund to the chapel, and in sight of all their order and
of priests who had been summoned, at the altar there, upon that holy
spot where they said that once Christ had answered Pilate, they placed
her hand and gave her sanctuary, and threw over her tired head the
white veil of a novice. There, too, Wulf left her, and riding away,
reported himself to Balian of Ibelin, the elected commander of the
city, who was glad enough to welcome so stout a knight where knights
were few.

Oh! weary, weary was that ride of Godwin’s beneath the sun, beneath the
stars. Behind him, the brother who had been his companion and closest
friend, and the woman whom he had loved in vain; and in front, he knew
not what. What went he forth to seek? Another woman, who had risked her
life for them all because she loved him. And if he found her, what
then? Must he wed her, and did he wish this? Nay, he desired no woman
on the earth; yet what was right that he would do. And if he found her
not, what then? Well, at least he would give himself up to Saladin, who
must think ill of them by whom he had dealt well, and tell him that of
this plot they had no knowledge. Indeed, to him he would go first, if
it were but to beg forgiveness for Masouda should she still be in his
hands. Then—for he could not hope to be believed or pardoned a second
time—then let death come, and he would welcome it, who greatly longed
for peace.

It was evening, and Godwin’s tired horse stumbled slowly through the
great camp of the Saracens without the walls of fallen Ascalon. None
hindered him, for having been so long a prisoner he was known by many,
while others thought that he was but one of the surrendered Christian
knights. So he came to the great house where Saladin lodged, and bade
the guard take his name to the Sultan, saying that he craved audience
of him. Presently he was admitted, and found Saladin seated in council
among his ministers.

“Sir Godwin,” he said sternly, “seeing how you have dealt by me, what
brings you back into my camp? I gave you brethren your lives, and you
have robbed me of one whom I would not lose.”

“We did not rob you, sire,” answered Godwin, “who knew nothing of this
plot. Nevertheless, as I was sure that you would think thus, I am come
from Jerusalem, leaving the princess and my brother there, to tell the
truth and to surrender myself to you, that I may bear in her place any
punishment which you think fit to inflict upon the woman Masouda.”

“Why should you bear it?” asked Saladin.

“Because, Sultan,” answered Godwin sadly, and with bent head, “whatever
she did, she did for love of me, though without my knowledge. Tell me,
is she still here, or has she fled?”

“She is still here,” answered Saladin shortly. “Would you wish to see
her?”

Godwin breathed a sigh of relief. At least, Masouda still lived, and
the terror that had struck him in the night was but an evil dream born
of his own fears and sufferings.

“I do,” he answered, “once, if no more. I have words to say to her.”

“Doubtless she will be glad to learn how her plot prospered,” said
Saladin, with a grim smile. “In truth it was well laid and boldly
executed.”

Calling to one of his council, that same old imaum who had planned the
casting of the lots, the Sultan spoke with him aside. Then he said:

“Let this knight be led to the woman Masouda. Tomorrow we will judge
him.”

Taking a silver lamp from the wall, the imaum beckoned to Godwin, who
bowed to the Sultan and followed. As he passed wearily through the
throng in the audience room, it seemed to Godwin that the emirs and
captains gathered there looked at him with pity in their eyes. So
strong was this feeling in him that he halted in his walk, and asked:

“Tell me, lord, do I go to my death?”

“All of us go thither,” answered Saladin in the silence, “but Allah has
not written that death is yours to-night.”

They passed down long passages; they came to a door which the imaum,
who hobbled in front, unlocked.

“She is under ward then?” said Godwin.

“Ay,” was the answer, “under ward. Enter,” and he handed him the lamp.
“I remain without.”

“Perchance she sleeps, and I shall disturb her,” said Godwin, as he
hesitated upon the threshold.

“Did you not say she loved you? Then doubtless, even if she sleeps,
she, who has dwelt at Masyaf will not take your visit ill, who have
ridden so far to find her,” said the imaum with a sneering laugh.
“Enter, I say.”

So Godwin took the lamp and went in, and the door was shut behind him.
Surely the place was familiar to him? He knew that arched roof and
these rough, stone walls. Why, it was here that he had been brought to
die, and through that very door the false Rosamund had come to bid him
farewell, who now returned to greet her in this same darksome den.
Well, it was empty—doubtless she would soon come, and he waited,
looking at the door. It did not stir; he heard no footsteps; nothing
broke that utter silence. He turned again and stared about him.
Something glinted on the ground yonder, towards the end of the vault,
just where he had knelt before the executioner. A shape lay there;
doubtless it was Masouda, imprisoned and asleep.

“Masouda,” he said, and the sounding echoes from the arched walls
answered back, “Masouda!”

He must awaken her; there was no choice. Yes, it was she, asleep, and
she still wore the royal robes of Rosamund, and a clasp of Rosamund’s
still glittered on her breast.

How sound Masouda slept! Would she never wake? He knelt down beside her
and put out his hand to lift the long hair that hid her face.

Now it touched her, and lo! the head fell over.

Then, with horror in his heart, Godwin held down the lamp and looked.
Oh! those robes were red, and those lips were ashen. It was Masouda,
whose spirit had passed him in the desert; Masouda, slain by the
headsman’s sword! This was the evil jest that had been played upon him,
and thus—thus they met again.

Godwin rose to his feet and stood over her still shape as a man stands
in a dream, while words broke from his lips and a fountain in his heart
was unsealed.

“Masouda,” he whispered, “I know now that I love you and you only,
henceforth and forever, O woman with a royal heart. Wait for me,
Masouda, wherever you may dwell.”

While the whispered words left his lips, it seemed to Godwin that once
more, as when he rode with Wulf from Ascalon, the strange wind blew
about his brow, bringing with it the presence of Masouda, and that once
more the unearthly peace sank into his soul.

Then all was past and over, and he turned to see the old imaum standing
at his side.

“Did I not tell you that you would find her sleeping?” he said, with
his bitter, chuckling laugh. “Call on her, Sir Knight; call on her!
Love, they say, can bridge great gulfs—even that between severed neck
and bosom.”

With the silver lamp in his hand Godwin smote, and the man went down
like a felled ox, leaving him once more in silence and in darkness.

For a moment Godwin stood thus, till his brain was filled with fire,
and he too fell—fell across the corpse of Masouda, and there lay still.




Chapter XXII.
At Jerusalem


Godwin knew that he lay sick, but save that Masouda seemed to tend him
in his sickness he knew no more, for all the past had gone from him.
There she was always, clad in a white robe, and looking at him with
eyes full of ineffable calm and love, and he noted that round her neck
ran a thin, red line, and wondered how it came there.

He knew also that he travelled while he was ill, for at dawn he would
hear the camp break up with a mighty noise, and feel his litter lifted
by slaves who bore him along for hours across the burning sand, till at
length the evening came, and with a humming sound, like the sound of
hiving bees, the great army set its bivouac. Then came the night and
the pale moon floating like a boat upon the azure sea above, and
everywhere the bright, eternal stars, to which went up the constant cry
of “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is the greatest, there is none but
He.”

“It is a false god,” he would say. “Tell them to cry upon the Saviour
of the World.”

Then the voice of Masouda would seem to answer:

“Judge not. No god whom men worship with a pure and single heart is
wholly false. Many be the ladders that lead to heaven. Judge not, you
Christian knight.”

At length that journey was done, and there arose new noises as of the
roar of battle. Orders were given and men marched out in thousands;
then rose that roar, and they marched back again, mourning their dead.

At last came a day when, opening his eyes, Godwin turned to rest them
on Masouda, and lo! she was gone, and in her accustomed place there sat
a man whom he knew well—Egbert, once bishop of Nazareth, who gave him
to drink of sherbet cooled with snow. Yes, the Woman had departed and
the Priest was there.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Outside the walls of Jerusalem, my son, a prisoner in the camp of
Saladin,” was the answer.

“And where is Masouda, who has sat by me all these days?”

“In heaven, as I trust,” came the gentle answer, “for she was a brave
lady. It is I who have sat by you.”

“Nay,” said Godwin obstinately, “it was Masouda.”

“If so,” answered the bishop again, “it was her spirit, for I shrove
her and have prayed over her open grave—her spirit, which came to visit
you from heaven, and has gone back to heaven now that you are of the
earth again.”

Then Godwin remembered the truth, and groaning, fell asleep.
Afterwards, as he grew stronger, Egbert told him all the story. He
learned that when he was found lying senseless on the body of Masouda
the emirs wished Saladin to kill him, if for no other reason because he
had dashed out the eye of the holy imaum with a lamp. But the Sultan,
who had discovered the truth, would not, for he said that it was
unworthy of the imaum to have mocked his grief, and that Sir Godwin had
dealt with him as he deserved. Also, that this Frank was one of the
bravest of knights, who had returned to bear the punishment of a sin
which he did not commit, and that, although he was a Christian, he
loved him as a friend.

So the imaum lost both his eye and his vengeance.

Thus it had come about that the bishop Egbert was ordered to nurse him,
and, if possible to save his life; and when at last they marched upon
Jerusalem, soldiers were told off to bear his litter, and a good tent
was set apart to cover him. Now the siege of the holy city had begun,
and there was much slaughter on both sides.

“Will it fall?” asked Godwin.

“I fear so, unless the saints help them,” answered Egbert. “Alas! I
fear so.”

“Will not Saladin be merciful?” he asked again.

“Why should he be merciful, my son, since they have refused his terms
and defied him? Nay, he has sworn that as Godfrey took the place nigh
upon a hundred years ago and slaughtered the Mussulmen who dwelt there
by thousands, men, women, and children together, so will he do to the
Christians. Oh! why should he spare them? They must die! They must
die!” and wringing his hands Egbert left the tent.

Godwin lay still, wondering what the answer to this riddle might be. He
could think of one, and one only. In Jerusalem was Rosamund, the
Sultan’s niece, whom he must desire to recapture, above all things, not
only because she was of his blood, but since he feared that if he did
not do so his vision concerning her would come to nothing.

Now what was this vision? That through Rosamund much slaughter should
be spared. Well, if Jerusalem were saved, would not tens of thousands
of Moslem and Christian lives be saved also? Oh! surely here was the
answer, and some angel had put it into his heart, and now he prayed for
strength to plant it in the heart of Saladin, for strength and
opportunity.

This very day Godwin found the opportunity. As he lay dozing in his
tent that evening, being still too weak to rise, a shadow fell upon
him, and opening his eyes he saw the Sultan himself standing alone by
his bedside. Now he strove to rise to salute him, but in a kind voice
Saladin bade him lie still, and seating himself, began to talk.

“Sir Godwin,” he said, “I am come to ask your pardon. When I sent you
to visit that dead woman, who had suffered justly for her crime, I did
an act unworthy of a king. But my heart was bitter against her and you,
and the imaum, he whom you smote, put into my mind the trick that cost
him his eye and almost cost a worn-out and sorrowful man his life. I
have spoken.”

“I thank you, sire, who were always noble,” answered Godwin.

“You say so. Yet I have done things to you and yours that you can
scarcely hold as noble,” said Saladin. “I stole your cousin from her
home, as her mother had been stolen from mine, paying back ill with
ill, which is against the law, and in his own hall my servants slew her
father and your uncle, who was once my friend. Well, these things I did
because a fate drove me on—the fate of a dream, the fate of a dream.
Say, Sir Godwin, is that story which they tell in the camps true, that
a vision came to you before the battle of Hattin, and that you warned
the leaders of the Franks not to advance against me?”

“Yes, it is true,” answered Godwin, and he told the vision, and of how
he had sworn to it on the Rood.

“And what did they say to you?”

“They laughed at me, and hinted that I was a sorcerer, or a traitor in
your pay, or both.”

“Blind fools, who would not hear the truth when it was sent to them by
the pure mouth of a prophet,” muttered Saladin. “Well, they paid the
price, and I and my faith are the gainers. Do you wonder, then, Sir
Godwin, that I also believe my vision which came to me thrice in the
night season, bringing with it the picture of the very face of my
niece, the princess of Baalbec?”

“I do not wonder,” answered Godwin.

“Do you wonder also that I was mad with rage when I learned that at
last yonder brave dead woman had outwitted me and all my spies and
guards, and this after I had spared your lives? Do you wonder that I am
still so wroth, believing as I do that a great occasion has been taken
from me?”

“I do not wonder. But, Sultan, I who have seen a vision speak to you
who also have seen a vision—a prophet to a prophet. And I tell you that
the occasion has not been taken—it has been brought, yes, to your very
door, and that all these things have happened that it might thus be
brought.”

“Say on,” said Saladin, gazing at him earnestly.

“See now, Salah-ed-din, the princess Rosamund is in Jerusalem. She has
been led to Jerusalem that you may spare it for her sake, and thus make
an end of bloodshed and save the lives of folk uncounted.”

“Never!” said the Sultan, springing up. “They have rejected my mercy,
and I have sworn to sweep them away, man, woman, and child, and be
avenged upon all their unclean and faithless race.”

“Is Rosamund unclean that you would be avenged upon her? Will her dead
body bring you peace? If Jerusalem is put to the sword, she must perish
also.”

“I will give orders that she is to be saved—that she may be judged for
her crime by me,” he added grimly.

“How can she be saved when the stormers are drunk with slaughter, and
she but one disguised woman among ten thousand others?”

“Then,” he answered, stamping his foot, “she shall be brought or
dragged out of Jerusalem before the slaughter begins.”

“That, I think, will not happen while Wulf is there to protect her,”
said Godwin quietly.

“Yet I say that it must be so—it shall be so.”

Then, without more words, Saladin left the tent with a troubled brow.

Within Jerusalem all was misery, all was despair. There were crowded
thousands and tens of thousands of fugitives, women and children, many
of them, whose husbands and fathers had been slain at Hattin or
elsewhere. The fighting men who were left had few commanders, and thus
it came about that soon Wulf found himself the captain of very many of
them.

First Saladin attacked from the west between the gates of Sts. Stephen
and of David, but here stood strong fortresses called the Castle of the
Pisans and the Tower of Tancred, whence the defenders made sallies upon
him, driving back his stormers. So he determined to change his ground,
and moved his army to the east, camping it near the valley of the
Kedron. When they saw the tents being struck the Christians thought
that he was abandoning the siege, and gave thanks to God in all their
churches; but lo! next morning the white array of these appeared again
on the east, and they knew that their doom was sealed.

There were in the city many who desired to surrender to the Sultan, and
fierce grew the debates between them and those who swore that they
would rather die. At length it was agreed that an embassy should be
sent. So it came under safe conduct, and was received by Saladin in
presence of his emirs and counsellors. He asked them what was their
wish, and they replied that they had come to discuss terms. Then he
answered thus:

“In Jerusalem is a certain lady, my niece, known among us as the
princess of Baalbec, and among the Christians as Rosamund D’Arcy, who
escaped thither a while ago in the company of the knight, Sir Wulf
D’Arcy, whom I have seen fighting bravely among your warriors. Let her
be surrendered to me that I may deal with her as she deserves, and we
will talk again. Till then I have no more to say.”

Now most of the embassy knew nothing of this lady, but one or two said
they thought that they had heard of her, but had no knowledge of where
she was hidden.

“Then return and search her out,” said Saladin, and so dismissed them.

Back came the envoys to the council and told what Saladin had said.

“At least,” exclaimed Heraclius the Patriarch, “in this matter it is
easy to satisfy the Sultan. Let his niece be found and delivered to
him. Where is she?”

Now one declared that was known by the knight, Sir Wulf D’Arcy, with
whom she had entered the city. So he was sent for, and came with armour
rent and red sword in hand, for he had just beaten back an attack upon
the barbican, and asked what was their pleasure.

“We desire to know, Sir Wulf,” said the patriarch, “where you have
hidden away the lady known as the princess of Baalbec, whom you stole
from the Sultan?”

“What is that to your Holiness?” asked Wulf shortly.

“A great deal, to me and to all, seeing that Saladin will not even
treat with us until she is delivered to him.”

“Does this council, then, propose to hand over a Christian lady to the
Saracens against her will?” asked Wulf sternly.

“We must,” answered Heraclius. “Moreover, she belongs to them.”

“She does not belong,” answered Wulf. “She was kidnapped by Saladin in
England, and ever since has striven to escape from him.”

“Waste not our time,” exclaimed the patriarch impatiently. “We
understand that you are this woman’s lover, but however that may be,
Saladin demands her, and to Saladin she must go. So tell us where she
is without more ado, Sir Wulf.”

“Discover that for yourself, Sir Patriarch,” replied Wulf in fury. “Or,
if you cannot, send one of your own women in her place.”

Now there was a murmur in the council, but of wonder at his boldness
rather than of indignation, for this patriarch was a very evil liver.

“I care not if I speak the truth,” went on Wulf, “for it is known to
all. Moreover, I tell this man that it is well for him that he is a
priest, however shameful, for otherwise I would cleave his head in two
who has dared to call the lady Rosamund my lover.” Then, still shaking
with wrath, the great knight turned and stalked from the council
chamber.

“A dangerous man,” said Heraclius, who was white to the lips; “a very
dangerous man. I propose that he should be imprisoned.”

“Ay,” answered the lord Balian of Ibelin, who was in supreme command of
the city, “a very dangerous man—to his foes, as I can testify. I saw
him and his brother charge through the hosts of the Saracens at the
battle of Hattin, and I have seen him in the breach upon the wall.
Would that we had more such dangerous men just now!”

“But he has insulted me,” shouted the patriarch, “me and my holy
office.”

“The truth should be no insult,” answered Balian with meaning. “At
least, it is a private matter between you and him on account of which
we cannot spare one of our few captains. Now as regards this lady, I
like not the business—”

As he spoke a messenger entered the room and said that the hiding-place
of Rosamund had been discovered. She had been admitted a novice into
the community of the Virgins of the Holy Cross, who had their house by
the arch on the Via Dolorosa.

“Now I like it still less,” Balian went on, “for to touch her would be
sacrilege.”

“His Holiness, Heraclius, will give us absolution,” said a mocking
voice.

Then another leader rose—he was one of the party who desired peace—and
pointed out that this was no time to stand on scruples, for the Sultan
would not listen to them in their sore plight unless the lady were
delivered to him to be judged for her offence. Perhaps, being his own
niece, she would, in fact, suffer no harm at his hands, and whether
this were so or not, it was better that one should endure wrong, or
even death, than many.

With such words he over-persuaded the most of them, so that in the end
they rose and went to the convent of the Holy Cross, where the
patriarch demanded admission for them, which, indeed, could not be
refused. The stately abbess received them in the refectory, and asked
their pleasure.

“Daughter,” said the patriarch, “you have in your keeping a lady named
Rosamund D’Arcy, with whom we desire to speak. Where is she?”

“The novice Rosamund,” answered the abbess, “prays by the holy altar in
the chapel.”

Now one murmured, “She has taken sanctuary,” but the patriarch said:

“Tell us, daughter, does she pray alone?”

“A knight guards her prayers,” was the answer.

“Ah! as I thought, he has been beforehand with us. Also, daughter,
surely your discipline is somewhat lax if you suffer knights thus to
invade your chapel. But lead us thither.”

“The dangers of the times and of the lady must answer for it,” the
abbess replied boldly, as she obeyed.

Presently they were in the great, dim place, where the lamps burned day
and night. There by the altar, built, it was said, upon the spot where
the Lord stood to receive judgment, they saw a kneeling woman, who,
clad in the robe of a novice, grasped the stonework with her hands.
Without the rails, also kneeling, was the knight Wulf, still as a
statue on a sepulchre. Hearing them, he rose, turned him about, and
drew his great sword.

“Sheathe that sword,” commanded Heraclius.

“When I became a knight,” answered Wulf, “I swore to defend the
innocent from harm and the altars of God from sacrilege at the hands of
wicked men. Therefore I sheathe not my sword.”

“Take no heed of him,” said one; and Heraclius, standing back in the
aisle, addressed Rosamund:

“Daughter,” he cried, “with bitter grief we are come to ask of you a
sacrifice, that you should give yourself for the people, as our Master
gave Himself for the people. Saladin demands you as a fugitive of his
blood, and until you are delivered to him he will not treat with us for
the saving of the city. Come forth, then, we pray you.”

Now Rosamund rose and faced them, with her hand resting upon the altar.

“I risked my life and I believe another gave her life,” she said, “that
I might escape from the power of the Moslems. I will not come forth to
return to them.”

“Then, our need being sore, we must take you,” answered Heraclius
sullenly.

“What!” she cried. “You, the patriarch of this sacred city, would tear
me from the sanctuary of its holiest altar? Oh! then, indeed shall the
curse fall upon it and you. Hence, they say, our sweet Lord was haled
to sacrifice by the command of an unjust judge, and thereafter
Jerusalem was taken by the sword. Must I too be dragged from the spot
that His feet have hallowed, and even in these weeds”—and she pointed
to her white robe—“thrown as an offering to your foes, who mayhap will
bid me choose between death and the Koran? If so, I say assuredly that
offering will be made in vain, and assuredly your streets shall run red
with the blood of those who tore me from my sanctuary.”

Now they consulted together, some taking one side and some the other,
but the most of them declared that she must be given up to Saladin.

“Come of your own will, I pray you,” said the patriarch, “since we
would not take you by force.”

“By force only will you take me,” answered Rosamund.

Then the abbess spoke.

“Sirs, will you commit so great a crime? Then I tell you that it cannot
go without its punishment. With this lady I say”—and she drew up her
tall shape—“that it shall be paid for in your blood, and mayhap in the
blood of all of us. Remember my words when the Saracens have won the
city, and are putting its children to the sword.”

“I absolve you from the sin,” shouted the patriarch, “if sin it is.”

“Absolve yourself,” broke in Wulf sternly, “and know this. I am but one
man, but I have some strength and skill. If you seek but to lay a hand
upon the novice Rosamund to hale her away to be slain by Saladin, as he
has sworn that he would do should she dare to fly from him, before I
die there are those among you who have looked the last upon the light.”

Then, standing there before the altar rails, he lifted his great blade
and settled the skull-blazoned shield upon his arm.

Now the patriarch raved and stormed, and one among them cried that they
would fetch bows and shoot Wulf down from a distance.

“And thus,” broke in Rosamund, “add murder to sacrilege! Oh! sirs,
bethink what you do—ay, and remember this, that you do it all in vain.
Saladin has promised you nothing, except that if you deliver me to him,
he will talk with you, and then you may find that you have sinned for
nothing. Have pity on me and go your ways, leaving the issue in the
hand of God.”

“That is true,” cried some. “Saladin made no promises.”

Now Balian, the guardian of the city, who had followed them to the
chapel and standing in the background heard what passed there, stepped
forward and said:

“My lord Patriarch, I pray you let this thing be, since from such a
crime no good could come to us or any. That altar is the holiest and
most noted place of sanctuary in all Jerusalem. Will you dare to tear a
maiden from it whose only sin is that she, a Christian, has escaped the
Saracens by whom she was stolen? Do you dare to give her back to them
and death, for such will be her doom at the hands of Saladin? Surely
that would be the act of cowards, and bring upon us the fate of
cowards. Sir Wulf, put up your sword and fear nothing. If there is any
safety in Jerusalem, your lady is safe. Abbess, lead her to her cell.”

“Nay,” answered the abbess with fine sarcasm, “it is not fitting that
we should leave this place before his Holiness.”

“Then you have not long to wait,” shouted the patriarch in fury. “Is
this a time for scruples about altars? Is this a time to listen to the
prayers of a girl or to threats of a single knight, or the doubts of a
superstitious captain? Well, take your way and let your lives pay its
cost. Yet I say that if Saladin asked for half the noble maidens in the
city, it would be cheap to let him have them in payment for the blood
of eighty thousand folk,” and he stalked towards the door.

So they went away, all except Wulf, who stayed to make sure that they
were gone, and the abbess, who came to Rosamund and embraced her,
saying that for the while the danger was past, and she might rest
quiet.

“Yes, mother,” answered Rosamund with a sob, “but oh! have I done
right? Should I not have surrendered myself to the wrath of Saladin if
the lives of so many hang upon it? Perhaps, after all, he would forget
his oath and spare my life, though at best I should never be suffered
to escape again while there is a castle in Baalbec or a guarded harem
in Damascus. Moreover, it is hard to bid farewell to all one loves
forever,” and she glanced towards Wulf, who stood out of hearing.

“Yes,” answered the abbess, “it is hard, as we nuns know well. But,
daughter, that sore choice has not yet been thrust upon you. When
Saladin says that he sets you against the lives of all this cityful,
then you must judge.”

“Ay,” repeated Rosamund, “then I—must judge.”

The siege went on; from terror to terror it went on. The mangonels
hurled their stones unceasingly, the arrows flew in clouds so that none
could stand upon the walls. Thousands of the cavalry of Saladin hovered
round St. Stephen’s Gate, while the engines poured fire and bolts upon
the doomed town, and the Saracen miners worked their way beneath the
barbican and the wall. The soldiers within could not sally because of
the multitude of the watching horsemen; they could not show themselves,
since he who did so was at once destroyed by a thousand darts, and they
could not build up the breaches of the crumbling wall. As day was added
to day, the despair grew ever deeper. In every street might be met long
processions of monks bearing crosses and chanting penitential psalms
and prayers, while in the house-doors women wailed to Christ for mercy,
and held to their breasts the children which must so soon be given to
death, or torn from them to deck some Mussulman harem.

The commander Balian called the knights together in council, and showed
them that Jerusalem was doomed.

“Then,” said one of the leaders, “let us sally out and die fighting in
the midst of foes.”

“Ay,” added Heraclius, “and leave our children and our women to death
and dishonour. Then that surrender is better, since there is no hope of
succour.”

“Nay,” answered Balian, “we will not surrender. While God lives, there
is hope.”

“He lived on the day of Hattin, and suffered it,” said Heraclius; and
the council broke up, having decided nothing.

That afternoon Balian stood once more before Saladin and implored him
to spare the city.

Saladin led him to the door of the tent and pointed to his yellow
banners floating here and there upon the wall, and to one that at this
moment rose upon the breach itself.

“Why should I spare what I have already conquered, and what I have
sworn to destroy?” he asked. “When I offered you mercy you would have
none of it. Why do you ask it now?”

Then Balian answered him in those words that will ring through history
forever.

“For this reason, Sultan. Before God, if die we must, we will first
slaughter our women and our little children, leaving you neither male
nor female to enslave. We will burn the city and its wealth; we will
grind the holy Rock to powder and make of the mosque el-Aksa, and the
other sacred places, a heap of ruins. We will cut the throats of the
five thousand followers of the Prophet who are in our power, and then,
every man of us who can bear arms, we will sally out into the midst of
you and fight on till we fall. So I think Jerusalem shall cost you
dear.”

The Sultan stared at him and stroked his beard.

“Eighty thousand lives,” he muttered; “eighty thousand lives, besides
those of my soldiers whom you will slay. A great slaughter—and the holy
city destroyed forever. Oh! it was of such a massacre as this that once
I dreamed.”

Then Saladin sat still and thought a while, his head bowed upon his
breast.




Chapter XXIII.
Saint Rosamund


From the day when he saw Saladin Godwin began to grow strong again, and
as his health came back, so he fell to thinking. Rosamund was lost to
him and Masouda was dead, and at times he wished that he were dead
also. What more had he to do with his life, which had been so full of
sorrow, struggle and bloodshed? Go back to England to live there upon
his lands, and wait until old age and death overtook him? The prospect
would have pleased many, but it did not please Godwin, who felt that
his days were not given to him for this purpose, and that while he
lived he must also labour.

As he sat thinking thus, and was very unhappy, the aged bishop Egbert,
who had nursed him so well, entered his tent, and, noting his face,
asked:

“What ails you, my son?”

“Would you wish to hear?” said Godwin.

“Am I not your confessor, with a right to hear?” answered the gentle
old man. “Show me your trouble.”

So Godwin began at the beginning and told it all—how as a lad he had
secretly desired to enter the Church; how the old prior of the abbey at
Stangate counselled him that he was too young to judge; how then the
love of Rosamund had entered into his life with his manhood, and he had
thought no more of religion. He told him also of the dream that he had
dreamed when he lay wounded after the fight on Death Creek; of the vows
which he and Wulf had vowed at the time of their knighting, and of how
by degrees he had learned that Rosamund’s love was not for him. Lastly,
he told him of Masouda, but of her Egbert, who had shriven her, knew
already.

The bishop listened in silence till he had finished. Then he looked up,
saying:

“And now?”

“Now,” answered Godwin, “I know not. Yet it seems to me that I hear the
sound of my own feet walking upon cloister stones, and of my own voice
lifted up in prayer before the altar.”

“You are still young to talk thus, and though Rosamund be lost to you
and Masouda dead, there are other women in the world,” said Egbert.

Godwin shook his head.

“Not for me, my father.”

“Then there are the knightly Orders, in which you might rise high.”

Again he shook his head.

“The Templars and the Hospitallers are crushed. Moreover, I watched
them in Jerusalem and the field, and love them not. Should they change
their ways, or should I be needed to fight against the Infidel, I can
join them by dispensation in days to come. But counsel me—what shall I
do now?”

“Oh! my son,” the old bishop said, his face lighting up, “if God calls
you, come to God. I will show you the road.”

“Yes, I will come,” Godwin answered quietly. “I will come, and, unless
the Cross should once more call me to follow it in war, I will strive
to spend the time that is left to me in His service and that of men.
For I think, my father, that to this end I was born.”

Three days later Godwin was ordained a priest, there in the camp of
Saladin, by the hand of the bishop Egbert, while around his tent the
servants of Mahomet, triumphant at the approaching downfall of the
Cross, shouted that God is great and Mahomet His only prophet.


Saladin lifted his head and looked at Balian.

“Tell me,” he said, “what of the princess of Baalbec, whom you know as
the lady Rosamund D’Arcy? I told you that I would speak no more with
you of the safety of Jerusalem until she was delivered to me for
judgment. Yet I see her not.”

“Sultan,” answered Balian, “we found this lady in the convent of the
Holy Cross, wearing the robe of a novice of that order. She had taken
the sanctuary there by the altar which we deem so sacred and
inviolable, and refused to come.”

Saladin laughed.

“Cannot all your men-at-arms drag one maiden from an altar
stone?—unless, indeed, the great knight Wulf stood before it with sword
aloft,” he added.

“So he stood,” answered Balian, “but it was not of him that we thought,
though assuredly he would have slain some of us. To do this thing would
have been an awful crime, which we were sure must bring down the
vengeance of our God upon us and upon the city.”

“What of the vengeance of Salah-ed-din?”

“Sore as is our case, Sultan, we still fear God more than Saladin.”

“Ay, Sir Balian, but Salah-ed-din may be a sword in the hand of God.”

“Which sword, Sultan, would have fallen swiftly had we done this deed.”

“I think that it is about to fall,” said Saladin, and again was silent
and stroked his beard.

“Listen, now,” he said at length. “Let the princess, my niece, come to
me and ask it of my grace, and I think that I will grant you terms for
which, in your plight, you may be thankful.”

“Then we must dare the great sin and take her,” answered Balian sadly,
“having first slain the knight Wulf, who will not let her go while he
is alive.”

“Nay, Sir Balian, for that I should be sorry, nor will I suffer it, for
though a Christian he is a man after my own heart. This time I said
‘Let her come to me,’ not ‘Let her be brought.’ Ay, come of her own
free will, to answer to me for her sin against me, understanding that I
promise her nothing, who in the old days promised her much, and kept my
word. Then she was the princess of Baalbec, with all the rights
belonging to that great rank, to whom I had sworn that no husband
should be forced upon her, nor any change of faith. Now I take back
these oaths, and if she comes, she comes as an escaped
Cross-worshipping slave, to whom I offer only the choice of Islam or of
a shameful death.”

“What high-born lady would take such terms?” asked Balian in dismay.
“Rather, I think, would she choose to die by her own hand than by that
of your hangman, since she can never abjure her faith.”

“And thereby doom eighty thousand of her fellow Christians, who must
accompany her to that death,” answered Saladin sternly. “Know, Sir
Balian, I swear it before Allah and for the last time, that if my niece
Rosamund does not come, of her own free will, unforced by any,
Jerusalem shall be put to sack.”

“Then the fate of the holy city and all its inhabitants hangs upon the
nobleness of a single woman?” stammered Balian.

“Ay, upon the nobleness of a single woman, as my vision told me it
should be. If her spirit is high enough, Jerusalem may yet be saved. If
it be baser than I thought, as well may chance, then assuredly with her
it is doomed. I have no more to say, but my envoys shall ride with you
bearing a letter, which with their own hands they must present to my
niece, the princess of Baalbec. Then she can return with them to me, or
she can bide where she is, when I shall know that I saw but a lying
vision of peace and mercy flowing from her hands, and will press on
this war to its bloody end.”

Within an hour Balian rode to the city under safe conduct, taking with
him the envoys of Saladin and the letter, which they were charged to
deliver to Rosamund.

It was night, and in their lamp-lit chapel the Virgins of the Holy
Cross upon bended knees chanted the slow and solemn Miserere. From
their hearts they sang, to whom death and dishonour were so near,
praying their Lord and the merciful Mother of God to have pity, and to
spare them and the inhabitants of the hallowed town where He had dwelt
and suffered, and to lead them safe through the shadow of a fate as
awful as His own. They knew that the end was near, that the walls were
tottering to their fall, that the defenders were exhausted, and that
soon the wild soldiers of Saladin would be surging through the narrow
streets.

Then would come the sack and the slaughter, either by the sword of the
Saracens, or, perchance, if these found time and they were not
forgotten, more mercifully at the hands of Christian men, who thus
would save them from the worst.

Their dirge ended, the abbess rose and addressed them. Her bearing was
still proud, but her voice quavered.

“My daughters in the Lord,” she said, “the doom is almost at our door,
and we must brace our hearts to meet it. If the commanders of the city
do what they have promised, they will send some here to behead us at
the last, and so we shall pass happily to glory and be ever with the
Lord. But perchance they will forget us, who are but a few among eighty
thousand souls, of whom some fifty thousand must thus be killed. Or
their arms may grow weary, or themselves they may fall before ever they
reach this house—and what, my daughters, shall we do then?”

Now some of the nuns clung together and sobbed in their affright, and
some were silent. Only Rosamund drew herself to her full height, and
spoke proudly.

“My Mother,” she said, “I am a newcomer among you, but I have seen the
slaughter of Hattin, and I know what befalls Christian women and
children among the unbelievers. Therefore I ask your leave to say my
say.”

“Speak,” said the abbess.

“This is my counsel,” went on Rosamund, “and it is short and plain.
When we know that the Saracens are in the city, let us set fire to this
convent and get us to our knees and so perish.”

“Well spoken; it is best,” muttered several. But the abbess answered
with a sad smile:

“High counsel indeed, such as might be looked for from high blood. Yet
it may not be taken, since self-slaughter is a deadly sin.”

“I see little difference between it,” said Rosamund, “and the
stretching out of our necks to the swords of friends. Yet, although for
others I cannot judge, for myself I do judge who am bound by no final
vows. I tell you that rather than fall into the hands of the Paynims, I
will dare that sin and leave them nothing but the vile mould which once
held the spirit of a woman.”

And she laid her hand upon the dagger hilt that was hidden in her robe.

Then again the abbess spoke.

“To you, daughter, I cannot forbid the deed, but to those who have
fully sworn to obey me I do forbid it, and to them I show another if a
more piteous way of escape from the last shame of womanhood. Some of us
are old and withered, and have naught to fear but death, but others are
still young and fair. To these I say, when the end is nigh, let them
take steel and score face and bosom and seat themselves here in this
chapel, red with their own blood and made loathsome to the sight of
man. Then will the end come upon them quickly, and they will pass hence
unstained to be the brides of Heaven.”

Now a great groan of horror went up from those miserable women, who
already saw themselves seated in stained robes, and hideous to behold,
there in the carved chairs of their choir, awaiting death by the swords
of furious and savage men, as in a day to come their sisters of the
Faith were to await it in the doomed convent of the Virgins of St.
Clare at Acre.*

* Those who are curious to know the story of the end of those holy
heroines, the Virgins of St. Clare, I think in the year 1291, may read
it in my book, “A Winter Pilgrimage,” pp. 270 and 271—AUTHOR.


Yet one by one, except the aged among them, they came up to the abbess
and swore that they would obey her in this as in everything, while the
abbess said that herself she would lead them down that dreadful road of
pain and mutilation. Yes, save Rosamund, who declared that she would
die undisfigured as God had made her, and two other novices, they swore
it one by one, laying their hands upon the altar.

Then again they got them to their knees and sang the Miserere.

Presently, above their mournful chant, the sound of loud, insistent
knockings echoed down the vaulted roofs. They sprang up screaming:

“The Saracens are here! Give us knives! Give us knives!”

Rosamund drew the dagger from its sheath.

“Wait awhile,” cried the abbess. “These may be friends, not foes.
Sister Ursula, go to the door and seek tidings.”

The sister, an aged woman, obeyed with tottering steps, and, reaching
the massive portal, undid the guichet, or lattice, and asked with a
quavering voice:

“Who are you that knock?” while the nuns within held their breath and
strained their ears to catch the answer.

Presently it came, in a woman’s silvery tones, that sounded strangely
still and small in the spaces of that tomb-like church.

“I am the Queen Sybilla, with her ladies.”

“And what would you with us, O Queen? The right of sanctuary?”

“Nay; I bring with me some envoys from Saladin, who would have speech
with the lady named Rosamund D’Arcy, who is among you.”

Now at these words Rosamund fled to the altar, and stood there, still
holding the naked dagger in her hand.

“Let her not fear,” went on the silvery voice, “for no harm shall come
to her against her will. Admit us, holy Abbess, we beseech you in the
name of Christ.”

Then the abbess said, “Let us receive the queen with such dignity as we
may.” Motioning to the nuns to take their appointed seats. in the choir
she placed herself in the great chair at the head of them, whilst
behind her at the raised altar stood Rosamund, the bare knife in her
hand.

The door was opened, and through it swept a strange procession. First
came the beauteous queen wearing her insignia of royalty, but with a
black veil upon her head. Next followed ladies of her court—twelve of
them—trembling with fright but splendidly apparelled, and after these
three stern and turbaned Saracens clad in mail, their jewelled
scimitars at their sides. Then appeared a procession of women, most of
them draped in mourning, and leading scared children by the hand; the
wives, sisters, and widows of nobles, knights and burgesses of
Jerusalem. Last of all marched a hundred or more of captains and
warriors, among them Wulf, headed by Sir Balian and ended by the
patriarch Heraclius in his gorgeous robes, with his attendant priests
and acolytes.

On swept the queen, up the length of the long church, and as she came
the abbess and her nuns rose and bowed to her, while one offered her
the chair of state that was set apart to be used by the bishop in his
visitations. But she would have none of it.

“Nay,” said the queen, “mock me with no honourable seat who come here
as a humble suppliant, and will make my prayer upon my knees.”

So down she went upon the marble floor, with all her ladies and the
following women, while the solemn Saracens looked at her wondering and
the knights and nobles massed themselves behind.

“What can we give you, O Queen,” asked the abbess, “who have nothing
left save our treasure, to which you are most welcome, our honour, and
our lives?”

“Alas!” answered the royal lady. “Alas, that I must say it! I come to
ask the life of one of you.”

“Of whom, O Queen?”

Sybilla lifted her head, and with her outstretched arm pointed to
Rosamund, who stood above them all by the high altar.

For a moment Rosamund turned pale, then spoke in a steady voice:

“Say, what service can my poor life be to you, O Queen, and by whom is
it sought?”

Thrice Sybilla strove to answer, and at last murmured:

“I cannot. Let the envoys give her the letter, if she is able to read
their tongue.”

“I am able,” answered Rosamund, and a Saracen emir drew forth a roll
and laid it against his forehead, then gave it to the abbess, who
brought it to Rosamund. With her dagger blade she cut its silk, opened
it, and read aloud, always in the same quiet voice, translating as she
read:—

“In the name of Allah the One, the All-merciful, to my niece, aforetime
the princess of Baalbec, Rosamund D’Arcy by name, now a fugitive hidden
in a convent of the Franks in the city el-Kuds Esh-sherif, the holy
city of Jerusalem:

“Niece,—All my promises to you I have performed, and more, since for
your sake I spared the lives of your cousins, the twin knights. But you
have repaid me with ingratitude and trickery, after the manner of those
of your false and accursed faith, and have fled from me. I promised you
also, again and yet again, that if you attempted this thing, death
should be your portion. No longer, therefore, are you the princess of
Baalbec, but only an escaped Christian slave, and as such doomed to die
whenever my sword reaches you.

“Of my vision concerning you, which caused me to bring you to the East
from England, you know well. Repeat it in your heart before you answer.
That vision told me that by your nobleness and sacrifice you should
save the lives of many. I demanded that you should be brought back to
me, and the request was refused—why, it matters not. Now I understand
the reason—that this was so ordained. I demand no more that force
should be used to you. I demand that you shall come of your own free
will, to suffer the bitter and shameful reward of your sin. Or, if you
so desire, bide where you are of your own free will, and be dealt with
as God shall decree. This hangs upon your judgment. If you come and ask
it of me, I will consider the question of the sparing of Jerusalem and
its inhabitants. If you refuse to come, I will certainly put every one
of them to the sword, save such of the women and children as may be
kept for slaves. Decide, then, Niece, and quickly, whether you will
return with my envoys, or bide where they find you.—

“Yusuf Salah-ed-din.”

Rosamund finished reading, and the letter fluttered from her hand down
to the marble floor.

Then the queen said:

“Lady, we ask this sacrifice of you in the name of these and all their
fellows,” and she pointed to the women and the children behind her.

“And my life?” mused Rosamund aloud. “It is all I have. When I have
paid it away I shall be beggared,” and her eyes wandered to where the
tall shape of Wulf stood by a pillar of the church.

“Perchance Saladin will be merciful,” hazarded the queen.

“Why should he be merciful,” answered Rosamund, “who has always warned
me that if I escaped from him and was recaptured, certainly I must die?
Nay, he will offer me Islam, or death, which means—death by the rope—or
in some worse fashion.”

“But if you stay here you must die,” pleaded the queen, “or at best
fall into the hands of the soldiers. Oh! lady, your life is but one
life, and with it you can buy those of eighty thousand souls.”

“Is that so sure?” asked Rosamund. “The Sultan has made no promise; he
says only that, if I pray it of him, he will consider the question of
the sparing of Jerusalem.”

“But—but,” went on the queen, “he says also that if you do not come he
will surely put Jerusalem to the sword, and to Sir Balian he said that
if you gave yourself up he thought he might grant terms which we should
be glad to take. Therefore we dare to ask of you to give your life in
payment for such a hope. Think, think what otherwise must be the lot of
these”—and again she pointed to the women and children—“ay, and your
own sisterhood and of all of us. Whereas, if you die, it will be with
much honour, and your name shall be worshipped as a saint and martyr in
every church in Christendom.

“Oh! refuse not our prayer, but show that you indeed are great enough
to step forward to meet the death which comes to every one of us, and
thereby earn the blessings of half the world and make sure your place
in heaven, nigh to Him Who also died for men. Plead with her, my
sisters—plead with her!”

Then the women and the children threw themselves down before her, and
with tears and sobbing prayed her that she would give up her life for
theirs. Rosamund looked at them and smiled, then said in a clear voice:

“What say you, my cousin and betrothed, Sir Wulf D’Arcy? Come hither,
and, as is fitting in this strait, give me your counsel.”

So the grey-eyed, war-worn Wulf strode up the aisle, and, standing by
the altar rails, saluted her.

“You have heard,” said Rosamund. “Your counsel. Would you have me die?”

“Alas!” he answered in a hoarse voice. “It is hard to speak. Yet, they
are many—you are but one.”

Now there was a murmur of applause. For it was known that this knight
loved his lady dearly, and that but the other day he had stood there to
defend her to the death against those who would give her up to Saladin.

Now Rosamund laughed out, and the sweet sound of her laughter was
strange in that solemn place and hour.

“Ah, Wulf!” she said. “Wulf, who must ever speak the truth, even when
it costs him dear. Well, I would not have it otherwise. Queen, and all
you foolish people, I did but try your tempers. Could you, then, think
me so base that I would spare to spend this poor life of mine, and to
forego such few joys as God might have in store for me on earth, when
those of tens of thousands may hang upon the issue? Nay, nay; it is far
otherwise.”

Then Rosamund sheathed the dagger that all this while she had held in
her hand, and, lifting the letter from the floor, touched her brow with
it in signal of obedience, saying in Arabic to the envoys:

“I am the slave of Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful. I am the
small dust beneath his feet. Take notice, Emirs, that in presence of
all here gathered, of my own free will I, Rosamund D’Arcy, aforetime
princess and sovereign lady of Baalbec, determine to accompany you to
the Sultan’s camp, there to make prayer for the sparing of the lives of
the citizens of Jerusalem, and afterwards to suffer the punishment of
death in payment of my flight, according to my royal uncle’s high
decree. One request I make only, if he be pleased to grant it—that my
body be brought back to Jerusalem for burial before this altar, where
of my own act I lay down my life. Emirs, I am ready.”

Now the envoys bowed before her in grave admiration, and the air grew
thick with blessings. As Rosamund stepped down from the altar the queen
threw her arms about her neck and kissed her, while lords and knights,
women and children, pressed their lips upon her hands, upon the hem of
her white robe, and even on her feet, calling her “Saint” and
“Deliverer.”

“Alas!” she answered, waving them back. “As yet I am neither of these
things, though the latter of them I hope to be. Come; let us be going.”

“Ay,” echoed Wulf, stepping to her side, “let us be going.”

Rosamund started at the words, and all there stared. “Listen, Queen,
Emirs, and People,” he went on. “I am this lady’s kinsman and her
betrothed knight, sworn to serve her to the end. If she be guilty of a
crime against the Sultan, I am more guilty, and on me also shall fall
his vengeance. Let us be going.”

“Wulf, Wulf,” she said, “it shall not be. One life is asked—not both.”

“Yet, lady, both shall be given that the measure of atonement may run
over, and Saladin moved to mercy. Nay, forbid me not. I have lived for
you, and for you I die. Yes, if they hold me by force, still I die, if
need be, on my own sword. When I counselled you just now, I counselled
myself also. Surely you never dreamed that I would suffer you to go
alone, when by sharing it I could make your doom easier.”

“Oh, Wulf!” she cried. “You will but make it harder.”

“No, no; faced hand in hand, death loses half its terrors. Moreover,
Saladin is my friend, and I also would plead with him for the people of
Jerusalem.”

Then he whispered in her ear, “Sweet Rosamund, deny me not, lest you
should drive me to madness and self-murder, who will have no more of
earth without you.”

Now, her eyes full of tears and shining with love, Rosamund murmured
back:

“You are too strong for me. Let it befall as God wills.”

Nor did the others attempt to stay him any more.

Going to the abbess, Rosamund would have knelt before her, but it was
the abbess who knelt and called her blessed, and kissed her. The
sisters also kissed her one by one in farewell. Then a priest was
brought—not the patriarch, of whom she would have none, but another, a
holy man.

To him apart at the altar, first Rosamund and then Wulf made confession
of their sins, receiving absolution and the sacrament in that form in
which it was given to the dying; while, save the emirs, all in the
church knelt and prayed as for souls that pass.

The solemn ritual was ended. They rose, and, followed by two of the
envoys—for already the third had departed under escort to the court of
Saladin to give him warning—the queen, her ladies and all the company,
walked from the church and through the convent halls out into the
narrow Street of Woe. Here Wulf, as her kinsman, took Rosamund by the
hand, leading her as a man leads his sister to her bridal. Without it
was bright moonlight, moonlight clear as day, and by now tidings of
this strange story had spread through all Jerusalem, so that its narrow
streets were crowded with spectators, who stood also upon every roof
and at every window.

“The lady Rosamund!” they shouted. “The blessed Rosamund, who goes to a
martyr’s death to save us. The pure Saint Rosamund and her brave knight
Wulf!” And they tore flowers and green leaves from the gardens and
threw them in their path.

Down the long, winding streets, with bent heads and humble mien,
companioned ever by the multitude, through which soldiers cleared the
way, they walked thus, while women held up their children to touch the
robe of Rosamund or to look upon her face. At length the gate was
reached, and while it was unbarred they halted. Then came forward Sir
Balian of Ibelin, bareheaded, and said:

“Lady, on behalf of the people of Jerusalem and of the whole of
Christendom, I give you honour and thanks, and to you also, Sir Wulf
D’Arcy, the bravest and most faithful of all knights.”

A company of priests also, headed by a bishop, advanced chanting and
swinging censers, and blessed them solemnly in the name of the Church
and of Christ its Master.

“Give us not praise and thanks, but prayers,” answered Rosamund;
“prayers that we may succeed in our mission, to which we gladly offer
up our lives, and afterwards, when we are dead, prayers for the welfare
of our sinful souls. But should we fail, as it may chance, then
remember of us only that we did our best. Oh! good people, great
sorrows have come upon this land, and the Cross of Christ is veiled
with shame. Yet it shall shine forth once more, and to it through the
ages shall all men bow the knee. Oh! may you live! May no more death
come among you! It is our last petition, and with it, this—that when at
length you die we may meet again in heaven! Now fare you well.”

Then they passed through the gate, and as the envoys declared that none
might accompany them further, walked forward followed by the sound of
the weeping of the multitude towards the camp of Saladin, two strange
and lonesome figures in the moonlight.

At last these lamentations could be heard no more, and there, on the
outskirts of the Moslem lines, an escort met them, and bearers with a
litter.

But into this Rosamund would not enter, so they walked onwards up the
hill, till they came to the great square in the centre of the camp upon
the Mount of Olives, beyond the grey trees of the Garden of Gethsemane.
There, awaiting them at the head of the square, sat Saladin in state,
while all about, rank upon rank, in thousands and tens of thousands,
was gathered his vast army, who watched them pass in silence.

Thus they came into the presence of the Sultan and knelt before him,
Rosamund in her novice’s white robe, and Wulf in his battered mail.




Chapter XXIV.
The Dregs of the Cup


Saladin looked at them, but gave them no greeting. Then he spoke:

“Woman, you have had my message. You know that your rank is taken from
you, and that with it my promises are at an end; you know also that you
come hither to suffer the death of faithless women. Is it so?”

“I know all these things, great Salah-ed-din,” answered Rosamund.

“Tell me, then, do you come of your own free will, unforced by any, and
why does the knight Sir Wulf, whose life I spared and do not seek,
kneel at your side?”

“I come of my own free will, Salah-ed-din, as your emirs can tell you;
ask them. For the rest, my kinsman must answer for himself.”

“Sultan,” said Wulf, “I counselled the lady Rosamund that she should
come—not that she needed such counsel—and, having given it, I
accompanied her by right of blood and of Justice, since her offence
against you is mine also. Her fate is my fate.”

“I have no quarrel against you whom I forgave, therefore you must take
your own way to follow the path she goes.”

“Doubtless,” answered Wulf, “being a Christian among many sons of the
Prophet, it will not be hard to find a friendly scimitar to help me on
that road. I ask of your goodness that her fate may be my fate.”

“What!” said Saladin. “You are ready to die with her, although you are
young and strong, and there are so many other women in the world?”

Wulf smiled and nodded his head.

“Good. Who am I that I should stand between a fool and his folly? I
grant the boon. Your fate shall be her fate; Wulf D’Arcy, you shall
drink of the cup of my slave Rosamund to its last bitterest dregs.”

“I desire no less,” said Wulf coolly.

Now Saladin looked at Rosamund and asked,

“Woman, why have you come here to brave my vengeance? Speak on if you
have aught to ask.”

Then Rosamund rose from her knees, and, standing before him, said:

“I am come, O my mighty lord, to plead for the people of Jerusalem,
because it was told me that you would listen to no other voice than
that of this your slave. See, many moons ago, you had a vision
concerning me. Thrice you dreamed in the night that I, the niece whom
you had never seen, by some act of mine should be the means of saving
much life and a way of peace. Therefore you tore me from my home and
brought my father to a bloody death, as you are about to bring his
daughter; and after much suffering and danger I fell into your power,
and was treated with great honour. Still I, who am a Christian, and who
grew sick with the sight of the daily slaughter and outrage of my kin,
strove to escape from you, although you had warned me that the price of
this crime was death; and in the end, through the wit and sacrifice of
another woman, I did escape.

“Now I return to pay that price, and behold! your vision is
fulfilled—or, at the least, you can fulfil it if God should touch your
heart with grace, seeing that of my own will I am come to pray you,
Salah-ed-din, to spare the city, and for its blood to accept mine as a
token and an offering.

“Oh, my lord! as you are great, be merciful. What will it avail you in
the day of your own judgment that you have added another eighty
thousand to the tally of your slain, and with them many more thousands
of your own folk, since the warriors of Jerusalem will not die
unavenged? Give them their lives and let them go free, and win thereby
the gratitude of mankind and the forgiveness of God above.”

So Rosamund spoke, and stretching out her arms towards him, was silent.

“These things I offered to them, and they were refused,” answered
Saladin. “Why should I grant them now that they are conquered?”

“My lord, Strong-to-Aid,” said Rosamund, “do you, who are so brave,
blame yonder knights and soldiers because they fought on against
desperate odds? Would you not have called them cowards if they had
yielded up the city where their Saviour died and struck no blow to save
it? Oh! I am outworn! I can say no more; but once again, most humbly
and on my knees, I beseech you speak the word of mercy, and let not
your triumph be dyed red with the blood of women and of little
children.”

Then casting herself upon her face, Rosamund clasped the hem of his
royal robe with her hands, and pressed it to her forehead.

So for a while she lay there in the shimmering moonlight, while utter
silence fell upon all that vast multitude of armed men as they waited
for the decree of fate to be uttered by the conqueror’s lips. But
Saladin sat still as a statue, gazing at the domes and towers of
Jerusalem outlined against the deep blue sky.

“Rise,” he said at length, “and know, niece, that you have played your
part in a fashion worthy of my race, and that I, Salah-ed-din, am proud
of you. Know also that I will weigh your prayer as I have weighed that
of none other who breathes upon the earth. Now I must take counsel with
my own heart, and to-morrow it shall be granted—or refused. To you, who
are doomed to die, and to the knight who chooses to die with you,
according to the ancient law and custom, I offer the choice of Islam,
and with it life and honour.”

“We refuse,” answered Rosamund and Wulf with one voice. The Sultan
bowed his head as though he expected no other answer, and glanced
round, as all thought to order the executioners to do their office. But
he said only to a captain of his Mameluks:

“Take them; keep them under guard and separate them, till my word of
death comes to you. Your life shall answer for their safety. Give them
food and drink, and let no harm touch them until I bid you.”

The Mameluk bowed and advanced with his company of soldiers. As they
prepared to go with them, Rosamund asked:

“Tell me of your grace, what of Masouda, my friend?”

“She died for you; seek her beyond the grave,” answered Saladin,
whereat Rosamund hid her face with her hands and sighed.

“And what of Godwin, my brother?” cried Wulf; but no answer was given
him.

Now Rosamund turned; stretching out her arms towards Wulf, she fell
upon his breast. There, then, in the presence of that countless army,
they kissed their kiss of betrothal and farewell. They spoke no word,
only ere she went Rosamund lifted her hand and pointed upwards to the
sky.

Then a murmur rose from the multitude, and the sound of it seemed to
shape itself into one word: “Mercy!”

Still Saladin made no sign, and they were led away to their prisons.

Among the thousands who watched this strange and most thrilling scene
were two men wrapped in long cloaks, Godwin and the bishop Egbert.
Thrice did Godwin strive to approach the throne. But it seemed that the
soldiers about him had their commands, for they would not suffer him to
stir or speak; and when, as Rosamund passed, he strove to break a way
to her, they seized and held him. Yet as she went by he cried:

“The blessing of Heaven be upon you, pure saint of God—on you and your
true knight.”

Catching the tones of that voice above the tumult, Rosamund stopped and
looked around her, but saw no one, for the guard hemmed her in. So she
went on, wondering if perchance it was Godwin’s voice which she had
heard, or whether an angel, or only some Frankish prisoner had spoken.

Godwin stood wringing his hands while the bishop strove to comfort him,
saying that he should not grieve, since such deaths as those of
Rosamund and Wulf were most glorious, and more to be desired than a
hundred lives.

“Ay, ay,” answered Godwin, “would that I could go with them!”

“Their work is done, but not yours,” said the bishop gently. “Come to
our tent and let us to our knees. God is more powerful than the Sultan,
and mayhap He will yet find a way to save them. If they are still alive
tomorrow at the dawn we will seek audience of Saladin to plead with
him.”

So they entered the tent and prayed there, as the inhabitants of
Jerusalem prayed behind their shattered walls, that the heart of
Saladin might be moved to spare them all. While they knelt thus the
curtain of the tent was drawn aside, and an emir stood before them.

“Rise,” he said, “both of you, and follow me. The Sultan commands your
presence.”

Egbert and Godwin went, wondering, and were led through the pavilion to
the royal sleeping place, which guards closed behind them. On a silken
couch reclined Saladin, the light from the lamp falling on his bronzed
and thoughtful face.

“I have sent for you two Franks,” he said, “that you may bear a message
from me to Sir Balian of Ibelin and the inhabitants of Jerusalem. This
is the message:—Let the holy city surrender to-morrow and all its
population acknowledge themselves my prisoners. Then for forty days I
will hold them to ransom, during which time none shall be harmed. Every
man who pays ten pieces of gold shall go free, and two women or ten
children shall be counted as one man at a like price. Of the poor,
seven thousand shall be set free also, on payment of thirty thousand
bezants. Such who remain or have no money for their ransom—and there is
still much gold in Jerusalem—shall become my slaves. These are my
terms, which I grant at the dying prayer of my niece, the lady
Rosamund, and to her prayer alone. Deliver them to Sir Balian, and bid
him wait on me at the dawn with his chief notables, and answer whether
he is willing to accept them on behalf of the people. If not, the
assault goes on until the city is a heap of ruins covering the bones of
its children.”

“We bless you for this mercy,” said the bishop Egbert, “and we hasten
to obey. But tell us, Sultan, what shall we do? Return to the camp with
Sir Balian?”

“If he accepts my terms, nay, for in Jerusalem you will be safe, and I
give you your freedom without ransom.”

“Sire,” said Godwin, “ere I go, grant me leave to bid farewell to my
brother and my cousin Rosamund.”

“That for the third time you may plot their escape from my vengeance?”
said Saladin. “Nay, bide in Jerusalem and await my word; you shall meet
them at the last, no more.”

“Sire,” pleaded Godwin, “of your mercy spare them, for they have played
a noble part. It is hard that they should die who love each other and
are so young and fair and brave.”

“Ay,” answered Saladin, “a noble part; never have I seen one more
noble. Well, it fits them the better for heaven, if Cross-worshippers
enter there. Have done; their doom is written and my purpose cannot be
turned, nor shall you see them till the last, as I have said. But if it
pleases you to write them a letter of farewell and to send it back by
the embassy, it shall be delivered to them. Now go, for greater matters
are afoot than this punishment of a pair of lovers. A guard awaits
you.”

So they went, and within an hour stood before Sir Balian and gave him
the message of Saladin, whereat he rose and blessed the name of
Rosamund. While he called his counsellors from their sleep and bade his
servants saddle horses, Godwin found pen and parchment, and wrote
hurriedly:

“To Wulf, my brother, and Rosamund, my cousin and his betrothed,—I
live, though well-nigh I died by dead Masouda—Jesus rest her gallant
and most beloved soul! Saladin will not suffer me to see you, though he
has promised that I shall be with you at the last, so watch for me
then. I still dare to hope that it may please God to change the
Sultan’s heart and spare you. If so, this is my prayer and desire—that
you two should wed as soon as may be, and get home to England, where,
if I live, I hope to visit you in years to come. Till then seek me not,
who would be lonely a while. But if it should be fated otherwise, then
when my sins are purged I will seek you among the saints, you who by
your noble deed have earned the sure grace of God.

“The embassy rides. I have no time for more, though there is much to
say. Farewell.—Godwin.”

The terms of Saladin had been accepted. With rejoicing because their
lives were spared, but with woe and lamentation because the holy city
had fallen again into the hands of the Moslem, the people of Jerusalem
made ready to leave the streets and seek new homes elsewhere. The great
golden cross was torn from the mosque el-Aksa, and on every tower and
wall floated the yellow banners of Saladin. All who had money paid
their ransoms, and those who had none begged and borrowed it as they
could, and if they could not, gave themselves over to despair and
slavery. Only the patriarch Heraclius, forgetting the misery of these
wretched ones, carried off his own great wealth and the gold plate of
the churches.

Then Saladin showed his mercy, for he freed all the aged without
charge, and from his own treasure paid the ransom of hundreds of ladies
whose husbands and fathers had fallen in battle, or lay in prison in
other cities.

So for forty days, headed by Queen Sybilla and her ladies, that sad
procession of the vanquished marched through the gates, and there were
many of them who, as they passed the conqueror seated in state, halted
to make a prayer to him for those who were left behind. A few also who
remembered Rosamund, and that it was because of her sacrifice that they
continued to look upon the sun, implored him that if they were not
already dead, he would spare her and her brave knight.

At length it was over, and Saladin took possession of the city. Having
purged the Great Mosque, washing it with rose-water, he worshipped in
it after his own fashion, and distributed the remnant of the people who
could pay no ransom as slaves among his emirs and followers. Thus did
the Crescent triumph aver the Cross in Jerusalem, not in a sea of
blood, as ninety years before the Cross had triumphed over the Crescent
within its walls, but with what in those days passed for gentleness,
peace, and mercy.

For it was left to the Saracens to teach something of their own
doctrines to the followers of Christ.

During all those forty days Rosamund and Wulf lay in their separate
prisons, awaiting their doom of death. The letter of Godwin was brought
to Wulf, who read it and rejoiced to learn that his brother lived. Then
it was taken from him to Rosamund, who, although she rejoiced also,
wept over it, and wondered a little what it might mean. Of one thing
she was sure from its wording—that they had no hope of life.

They knew that Jerusalem had fallen, for they heard the shouts of
triumph of the Moslems, and from far away, through their prison bars
could see the endless multitude of fugitives passing the ancient gates
laden with baggage, and leading their children by the hand, to seek
refuge in the cities of the coast. At this sight, although it was so
sad, Rosamund was happy, knowing also that now she would not suffer in
vain.

At length the camp broke up, Saladin and many of the soldiers entering
Jerusalem; but still the pair were left languishing in their dismal
cells, which were fashioned from old tombs. One evening, while Rosamund
was kneeling; at prayer before she sought her bed, the door of the
place was opened, and there appeared a glittering captain and a guard
of soldiers, who saluted her and bade her follow him.

“Is it the end?” she asked.

“Lady,” he answered, “it is the end.” So she bowed her head meekly and
followed. Without a litter was ready, in which they placed her and bore
her through the bright moonlight into the city of Jerusalem and along
the Way of Sorrow, till they halted at a great door, which she knew
again, for by it stood the ancient arch.

“They have brought me back to the Convent of the Holy Cross to kill me
where I asked that I might be buried,” she murmured to herself as she
descended from the litter.

Then the doors were thrown open, and she entered the great courtyard of
the convent, and saw that it was decorated as though for a festival,
for about it and in the cloisters round hung many lamps. More; these
cloisters and the space in front of them were crowded with Saracen
lords, wearing their robes of state, while yonder sat Saladin and his
court.

“They would make a brave show of my death,” thought Rosamund again.
Then a little cry broke from her lips, for there, in front of the
throne of Saladin, the moonlight and the lamp-blaze shining on his
armour, stood a tall Christian knight. At that cry he turned his head,
and she grew sure that it was Wulf, wasted somewhat and grown pale, but
still Wulf.

“So we are to die together,” she whispered to herself, then walked
forward with a proud step amidst the deep silence, and, having bowed to
Saladin, took the hand of Wulf and held it.

The Sultan looked at them and said:

“However long it may be delayed, the day of fate must break at last.
Say, Franks, are you prepared to drink the dregs of that cup I promised
you?”

“We are prepared,” they answered with one voice.

“Do you grieve now that you laid down your lives to save those of all
Jerusalem?” he asked again.

“Nay,” Rosamund answered, glancing at Wulf’s face; “we rejoice
exceedingly that God has been so good to us.”

“I too rejoice,” said Saladin; “and I too thank Allah Who in bygone
days sent me that vision which has given me back the holy city of
Jerusalem without bloodshed. Now all is accomplished as it was fated.
Lead them away.”

For a moment they clung together, then emirs took Wulf to the right and
Rosamund to the left, and she went with a pale face and high head to
meet her executioner, wondering if she would see Godwin ere she died.
They led her to a chamber where women waited but no swordsman that she
could see, and shut the door upon her.

“Perchance I am to be strangled by these women,” thought Rosamund, as
they came towards her, “so that the blood royal may not be shed.”

Yet it was not so, for with gentle hands, but in silence, they unrobed
her, and washed her with scented waters and braided her hair, twisting
it up with pearls and gems. Then they clad her in fine linen, and put
over it gorgeous, broidered garments, and a royal mantle of purple, and
her own jewels which she had worn in bygone days, and with them others
still more splendid, and threw about her head a gauzy veil worked with
golden stars. It was just such a veil as Wulf’s gift which she had worn
on the night when Hassan dragged her from her home at Steeple. She
noted it and smiled at the sad omen, then said:

“Ladies, why should I mock my doom with these bright garments?”

“It is the Sultan’s will,” they answered; “nor shall you rest to-night
less happily because of them.”

Now all was ready, and the door opened and she stepped through it, a
radiant thing, glittering in the lamplight. Then trumpets blew and a
herald cried: “Way! Way there! Way for the high sovereign lady and
princess of Baalbec!”

Thus followed by the train of honourable women who attended her,
Rosamund glided forward to the courtyard, and once more bent the knee
to Saladin, then stood still, lost in wonder.

Again the trumpets blew, and on the right a herald cried, “Way! Way
there! Way for the brave and noble Frankish knight, Sir Wulf D’Arcy!”

Lo! attended by emirs and notables, Wulf came forth, clad in splendid
armour inlaid with gold, wearing on his shoulder a mantel set with gems
and on his breast the gleaming Star of the Luck of Hassan. To Rosamund
he strode and stood by her, his hands resting on the hilt of his long
sword.

“Princess,” said Saladin, “I give you back your rank and titles,
because you have shown a noble heart; and you, Sir Wulf, I honour also
as best I may, but to my decree I hold. Let them go together to the
drinking of the cup of their destiny as to a bridal bed.”

Again the trumpets blew and the heralds called, and they led them to
the doors of the chapel, which at their knocking were thrown wide. From
within came the sound of women’s voices singing, but it was no sad song
they sang.

“The sisters of the Order are still there,” said Rosamund to Wulf, “and
would cheer us on our road to heaven.”

“Perchance,” he answered. “I know not. I am amazed.”

At the door the company of Moslems left them, but they crowded round
the entrance as though to watch what passed. Now down the long aisle
walked a single whiterobed figure. It was the abbess.

“What shall we do, Mother?” said Rosamund to her.

“Follow me, both of you,” she said, and they followed her through the
nave to the altar rails, and at a sign from her knelt down.

Now they saw that on either side of the altar stood a Christian priest.
The priest to the right—it was the bishop Egbert—came forward and began
to read over them the marriage service of their faith.

“They’d wed us ere we die,” whispered Rosamund to Wulf.

“So be it,” he answered; “I am glad.”

“And I also, beloved,” she whispered back.

The service went on—as in a dream, the service went on, while the
white-robed sisters sat in their carven chairs and watched. The rings
that were handed to them had been interchanged; Wulf had taken Rosamund
to wife, Rosamund had taken Wulf to husband, till death did them part.

Then the old bishop withdrew to the altar, and another hooded monk came
forward and uttered over them the benediction in a deep and sonorous
voice, which stirred their hearts most strangely, as though some echo
reached them from beyond the grave. He held his hands above them in
blessing and looked upwards, so that his hood fell back, and the light
of the altar lamp fell upon his face.

It was the face of Godwin, and on his head was the tonsure of a monk.

Once more they stood before Saladin, and now their train was swelled by
the abbess and sisters of the Holy Cross.

“Sir Wulf D’Arcy,” said the Sultan, “and you, Rosamund, my niece,
princess of Baalbec, the dregs of your cup, sweet or bitter, or
bitter-sweet, are drunk; the doom which I decreed for you is
accomplished, and, according to your own rites, you are man and wife
till Allah sends upon you that death which I withhold. Because you
showed mercy upon those doomed to die and were the means of mercy, I
also give you mercy, and with it my love and honour. Now bide here if
you will in my freedom, and enjoy your rank and wealth, or go hence if
you will, and live out your lives across the sea. The blessing of Allah
be upon you, and turn your souls light. This is the decree of Yusuf
Salah-ed-din, Commander of the Faithful, Conqueror and Caliph of the
East.”

Trembling, full of joy and wonder, they knelt before him and kissed his
hand. Then, after a few swift words between them, Rosamund spoke.

“Sire, that God whom you have invoked, the God of Christian and of
Moslem, the God of all the world, though the world worship Him in many
ways and shapes, bless and reward you for this royal deed. Yet listen
to our petition. It may be that many of our faith still lie unransomed
in Jerusalem. Take my lands and gems, and let them be valued, and their
price given to pay for the liberty of some poor slaves. It is our
marriage offering. As for us, we will get us to our own country.”

“So be it,” answered Saladin. “The lands I will take and devote the sum
of them as you desire—yes, to the last bezant. The jewels also shall be
valued, but I give them back to you as my wedding dower. To these nuns
further I grant permission to bide here in Jerusalem to nurse the
Christian sick, unharmed and unmolested, if so they will, and this
because they sheltered you. Ho! minstrels and heralds lead this new-wed
pair to the place that has been prepared for them.”

Still trembling and bewildered, they turned to go, when lo! Godwin
stood before them smiling, and kissed them both upon the cheek, calling
them “Beloved brother and sister.”

“And you, Godwin?” stammered Rosamund.

“I, Rosamund, have also found my bride, and she is named the Church of
Christ.”

“Do you, then, return to England, brother?” asked Wulf.

“Nay,” Godwin answered, in a fierce whisper and with flashing eyes,
“the Cross is down, but not forever. That Cross has Richard of England
and many another servant beyond the seas, and they will come at the
Church’s call. Here, brother, before all is done, we may meet again in
war. Till then, farewell.”

So spoke Godwin and then was gone.