The Brethren by H. Rider Haggard (page 7)

“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 Twenty: 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 Iying 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 Iying 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 waitingwoman 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. III 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 Twenty-One: 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 m 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 Twenty-two: 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 Iying 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 Twenty-Three: 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