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.