“Yes, brother,” he answered, “a
wound in my spirit. Ill fortune threatens us—great
ill fortune.”
“That is no new thing,” said Wulf, “in
this land of blood and sorrows. Let us meet it
as we have met the rest.”
“Alas! brother,” exclaimed Godwin, “I
fear that Rosamund is in sore danger—Rosamund
or another.”
“Then,” answered Wulf, turning pale, “since
we cannot, let us pray that some angel may deliver
her.”
“Ay,” said Godwin, and as they rode through
the desert sands beneath the silent stars, they prayed
to the Blessed Mother, and to their saints, St. Peter
and St. Chad—prayed with all their strength.
Yet the prayer availed not. Sharper and sharper
grew Godwin’s agony, till, as the slow hours
went by, his very soul reeled beneath this spiritual
pain, and the death which he had escaped seemed a
thing desirable.
The dawn was breaking, and at its first sign the escort
of Saladin’s soldiers had turned and left them,
saying that now they were safe in their own country.
All night they had ridden fast and far. The plain
was behind them, and their road ran among hills.
Suddenly it turned, and in the flaming lights of the
new-born day showed them a sight so beautiful that
for a moment all that little company drew rein to
gaze. For yonder before them, though far away
as yet, throned upon her hills, stood the holy city
of Jerusalem. There were her walls and towers,
and there, stained red as though with the blood of
its worshippers, soared the great cross upon the mosque
of Omar—that cross which was so soon to
fall.
Yes, yonder was the city for which throughout the
ages men had died by tens and hundreds of thousands,
and still must die until the doom was done. Saladin
had offered to spare her citizens if they consented
to surrender, but they would not. This embassy
had told him that they had sworn to perish with the
holy Places, and now, looking at it in its splendour,
they knew that the hour was near, and groaned aloud.
Godwin groaned also, but not for Jerusalem. Oh!
now the last terror was upon him. Blackness surged
round him, and in the blackness swords, and a sound
as of a woman’s voice murmuring his name.
Clutching the pommel of his saddle, he swayed to and
fro, till suddenly the anguish passed. A strange
wind seemed to blow about him and lift his hair; a
deep, unearthly peace sank into his spirit; the world
seemed far away and heaven very near.
“It is over,” he said to Wulf. “I
fear that Rosamund is dead.”
“If so, we must make haste to follow her,”
answered Wulf with a sob.
