“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.’