“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.