In the third morning Godwin awoke to see the ray of sunrise streaming through the latticed window.
They fell upon another bed near-by where Wulf still lay sleeping, a bandage on his head that had beer hurt in the last charge against the Assassins, and other bandages about his arms and body, which were much bruised in the fight upon the dreadful bridge.
Wondrous was it to Godwin to watch him Iying there sleeping healthily, notwithstanding his injuries, and to think of what they had gone through together with so little harm; to think, also, of how they had rescued Rosamund out of the very mouth of that earthly hell of which he could see the peaks through the open window-place--out of the very hands of that fiend, its ruler.Reckoning the tale day by day, he reflected on their adventures since they landed at Beirut, and saw how Heaven had guided their every step.
In face of the warnings that were given them, to visit the Al-je-bal in his stronghold had seemed a madness.Yet there, where none could have thought that she would be, they had found Rosamund.There they had been avenged upon the false knight Sir Hugh Lozelle, who had betrayed her, first to Saladin, then to Sinan, and sent him down to death and judgment; and thence they had rescued Rosamund.
Oh, how wise they had been to obey the dying words of their uncle, Sir Andrew, who doubtless was given foresight at the end!
God and His saints had helped them, who could not have helped themselves, and His minister had been Masouda.But for Masouda, Rosamund would by now be lost or dead, and they, if their lives were still left to them, would be wanderers in the great land of Syria, seeking for one who never could be found.
Why had Masouda done these things, again and again putting her own life upon the hazard to save theirs and the honour of another woman? As he asked himself the question Godwin felt the red blood rise to his face.Because she hated Sinan, who had murdered her parents and degraded her, she said; and doubtless that had to do with the matter.But it was no longer possible to hide the truth.
She loved him, and had loved him from the first hour when they met.He had always suspected it--in that wild trial of the horses upon the mountain side, when she sat with her arms about him and her face pressed against his face; when she kissed his feet after he had saved her from the lion, and many another time.
But as they followed Wulf and Rosamund up the mountain pass while the host of the Assassins thundered at their heels, and in broken gasps she had told him of her sad history, then it was that he grew sure.Then, too, he had said that he held her not vile, but noble, as indeed he did; and, thinking their death upon them, she had answered that she held him dear, and looked on him as a woman looks upon her only love--a message in her eyes that no man could fail to read.Yet if this were so, why had Masouda saved Rosamund, the lady to whom she knew well that he was sworn?
Reared among those cruel folk who could wade to their desire through blood and think it honour, would she not have left her rival to her doom, seeing that oaths do not hold beyond the grave?
An answer came into the heart of Godwin, at the very thought of which he turned pale and trembled.His brother was also sworn to Rosamund, and she in her soul must be sworn to one of them.Was it not to Wulf, Wulf who was handsomer and more strong than he, to Wulf, the conqueror of Lozelle? Had Rosamund told Masouda this? Nay, surely not.
Yet women can read each other's hearts, piercing veils through which no man may see, and perchance Masouda had read the heart of Rosamund.She stood behind her during the dreadful duel at the gate, and watched her face when Wulf's death seemed sure; she might have heard words that broke in agony from her lips in those moments of torment.
Oh, without doubt it was so, and Masouda had protected Rosamund because she knew that her love was for Wulf and not for him.The thought was very bitter, and in its pain Godwin groaned aloud, while a fierce jealousy of the brave and handsome knight who slept at his side, dreaming, doubtless, of the fame that he had won and the reward by which it would be crowned, gripped his vitals like the icy hand of death.Then Godwin remembered the oath that they two had sworn far away in the Priory at Stangate, and the love passing the love of woman which he bore towards this brother, and the duty of a Christian warrior whereto he was vowed, and hiding his face in his pillow he prayed for strength.
It would seem that it came to him--at least, when he lifted his head again the jealousy was gone, and only the great grief remained.Fear remained also--for what of Masouda? How should he deal with her? He was certain that this was no fancy which would pass--until her life passed with it, and, beautiful as she was, and noble as she was, he did not wish her love.He could find no answer to these questions, save this--that things must go on as they were decreed.For himself, he, Godwin, wouldstrive to do his duty, to keep his hands clean, and await the end, whatever that might be.
Wulf woke up, stretched his arms, exclaimed because that action hurt him, grumbled at the brightness of the light upon his eyes, and said that he was very hungry.Then he arose, and with the help of Godwin, dressed himself, but not in his armour.Here, with the yellow-coated soldiers of Saladin, grave-faced and watchful, pacing before their door-- for night and day they were trebly guarded lest Assassins should creep in--there was no need for mail.In the fortress of Masyaf, indeed, where they were also guarded, it had been otherwise.Wulf heard the step of the sentries on the cemented pavement without, and shook his great shoulders as though he shivered.
