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Updated: June 1, 2025
"Why Saladin holds that place, and of Baalbec the lady Rosamund is princess." "Which is best?" asked Masouda shortly. "That she should fall into the hands of Salah-ed-din, or back into those of the master of the Assassins? Choose which you wish." "I choose Salah-ed-din," broke in Rosamund, "for at least he is my uncle, and will do me no wrong." Nor, knowing the case, did the others gainsay her.
Then came the night and the pale moon floating like a boat upon the azure sea above, and everywhere the bright, eternal stars, to which went up the constant cry of "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is the greatest, there is none but He." "It is a false god," he would say. "Tell them to cry upon the Saviour of the World." Then the voice of Masouda would seem to answer: "Judge not.
Calling to one of his council, that same old imaum who had planned the casting of the lots, the Sultan spoke with him aside. Then he said: "Let this knight be led to the woman Masouda. Tomorrow we will judge him." Taking a silver lamp from the wall, the imaum beckoned to Godwin, who bowed to the Sultan and followed.
Then, finding themselves alone, they unlocked the door, and slipping through it, locked it again on the further side and groped their way to the moonlit mouth of the cave. Here they stood awhile studying the descent of the gulf as best they could in that light, till suddenly Godwin, feeling a hand upon his shoulder, started round to find himself face to face with Masouda.
From the day when he saw Saladin Godwin began to grow strong again, and as his health came back, so he fell to thinking. Rosamund was lost to him and Masouda was dead, and at times he wished that he were dead also. What more had he to do with his life, which had been so full of sorrow, struggle and bloodshed?
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.
They were men and he was a man, but between that huddled, beady-eyed heap and those two tall Western warriors, clad in their gleaming mail and coloured cloaks, helm on brow, buckler on arm, and long sword at side, the contrast was that of death and life. Masouda ran forward and prostrated herself at full length, but Godwin and Wulf stared at the heap, and the heap stared at them.
Now once more they were fifty yards away, and now but thirty, and again the spears began to flash, though none struck them. Masouda screamed to the horses in Arabic, and gallantly did they struggle, plunging up the hill with slow, convulsive bounds. Godwin and Wulf looked at each other, then, at a signal, checked their speed, leapt to earth, and, turning, drew their swords.
"Who was the man who brought them to us?" asked Godwin, as they galloped side by side, their eyes fixed upon the ever-nearing cloud of dust, in which the spear points sparkled. "My father's brother my uncle, as I called him," she answered. "He is a sheik of the desert, who owns the ancient breed that cannot be bought for gold." "Then you are not of the Assassins, Masouda?"
Then came a space of sandy sward, half a mile or more, where their pace quickened, after which they began to breast the long slope of a hill, picking their way amongst its stones like cats. Ever steeper it grew, till in places it was so sheer that Godwin must clutch the mane of Flame, and Masouda must cling close to Godwin's middle to save themselves from slipping off behind.
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