Part 51 (2/2)

Oh! weary, weary was that ride of G.o.dwin'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.

It was evening, and G.o.dwin's tired horse stumbled slowly through the great camp of the Saracens without the walls of fallen Ascalon. None hindered him, for having been so long a prisoner he was known by many, while others thought that he was but one of the surrendered Christian knights. So he came to the great house where Saladin lodged, and bade the guard take his name to the Sultan, saying that he craved audience of him. Presently he was admitted, and found Saladin seated in council among his ministers.

”Sir G.o.dwin,” he said sternly, ”seeing how you have dealt by me, what brings you back into my camp? I gave you brethren your lives, and you have robbed me of one whom I would not lose.”

”We did not rob you, sire,” answered G.o.dwin, ”who knew nothing of this plot. Nevertheless, as I was sure that you would think thus, I am come from Jerusalem, leaving the princess and my brother there, to tell the truth and to surrender myself to you, that I may bear in her place any punishment which you think fit to inflict upon the woman Masouda.”

”Why should you bear it?” asked Saladin.

”Because, Sultan,” answered G.o.dwin sadly, and with bent head, ”whatever she did, she did for love of me, though without my knowledge. Tell me, is she still here, or has she fled?”

”She is still here,” answered Saladin shortly. ”Would you wish to see her?”

G.o.dwin breathed a sigh of relief. At least, Masouda still lived, and the terror that had struck him in the night was but an evil dream born of his own fears and sufferings.

”I do,” he answered, ”once, if no more. I have words to say to her.”

”Doubtless she will be glad to learn how her plot prospered,”

said Saladin, with a grim smile. ”In truth it was well laid and boldly executed.”

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 G.o.dwin, who bowed to the Sultan and followed. As he pa.s.sed wearily through the throng in the audience room, it seemed to G.o.dwin that the emirs and captains gathered there looked at him with pity in their eyes. So strong was this feeling in him that he halted in his walk, and asked:

”Tell me, lord, do I go to my death?”

”All of us go thither,” answered Saladin in the silence, ”but Allah has not written that death is yours to-night.”

They pa.s.sed down long pa.s.sages; they came to a door which the imaum, who hobbled in front, unlocked.

”She is under ward then?” said G.o.dwin.

”Ay,” was the answer, ”under ward. Enter,” and he handed him the lamp. ”I remain without.”

”Perchance she sleeps, and I shall disturb her,” said G.o.dwin, as he hesitated upon the threshold.

”Did you not say she loved you? Then doubtless, even if she sleeps, she, who has dwelt at Masyaf will not take your visit ill, who have ridden so far to find her,” said the imaum with a sneering laugh. ”Enter, I say.”

So G.o.dwin took the lamp and went in, and the door was shut behind him. Surely the place was familiar to him? He knew that arched roof and these rough, stone walls. Why, it was here that he had been brought to die, and through that very door the false Rosamund had come to bid him farewell, who now returned to greet her in this same darksome den. Well, it was empty--doubtless she would soon come, and he waited, looking at the door. It did not stir; he heard no footsteps; nothing broke that utter silence. He turned again and stared about him. Something glinted on the ground yonder, towards the end of the vault, just where he had knelt before the executioner. A shape lay there; doubtless it was Masouda, imprisoned and asleep.

”Masouda,” he said, and the sounding echoes from the arched walls answered back, ”Masouda!”

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