Again there was silence, while the brethren wondered whose corpse it was that lay beneath the cloth, for a corpse it must surely be; though neither the Lord of the Mountain nor his dais and guards seemed to concern themselves in the matter.  Again the curtains parted, and a procession advanced up the terrace.  First came a great man clad in a white robe blazoned with the bleeding dagger, after whom walked a tall woman shrouded in a long veil, who was followed by a thick-set knight clad in Frankish armour and wearing a cape of which the cowl covered his head as though to keep the rays of the sun from beating on his helm.  Lastly walked four guards.  Up the long place they marched, through the double line of dais, while with a strange stirring in their breasts the brethren watched the shape and movements of the veiled woman who stepped forward rapidly, not seeing them, for she turned her head neither to the right nor left.  The leader of the little band reached the space before the canopy, and, prostrating himself by the side of the stretcher, lay still.  She who walked behind him stopped also, and, seeing the black heap upon the cushion, shuddered.

“Woman, unveil,” commanded the voice of Sinan.

She hesitated, then swiftly undid some fastening, so that her drapery fell from her head.  The brethren stared, rubbed their eyes, and stared again.

Before them stood Rosamund!

Yes, it was Rosamund, worn with sickness, terrors, and travel, Rosamund herself beyond all doubt.  At the sight of her pale, queenly beauty the heap on the cushion stirred beneath his black cloak, and the beady eyes were filled with an evil, eager light.  Even the dais seemed to wake from their contemplation, and Masouda bit her red lip, turned pale beneath her olive skin, and watched with devouring eyes, waiting to read this woman’s heart.

“Rosamund!” cried the brethren with one voice.

She heard.  As they sprang towards her she glanced wildly from face to face, then with a low cry flung an arm about the neck of each and would have fallen in the ecstacy of her joy had they not held her.  Indeed, her knees touched the ground.  As they stooped to lift her it flashed into Godwin’s mind that Masouda had told Sinan that they were her brethren.  The thought was followed by another.  If this were so, they might be left with her, whereas otherwise that black-robed devil—­

“Listen,” he whispered in English; “we are not your cousins—­we are your brothers, your half-brothers, and we know no Arabic.”

She heard and Wulf heard, but the watchers thought that they were but welcoming each other, for Wulf began to talk also, random words in French, such as “Greeting, sister!” “Well found, sister!” and kissed her on the forehead.

Rosamund opened her eyes, which had closed, and, gaining her feet, gave one hand to each of the brethren.  Then the voice of Masouda was heard interpreting the words of Sinan.