“I cannot speak with you.  God be with you both, my brothers, God and the spirit of my father.  Strike home, Wulf, strike home, Godwin, and fear not for me who will guard myself.  Conquer or die, and in life or death, await me.  To-morrow, in the flesh, or in the spirit, we will talk—­Rosamund.”

Godwin handed the paper to Wulf, and, as he did so, saw that the guards had caught its bearer, a withered, grey-haired woman.  They asked her some questions, but she shook her head.  Then they cast her down, trampled the life out of her beneath their horses’ hoofs, and went on laughing.  The mob laughed also.

“Tear that paper up,” said Godwin.  Wulf did so, saying: 

“Our Rosamund has a brave heart.  Well, we are of the same blood, and will not fail her.”

Now they were come to the open space in front of the narrow bridge, where, tier on tier, the multitude were ranged, kept back from its centre by lines of guards.  On the flat roofed houses also they were crowded thick as swarming bees, on the circling walls, and on the battlements that protected the far end of the bridge, and the houses of the outer city.  Before the bridge was a low gateway, and upon its roof sat the Al-je-bal, clad in his scarlet robe of festival, and by his side, the moonlight gleaming on her jewels, Rosamund.  In front, draped in a rich garment, a dagger of gems in her dark hair, stood the interpreter or “mouth” Masouda, and behind were dais and guards.

The brethren rode to the space before the arch and halted, saluting with their pennoned spears.  Then from the further side advanced another procession, which, opening, revealed the knight Lozelle riding on his great black horse, and a huge man and a fierce he seemed in his armour.

“What!” he shouted, glowering at them.  “Am I to fight one against two?  Is this your chivalry?”

“Nay, nay, Sir Traitor,” answered Wulf.  “Nay, nay betrayer of Christian maids to the power of the heathen dog; you have fought Godwin, now it is the turn of Wulf.  Kill Wulf and Godwin remains.  Kill Godwin and God remains.  Knave, you look your last upon the moon.”

Lozelle heard, and seemed to go mad with rage, or fear, or both.

“Lord Sinan,” he shouted in Arabic, “this is murder.  Am I, who have done you so much service, to be butchered for your pleasure by the lovers of that woman, whom you would honour with the name of wife?”

Sinan heard, and stared at him with dull, angry eyes.

“Ay, you may stare,” went on the maddened Lozelle, “but it is true—­they are her lovers, not her brothers.  Would men take so much pains for a sister’s sake, think you?  Would they swim into this net of yours for a sister’s sake?”

Sinan held up his hand for silence.

“Let the lots be cast,” he said, “for whatever these men are, this fight must go on, and it shall be fair.”

So a dai, standing by himself, cast lots upon the ground, and having read them, announced that Lozelle must run the first course from the further side of the bridge.  Then one took his bridle to lead him across.  As he passed the brethren he grinned in their faces and said: