“What then?” asked Godwin.

“Do you remember the old Arab who brought you the horses Flame and Smoke, and took no payment for them, he who was named Son of the Sand?  Well, as you know, he is my uncle, and he has more horses of that breed.  I have seen him, and he is well pleased at the tale of Flame and Smoke and the knights who rode them, and more particularly at the way in which they came to their end, which he says has brought credit to their ancient blood.  At the foot of this garden is a cave, which was once a sepulchre.  There we shall find the horses—­four of them—­and with them my uncle, Son of the Sand, and by the morning light we will be a hundred miles away and lie hid with his tribe until we can slip to the coast and board a Christian ship.  Does it please you?”

“Very well; but what is Abdullah’s price?”

“One only—­the enchanted star, the Luck of the House of Hassan; for nothing else will he take such risks.  Will Sir Wulf give it?”

“Surely,” answered Godwin with a laugh.

“Good.  Then it must be done to-night.  When I return I will send Abdullah to your tent.  Fear not; if he takes the jewel he will give the price, since otherwise he thinks it will bring him ill fortune.”

“Does the lady Rosamund know?” asked Godwin again.

She shook her head.

“Nay, she is mad to escape; she thinks of little else all day long.  But what is the use of telling her till the time comes?  The fewer in such a plot the better, and if anything goes wrong, it is well that she should be innocent, for then—­”

“Then death, and farewell to all things,” said Godwin; “nor indeed should I grieve to say them good-bye.  But, Masouda, you run great peril.  Tell me now, honestly, why do you do this?”

As he spoke the lightning flashed and showed her face as she stood there against a background of green leaves and red lily flowers.  There was a strange look upon it—­a look that made Godwin feel afraid, he knew not of what.

“Why did I take you into my inn yonder in Beirut when you were the pilgrims Peter and John?  Why did I find you the best horses in Syria and guide you to the Al-je-bal?  Why did I often dare death by torment for you there?  Why did I save the three of you?  And why, for all this weary while, have I—­who, after all, am nobly born—­become the mock of soldiers and the tire-woman of the princess of Baalbec?

“Shall I answer?” she went on, laughing.  “Doubtless in the beginning because I was the agent of Sinan, charged to betray such knights as you are into his hands, and afterwards because my heart was filled with pity and love for—­the lady Rosamund.”

Again the lightning flashed, and this time that strange look had spread from Masouda’s face to the face of Godwin.

“Masouda,” he said in a whisper, “oh! think me no vain fool, but since it is best perhaps that both should know full surely, tell me, is it as I have sometimes—­”