“Discover that for yourself, Sir Patriarch,” replied Wulf in fury.  “Or, if you cannot, send one of your own women in her place.”

Now there was a murmur in the council, but of wonder at his boldness rather than of indignation, for this patriarch was a very evil liver.

“I care not if I speak the truth,” went on Wulf, “for it is known to all.  Moreover, I tell this man that it is well for him that he is a priest, however shameful, for otherwise I would cleave his head in two who has dared to call the lady Rosamund my lover.”  Then, still shaking with wrath, the great knight turned and stalked from the council chamber.

“A dangerous man,” said Heraclius, who was white to the lips; “a very dangerous man.  I propose that he should be imprisoned.”

“Ay,” answered the lord Balian of Ibelin, who was in supreme command of the city, “a very dangerous man—­to his foes, as I can testify.  I saw him and his brother charge through the hosts of the Saracens at the battle of Hattin, and I have seen him in the breach upon the wall.  Would that we had more such dangerous men just now!”

“But he has insulted me,” shouted the patriarch, “me and my holy office.”

“The truth should be no insult,” answered Balian with meaning.  “At least, it is a private matter between you and him on account of which we cannot spare one of our few captains.  Now as regards this lady, I like not the business—­”

As he spoke a messenger entered the room and said that the hiding-place of Rosamund had been discovered.  She had been admitted a novice into the community of the Virgins of the Holy Cross, who had their house by the arch on the Via Dolorosa.

“Now I like it still less,” Balian went on, “for to touch her would be sacrilege.”

“His Holiness, Heraclius, will give us absolution,” said a mocking voice.

Then another leader rose—­he was one of the party who desired peace—­and pointed out that this was no time to stand on scruples, for the Sultan would not listen to them in their sore plight unless the lady were delivered to him to be judged for her offence.  Perhaps, being his own niece, she would, in fact, suffer no harm at his hands, and whether this were so or not, it was better that one should endure wrong, or even death, than many.

With such words he over-persuaded the most of them, so that in the end they rose and went to the convent of the Holy Cross, where the patriarch demanded admission for them, which, indeed, could not be refused.  The stately abbess received them in the refectory, and asked their pleasure.

“Daughter,” said the patriarch, “you have in your keeping a lady named Rosamund D’Arcy, with whom we desire to speak.  Where is she?”

“The novice Rosamund,” answered the abbess, “prays by the holy altar in the chapel.”

Now one murmured, “She has taken sanctuary,” but the patriarch said: 

“Tell us, daughter, does she pray alone?”