“I have indeed; a few embroideries if this most gracious lady would be pleased to look at them.  Some carpets also, such as the Moslems used to pray on in the name of their false prophet, Mahomet,” and, turning, he spat upon the ground.

“I see that you are a Christian,” said Sir Andrew.  “Yet, although I fought against them, I have known many a good Mussulman.  Nor do I think it necessary to spit at the name of Mahomet, who to my mind was a great man deceived by the artifice of Satan.”

“Neither do I,” said Godwin reflectively.  “Its true servants should fight the enemies of the Cross and pray for their souls, not spit at them.”

The merchant looked at them curiously, fingering the silver crucifix that hung upon his breast.  “The captors of the Holy City thought otherwise,” he said, “when they rode into the Mosque El Aksa up to their horses’ knees in blood, and I have been taught otherwise.  But the times grow liberal, and, after all, what right has a poor trader whose mind, alas! is set more on gain than on the sufferings of the blessed Son of Mary,” and he crossed himself, “to form a judgment upon such high matters?  Pardon me, I accept your reproof, who perhaps am bigoted.”

Yet, had they but known it, this “reproof” was to save the life of many a man that night.

“May I ask help with these packages?” he went on, “as I cannot open them here, and to move the casks?  Nay, the little keg I will carry myself, as I hope that you will taste of it at your Christmas feast.  It must be gently handled, though I fear me that those roads of yours will not improve its quality.”  Then twisting the tub from the end of the wain onto his shoulder in such a fashion that it remained upright, he walked off lightly towards the open door of the hall.

“For one not tall that man is strangely strong,” thought Wulf, who followed with a bale of carpets.

Then the other casks of wine were stowed away in the stone cellar beneath the hall.

Leaving his servant—­a silent, stupid-looking, dark-eyed fellow named Petros—­to bait the horses, Georgios entered the hall and began to unpack his carpets and embroideries with all the skill of one who had been trained in the bazaars of Cairo, Damascus, or Nicosia.  Beautiful things they were which he had to show; broideries that dazzled the eye, and rugs of many hues, yet soft and bright as an otter’s pelt.  As Sir Andrew looked at them, remembering long dead days, his face softened.

“I will buy that rug,” he said, “for of a truth it might be one on which I lay sick many a year ago in the house of Ayoub at Damascus.  Nay, I haggle not at the price.  I will buy it.”  Then he fell to thinking how, whilst lying on such a rug (indeed, although he knew it not, it was the same), looking through the rounded beads of the wooden lattice-work of his window, he had first seen his Eastern wife walking in the orange garden with her father Ayoub.  Afterwards, still recalling his youth, he began to talk of Cyprus, and so time went on until the dark was falling.