“Prince Hassan,” said Rosamund, “is this a deed that great Saladin would wish, to burn drugged men beneath their own roof?  Now, as you shall answer to him, in the name of Saladin I, a daughter of his House, command you, strike the fire from that man’s hand, and in my hearing give your order that none should even think of such an act of shame.”

“What?” broke in Nicholas, “and leave knights like these, whose quality you know”—­and he pointed to the brethren—­“to follow in our path, and take our lives in vengeance?  Why, it is madness!”

“Are you master here, traitor, or am I?” asked Hassan in cold contempt.  “Let them follow if they will, and I for one shall rejoice to meet foes so brave in open battle, and there give them their revenge.  Ali,” he added, addressing the man who had been disguised as a merchant’s underling, and who had drugged the men in the barn as his master had drugged those in the hall, and opened the moat gate to the band, “Ali, stamp upon the torch and guard that Frank till we reach the boat lest the fool should raise the country on us with his fires.  Now, Princess, are you satisfied?”

“Ay, having your word,” she answered.  “One moment, I pray you.  I would leave a token to my knights.”

Then, while they watched her with wondering eyes, she unfastened the gold cross and chain that hung upon her bosom, and slipping the cross from the chain, went to where Godwin lay, and placed it on his breast.  Next, with a swift movement, she wound the chain about the silver hilt of Sir Andrew’s sword, and passing to Wulf, with one strong thrust, drove the point between the oak boards of the table, so that it stood before him—­at once a cross, a brand of battle, and a lady’s token.

“His grandsire bore it,” she said in Arabic, “when he leapt on to the walls of Jerusalem.  It is my last gift to him.”  But the Saracens muttered and turned pale at these words of evil omen.

Then taking the hand of Hassan, who stood searching her white, inscrutable face, with never a word or a backward look, she swept down the length of the long hall, and out into the night beyond.

“It would have been well to take my counsel and fire the place, or at least to cut the throats of all within it,” said the man Nicholas to his guard Ali as they followed with the rest.  “If I know aught of these brethren, cross and sword will soon be hard upon our track, and men’s lives must pay the price of such soft folly.”  And he shivered as though in fear.

“It may be so, Spy,” answered the Saracen, looking at him with sombre, contemptuous eyes.  “It may be that your life will pay the price.”

Wulf was dreaming, dreaming that he stood on his head upon a wooden plank, as once he had seen a juggler do, which turned round one way while he turned round the other, till at length some one shouted at him, and he tumbled off the board and hurt himself.  Then he awoke to hear a voice shouting surely enough—­the voice of Matthew, the chaplain of Steeple Church.