“Your pardon,” said Godwin to her at length and speaking in French, “but this man—­”

“Loads up your baggage to take it to my inn.  It is cheap, quiet and comfortable—­things which I heard you say you required just now, did I not?” she answered in a sweet voice, also speaking in good French.

Godwin looked at Wulf, and Wulf at Godwin, and they began to discuss together what they should do.  When they had agreed that it seemed not wise to trust themselves to the care of a strange woman in this fashion, they looked up to see the donkey laden with their trunks being led away by the porter.

“Too late to say no, I fear me,” said the woman with a laugh, “so you must be my guests awhile if you would not lose your baggage.  Come, after so long a journey you need to wash and eat.  Follow me, sirs, I pray you.”

Then she walked through the crowd, which, they noted, parted for her as she went, to a post where a fine mule was tied.  Loosing it, she leaped to the saddle without help, and began to ride away, looking back from time to time to see that they were following her, as, indeed, they must.

“Whither go we, I wonder,” said Godwin, as they trudged through the sands of Beirut, with the hot sun striking on their heads.

“Who can tell when a strange woman leads?” replied Wulf, with a laugh.

At last the woman on the mule turned through a doorway in a wall of unburnt brick, and they found themselves before the porch of a white, rambling house which stood in a large garden planted with mulberries, oranges and other fruit trees that were strange to them, and was situated on the borders of the city.

Here the woman dismounted and gave the mule to a Nubian who was waiting.  Then, with a quick movement she unveiled herself, and turned towards them as though to show her beauty.  Beautiful she was, of that there could be no doubt, with her graceful, swaying shape, her dark and liquid eyes, her rounded features and strangely impassive countenance.  She was young also—­perhaps twenty-five, no more—­and very fair-skinned for an Eastern.

“My poor house is for pilgrims and merchants, not for famous knights; yet, sirs, I welcome you to it,” she said presently, scanning them out of the corners of her eyes.

“We are but squires in our own country, who make the pilgrimage,” replied Godwin.  “For what sum each day will you give us board and a good room to sleep in?”

“These strangers,” she said in Arabic to the porter, “do not speak the truth.”

“What is that to you?” he answered, as he busied himself in loosening the baggage.  “They will pay their score, and all sorts of mad folk come to this country, pretending to be what they are not.  Also you sought them—­why, I know not—­not they you.”

“Mad or sane, they are proper men,” said the impassive woman, as though to herself, then added in French, “Sirs, I repeat, this is but a humble place, scarce fit for knights like you, but if you will honour it, the charge is—­so much.”