“That I grow old for such gallops—­two on one horse, with nothing to win.”

“Nothing to win?” said Masouda.  “I am not so sure!” and she looked at Godwin.  “Well, you have sold your horses to pilgrims who can ride, and they have proved them, and I have had a change from my cooking in the inn, to which I must now get me back again.”

Wulf wiped the sweat from his brow, shook his head, and muttered: 

“I always heard the East was full of madmen and devils; now I know that it is true.”

But Godwin said nothing.

They led the horses back to the inn, where the brethren groomed them down under the direction of the Arab, that the gallant beasts might get used to them, which, after carrying them upon that fearful ride, they did readily enough.  Then they fed them with chopped barley, ear and straw together, and gave them water to drink that had stood in the sun all day to warm, in which the Arab mixed flour and some white wine.

Next morning at the dawn they rose to see how Flame and Smoke fared after that journey.  Entering the stable, they heard the sound of a man weeping, and hidden in the shadow, saw by the low light of the morning that it was the old Arab, who stood with his back to them, an arm around the neck of each horse, which he kissed from time to time.  Moreover, he talked aloud in his own tongue to them, calling them his children, and saying that rather would he sell his wife and his sister to the Franks.

“But,” he added, “she has spoken—­why, I know not—­and I must obey.  Well, at least they are gallant men and worthy of such steeds.  Half I hoped that you and the three of us and my niece Masouda, the woman with the secret face and eyes that have looked on fear, might perish in the cleft of the stream; but it was not willed of Allah.  So farewell, Flame, and farewell, Smoke, children of the desert, who are swifter than arrows, for never more shall I ride you in battle.  Well, at least I have others of your matchless blood.”

Then Godwin touched Wulf on the shoulder, and they crept away from the stable without the Arab knowing that they had been there, for it seemed shameful to pry upon his grief.  When they reached their room again Godwin asked Wulf: 

“Why does this man sell us those noble steeds?”

“Because his niece Masouda has bid him so to do,” he answered.

“And why has she bidden him?”

“Ah!” replied Wulf.  “He called her ’the woman with the secret face and eyes that have looked on fear,’ didn’t he?  Well, for reasons that have to do with his family perhaps, or with her secrets, or us, with whom she plays some game of which we know neither the beginning nor the end.  But, Brother Godwin, you are wiser than I. Why do you ask me these riddles?  For my part, I do not wish to trouble my head about them.  All I know is that the game is a brave one, and I mean to go through with it, especially as I believe that this playing will lead us to Rosamund.”