Well might Rosamund weep whose beloved sire was slain, who was torn from her home to find herself in the power of a man she hated.  Yet there was hope for her.  Hassan, Eastern trickster as he might be, was her friend; and her uncle, Saladin, at least, would never wish that she should be shamed.  Most like he knew nothing of this man Lozelle, except as one of those Christian traitors who were ever ready to betray the Cross for gold.  But Saladin was far away and her home lay behind her, and her cousins and lovers were eating out their hearts upon that fading shore.  And she—­one woman alone—­was on this ship with the evil man Lozelle, who thus had kept his promise, and there were none save Easterns to protect her, none save them—­and God, Who had permitted that such things should be.

The ship swayed, she grew sick and faint.  Hassan brought her food with his own hands, but she loathed it who only desired to die.  The day turned to night, the night turned to day again, and always Hassan brought her food and strove to comfort her, till at length she remembered no more.

Then came a long, long sleep, and in the sleep dreams of her father standing with his face to the foe and sweeping them down with his long sword as a sickle sweeps corn—­of her father felled by the pilgrim knave, dying upon the floor of his own house, and saying “God will guard you.  His will be done.”  Dreams of Godwin and Wulf also fighting to save her, plighting their troths and swearing their oaths, and between the dreams blackness.

Rosamund awoke to feel the sun streaming warmly through the shutter of her cabin, and to see a woman who held a cup in her hand, watching her—­a stout woman of middle age with a not unkindly face.  She looked about her and remembered all.  So she was still in the ship.

“Whence come you?” she asked the woman.

“From France, lady.  This ship put in at Marseilles, and there I was hired to nurse one who lay sick, which suited me very well, as I wished to go to Jerusalem to seek my husband, and good money was offered me.  Still, had I known that they were all Saracens on this ship, I am not sure that I should have come—­that is, except the captain, Sir Hugh, and the palmer Nicholas; though what they, or you either, are doing in such company I cannot guess.”

“What is your name?” asked Rosamund idly.

“Marie—­Marie Bouchet.  My husband is a fishmonger, or was, until one of those crusading priests got hold of him and took him off to kill Paynims and save his soul, much against my will.  Well, I promised him that if he did not return in five years I would come to look for him.  So here I am, but where he may be is another matter.”

“It is brave of you to go,” said Rosamund, then added by an afterthought, “How long is it since we left Marseilles?”

Marie counted on her fat fingers, and answered: 

“Five—­nearly six weeks.  You have been wandering in your mind all that time, talking of many strange things, and we have called at three ports.  I forget their names, but the last one was an island with a beautiful harbour.  Now, in about twenty days, if all goes well, we should reach another island called Cyprus.  But you must not talk so much, you must sleep.  The Saracen called Hassan, who is a clever doctor, told me so.”