“That was in my mind, also, lady.  I think, too, that I have forgot my wisdom, but my heart rose against this man, and being still weak from sickness, I lost my judgment and spoke what was in my heart, who would have done better to wait.  Now, perhaps, it will be best to kill him, if it were not that he alone has the skill to navigate the ship, which is a trade that he has followed from his youth.  Nay, let it go as Allah wills.  He is just, and will bring the matter to judgment in due time.”

“Yes, but to what judgment?” asked Rosamund.

“I hope to that of the sword,” answered Hassan, as he bowed and left her.

From that time forward armed men watched all the night through before Rosamund’s cabin, and when she walked the deck armed men walked after her.  Nor was she troubled by Lozelle, who sought to speak with her no more, or to Hassan either.  Only with the man Nicholas he spoke much.

At length upon one golden evening—­for Lozelle was a skilful pilot, one of the best, indeed, who sailed those seas—­they came to the shores of Cyprus, and cast anchor.  Before them, stretched along the beach, lay the white town of Limazol, with palm trees standing up amidst its gardens, while beyond the fertile plain rose the mighty mountain range of Trooidos.  Sick and weary of the endless ocean, Rosamund gazed with rapture at this green and beauteous shore, the home of so much history, and sighed to think that on it she might set no foot.  Lozelle saw her look and heard her sigh, and as he climbed into the boat which had come out to row him into the harbour, mocked her, saying: 

“Will you not change your mind, lady, and come with me to visit my friend, the Emperor Isaac?  I swear that his court is gay, not packed full of sour Saracens or pilgrims thinking of their souls.  In Cyprus they only make pilgrimages to Paphos yonder, where Venus was born from out the foam, and has reigned since the beginning of the world—­ay, and will reign until its end.”

Rosamund made no answer, and Lozelle, descending into the boat, was rowed shorewards through the breakers by the dark-skinned, Cyprian oarsmen, who wore flowers in their hair and sang as they laboured at the oars.

For ten whole days they rolled off Limazol, although the weather was fair and the wind blew straight for Syria.  When Rosamund asked why they bided there so long, Hassan stamped his foot and said it was because the Emperor refused to supply them with more food or water than was sufficient for their daily need, unless he, Hassan, would land and travel to an inland town called Nicosia, where his court lay, and there do homage to him.  This, scenting a trap, he feared to do, nor could they put out to sea without provisions.

“Cannot Sir Hugh Lozelle see to it?” asked Rosamund.

“Doubtless, if he will,” answered Hassan, grinding his teeth; “but he swears that he is powerless.”