t?" said Godwin presently, pointing to a great, dim
thing upon the vapour-hidden sea.

As he spoke a strong gust of wind tore away the last veils of
mist, revealing the red face of the risen sun, and not a hundred
yards away from them--for the tide was high--the tall masts of a
galley creeping out to sea beneath her banks of oars. As they
stared the wind caught her, and on the main-mast rose her
bellying sail, while a shout of laughter told them that they
themselves were seen. They shook their swords in the madness of
their rage, knowing well who was aboard that galley; while to the
fore peak ran up the yellow flag of Saladin, streaming there
like gold in the golden sunlight.

Nor was this all, for on the high poop appeared the tall shape of
Rosamund herself, and on one side of her, clad now in coat of
mail and turban, the emir Hassan, whom they had known as the
merchant Georgios, and on the other, a stout man, also clad in
mail, who at that distance looked like a Christian knight.
Rosamund stretched out her arms towards them. Then suddenly she
sprang forward as though she would throw herself into the sea,
had not Hassan caught her by the arm and held her back, whilst
the other man who was watching slipped between her and the
bulwark.

In his fury and despair Wulf drove his horse into the water till
the waves broke about his middle, and there, since he could go no
further, sat shaking his sword and shouting:

"Fear not! We follow! we follow!" in such a voice of thunder,
that even through the wind and across the everwidening space of
foam his words may have reached the ship. At least Rosamund
seemed to hear them, for she tossed up her arms as though in
token.

But Hassan, one hand pressed upon his heart and the other on his
forehead, only bowed thrice in courteous farewell.

Then the great sail filled, the oars were drawn in, and the
vessel swept away swiftly across the dancing waves, till at
length she vanished, and they could only see the sunlight playing
on the golden banner of Saladin which floated from her truck.

Chapter Eight: The Widow Masouda

Many months had gone by since the brethren sat upon their horses
that winter morning, and from the shrine of St.
Peter's-on-the-Wall, at the mouth of the Blackwater in Essex,
watched with anguished hearts the galley of Saladin sailing
southwards; their love and cousin, Rosamund, standing a prisoner
on the deck. Having no ship in which to follow her--and th