is council, that same old imaum who had
planned the casting of the lots, the Sultan spoke with him aside.
Then he said:

"Let this knight be led to the woman Masouda. Tomorrow we will
judge him."

Taking a silver lamp from the wall, the imaum beckoned to Godwin,
who bowed to the Sultan and followed. As he passed wearily
through the throng in the audience room, it seemed to Godwin that
the emirs and captains gathered there looked at him with pity in
their eyes. So strong was this feeling in him that he halted in
his walk, and asked:

"Tell me, lord, do I go to my death?"

"All of us go thither," answered Saladin in the silence, "but
Allah has not written that death is yours to-night."

They passed down long passages; they came to a door which the
imaum, who hobbled in front, unlocked.

"She is under ward then?" said Godwin.

"Ay," was the answer, "under ward. Enter," and he handed him the
lamp. "I remain without."

"Perchance she sleeps, and I shall disturb her," said Godwin, as
he hesitated upon the threshold.

"Did you not say she loved you? Then doubtless, even if she
sleeps, she, who has dwelt at Masyaf will not take your visit
ill, who have ridden so far to find her," said the imaum with a
sneering laugh. "Enter, I say."

So Godwin took the lamp and went in, and the door was shut behind
him. Surely the place was familiar to him? He knew that arched
roof and these rough, stone walls. Why, it was here that he had
been brought to die, and through that very door the false
Rosamund had come to bid him farewell, who now returned to greet
her in this same darksome den. Well, it was empty--doubtless she
would soon come, and he waited, looking at the door. It did not
stir; he heard no footsteps; nothing broke that utter silence. He
turned again and stared about him. Something glinted on the
ground yonder, towards the end of the vault, just where he had
knelt before the executioner. A shape lay there; doubtless it was
Masouda, imprisoned and asleep.

"Masouda," he said, and the sounding echoes from the arched walls
answered back, "Masouda!"

He must awaken her; there was no choice. Yes, it was she, asleep,
and she still wore the royal robes of Rosamund, and a clasp of
Rosamund's still glittered on her breast.

How sound Masouda slept! Would she never wake? He knelt down
beside her and put out his hand to lift the long hair that hid
her face.

Now it touched her, and lo! the head fell over.

Then, with