When he had finished Godwin asked of him as he had asked of Wulf: “What think you, holy father? Is this a dream, or is it a message? And if so, from whom comes the message?” “Godwin D’Arcy,” he answered, “in my youth I knew your father. It was I who shrove him when he lay dying of his wounds, and a nobler soul never passed from earth to heaven. After you had left Damascus, when you were the guest of Saladin, we dwelt together in the same lodging in Jerusalem, and together we travelled here, during all which time I learned to know you also as the worthy son of a worthy sire—no dissolute knight, but a true servant of the Church. It well may be that to such a one as you foresight has been given, that through you those who rule us may be warned, and all Christendom saved from great sorrow and disgrace. Come; let us go to the king, and tell this story, for he still sits in council yonder.” So they went out together and rode to the royal tent. Here the bishop was admitted, leaving them without. Presently he returned and beckoned to them, and as they passed, the guards whispered to them: “A strange council, sirs, and a fateful!” Already it was near midnight, but still the great pavilion was crowded with barons and chief captains who sat in groups, or sat round a narrow table made of boards placed upon trestles. At the head of that table sat the king, Guy of Lusignan, a weak-faced man, clad in splendid armour. On his right was the white-haired Count Raymond of Tripoli, and on his left the black-bearded, frowning Master of the Templars, clad in his white mantle on the left breast of which the red cross was blazoned. Words had been running high, their faces showed it, but just then a silence reigned as though the disputants were weary, and the king leaned back in his chair, passing his hand to and fro across his forehead. He looked up, and seeing the bishop, asked peevishly: “What is it now? Oh! I remember, some tale from those tall twin knights. Well, bring them forward and speak it out, for we have no time to lose.” So the three of them came forward and at Godwin’s prayer the bishop Egbert told of the vision that had come to him not more than an hour ago while he kept watch upon the mountain top. At first one or two of the barons seemed disposed to laugh, but when they looked at Godwin’s high and spiritual face, their laughter died away, for it did not seem wonderful to them that such a man should see visions. Indeed, as the tale of the rocky hill and the dead who were stretched upon it went on, they grew white with fear, and whitest of them all was the king, Guy of Lusignan. “Is all this true, Sir Godwin?” he asked, when the bishop had finished. “It is true, my lord king,” answered Godwin. “His word is not enough,” broke in the Master of the Templars. “Let him swear to it on the Holy Rood, knowing that if he lies it will blast his soul to all eternity.” And the council muttered, “Ay, let him swear.”