Thus, bravely enough, died Reginald de Chatillon, whom the Saracens called prince Arnat. In the hush that followed this terrible deed king Guy said to Godwin: “Ask the Sultan if it is my turn next.” “Nay,” answered Saladin; “kings do not kill kings, but that truce-breaker has met with no more than his deserts.” Then came a scene still more dreadful. Saladin went to the door of his tent, and standing over the body of Reginald, bade them parade the captive Templars and Hospitallers before him. They were brought to the number of over two hundred, for it was easy to distinguish them by the red and white crosses on their breasts. “These also are faith-breakers,” he shouted, “and of their unclean tribes will I rid the world. Ho! my emirs and doctors of the law,” and he turned to the great crowd of his captains about him, “take each of you one of them and kill him.” Now the emirs hung back, for though fanatics they were brave, and loved not this slaughter of defenceless men, and even the Mameluks murmured aloud. But Saladin cried again: “They are worthy of death, and he who disobeys my command shall himself be slain.” “Sultan,” said Godwin, “we cannot witness such a crime; we ask that we may die with them.” “Nay,” he answered; “you have eaten of my salt, and to kill you would be murder. Get you to the tent of the princess of Baalbec yonder, for there you will see nothing of the death of these Franks, your fellow-worshippers.” So the brethren turned, and led by a Mameluk, fled aghast for the first time in their lives, past the long lines of Templars and Hospitallers, who in the last red light of the dying day knelt upon the sand and prayed, while the emirs came up to kill them. They entered the tent, none forbidding them, and at the end of it saw two women crouched together on some cushions, who rose, clinging to each other. Then the women saw also and sprang forward with a cry of joy, saying: “So you live—you live!” “Ay, Rosamund,” answered Godwin, “to see this shame—would God that we did not—whilst others die. They murder the knights of the holy Orders. To your knees and pray for their passing souls.” So they knelt down and prayed till the tumult died away, and they knew that all was done. “Oh, my cousins,” said Rosamund, as she staggered to her feet at length, “what a hell of wickedness and bloodshed is this in which we dwell! Save me from it if you love me—I beseech you save me!” “We will do our best,” they answered; “but let us talk no more of these things which are the decree of God—lest we should go mad. Tell us your story.”