“Feared?” broke in Masouda with her little mocking laugh. “Sir Godwin, it is so. What does your faith teach—the faith in which I was bred, and lost, but that now is mine again—because it is yours? That men and women are free, or so some read it. Well, it or they are wrong. We are not free. Was I free when first I saw your eyes in Beirut, the eyes for which I had been watching all my life, and something came from you to me, and I—the cast-off plaything of Sinan—loved you, loved you, loved you—to my own doom? Yes, and rejoiced that it was so, and still rejoice that it is so, and would choose no other fate, because in that love I learned that there is a meaning in this life, and that there is an answer to it in lives to be, otherwhere if not here. Nay, speak not. I know your oath, nor would I tempt you to its breaking. But, Sir Godwin, a woman such as the lady Rosamund cannot love two men,” and as she spoke Masouda strove to search his face while the shaft went home. But Godwin showed neither surprise nor pain. “So you know what I have known for long,” he said, “so long that my sorrow is lost in the hope of my brother’s joy. Moreover, it is well that she should have chosen the better knight.” “Sometimes,” said Masouda reflectively, “sometimes I have watched the lady Rosamund, and said to myself, ‘What do you lack? You are beautiful, you are highborn, you are learned, you are brave, and you are good.’ Then I have answered, ‘You lack wisdom and true sight, else you would not have chosen Wulf when you might have taken Godwin. Or perchance your eyes are blinded also.’” “Speak not thus of one who is my better in all things, I pray you,” said Godwin in a vexed voice. “By which you mean, whose arm is perhaps a little stronger, and who at a pinch could cut down a few more Saracens. Well, it takes more than strength to make a man—you must add spirit.” “Masouda,” went on Godwin, taking no note of her words, “although we may guess her mind, our lady has said nothing yet. Also Wulf may fall, and then I fill his place as best I can. I am no free man, Masouda.” “The love-sick are never free,” she answered. “I have no right to love the woman who loves my brother; to her are due my friendship and my reverence—no more.” “She has not declared that she loves your brother; we may guess wrongly in this matter. They are your words—not mine.” “And we may guess rightly. What then?” “Then,” answered Masouda, “there are many knightly Orders, or monasteries, for those who desire such places—as you do in your heart. Nay, talk no more of all these things that may or may not be. Back to your tent, Sir Godwin, where I will send Abdullah to you to receive the jewel. So, farewell, farewell.”