Now Godwin and Wulf stared at each other, wondering whither they were to go and where to find the relatives of their veiled companion, of whom they saw nothing. Out of the street opened an archway, and beyond this archway was a garden, which seemed to be deserted. They rode into it to take counsel, and their companion followed, but, as always, a little behind them. “Jerusalem is reached, and we must speak to her now,” said Wulf, “if only to ask her whither she wishes to be taken.” Godwin nodded, and they wheeled their horses round. “Lady,” he said in Arabic, “we have fulfilled our charge. Be pleased to tell us where are those kindred to whom we must lead you.” “Here,” answered a soft voice. They stared about the deserted garden in which stones and sacks of earth had been stored ready for a siege, and finding no one, said: “We do not see them.” Then the lady let slip her cloak, though not her veil revealing the robe beneath. “By St. Peter!” said Godwin. “I know the broidery on that dress. Masouda! Say, is it you, Masouda?” As he spoke the veil fell also, and lo! before them was a woman like to Masouda and yet not Masouda. The hair was dressed like hers; the ornaments and the necklace made of the claws of the lion which Godwin killed were hers; the skin was of the same rich hue; there even was the tiny mole upon her cheek, but as the head was bent they could not see her eyes. Suddenly, with a little moan she lifted it, and looked at them. “Rosamund! It is Rosamund herself!” gasped Wulf. “Rosamund disguised as Masouda!” And he fell rather than leapt from his saddle and ran to her, murmuring, “God! I thank Thee!” Now she seemed to faint and slid from her horse into his arms, and lay there a moment, while Godwin turned aside his head. “Yes,” said Rosamund, freeing herself, “it is I and no other, yet I rode with you all this way and neither of you knew me.” “Have we eyes that can pierce veils and woollen garments?” asked Wulf indignantly; but Godwin said in a strange, strained voice: “You are Rosamund disguised as Masouda. Who, then, was that woman to whom I bade farewell before Saladin while the headsman awaited me; a veiled woman who wore the robes and gems of Rosamund?” “I know not, Godwin,” she answered, “unless it were Masouda clad in my garments as I left her. Nor do I know anything of this story of the headsman who awaited you. I thought—I thought it was for Wulf that he waited—oh! Heaven, I thought that.” “Tell us your tale,” said Godwin hoarsely. “It is short,” she answered. “After the casting of the lot, of which I shall dream till my death-day, I fainted. When I found my senses again I thought that I must be mad, for there before me stood a woman dressed in my garments, whose face seemed like my face, yet not the same.