So now war was before them—war to the end; and who were they that must bear its brunt? Their leaders were slain or captive, their king a prisoner, their soldiers skeletons on the field of Hattin. Only the women and children, the sick, the old, and the wounded remained—perhaps eighty thousand souls in all—but few of whom could bear arms. Yet these few must defend Jerusalem against the might of the victorious Saracen. Little wonder that they wailed in the streets till the cry of their despair went up to heaven, for in their hearts all of them knew that the holy place was doomed and their lives were forfeited. Pushing their path through this sad multitude, who took little note of them, at length they came to the nunnery on the sacred Via Dolorosa, which Wulf had seen when Godwin and he were in Jerusalem after they had been dismissed by Saladin from Damascus. Its door stood in the shadow of that arch where the Roman Pilate had uttered to all generations the words “Behold the man!” Here the porter told him that the nuns were at prayer in their chapel. Wulf replied that he must see the lady abbess upon a matter which would not delay, and they were shown into a cool and lofty room. Presently the door opened, and through it came the abbess in her white robes—a tall and stately Englishwoman, of middle age, who looked at them curiously. “Lady Abbess,” said Wulf, bowing low, “my name is Wulf D’Arcy. Do you remember me?” “Yes. We met in Jerusalem—before the battle of Hattin,” she answered. “Also I know something of your story in this land—a very strange one.” “This lady,” went on Wulf, “is the daughter and heiress of Sir Andrew D’Arcy, my dead uncle, and in Syria the princess of Baalbec and the niece of Saladin.” The abbess started, and asked: “Is she, then, of their accursed faith, as her garb would seem to show?” “Nay, mother,” said Rosamund, “I am a Christian, if a sinful one, and I come here to seek sanctuary, lest when they know who I am and he clamours at their gates, my fellow Christians may surrender me to my uncle, the Sultan.” “Tell me the story,” said the abbess; and they told her briefly, while she listened, amazed. When they had finished, she said: “Alas! my daughter, how can we save you, whose own lives are at stake? That belongs to God alone. Still, what we can we will do gladly, and here, at least, you may rest for some short while. At the most holy altar of our chapel you shall be given sanctuary, after which no Christian man dare lay a hand upon you, since to do so is a sacrilege that would cost him his soul. Moreover, I counsel that you be enrolled upon our books as a novice, and don our garb. Nay,” she added with a smile, noting the look of alarm on the face of Wulf, “the lady Rosamund need not wear it always, unless such should be her wish. Not every novice proceeds to the final vows.”