Godwin breathed a sigh of relief. At least, Masouda still lived, and the terror that had struck him in the night was but an evil dream born of his own fears and sufferings. “I do,” he answered, “once, if no more. I have words to say to her.” “Doubtless she will be glad to learn how her plot prospered,” said Saladin, with a grim smile. “In truth it was well laid and boldly executed.” Calling to one of his council, that same old imaum who had planned the casting of the lots, the Sultan spoke with him aside. Then he said: “Let this knight be led to the woman Masouda. Tomorrow we will judge him.” Taking a silver lamp from the wall, the imaum beckoned to Godwin, who bowed to the Sultan and followed. As he passed wearily through the throng in the audience room, it seemed to Godwin that the emirs and captains gathered there looked at him with pity in their eyes. So strong was this feeling in him that he halted in his walk, and asked: “Tell me, lord, do I go to my death?” “All of us go thither,” answered Saladin in the silence, “but Allah has not written that death is yours to-night.” They passed down long passages; they came to a door which the imaum, who hobbled in front, unlocked. “She is under ward then?” said Godwin. “Ay,” was the answer, “under ward. Enter,” and he handed him the lamp. “I remain without.” “Perchance she sleeps, and I shall disturb her,” said Godwin, as he hesitated upon the threshold. “Did you not say she loved you? Then doubtless, even if she sleeps, she, who has dwelt at Masyaf will not take your visit ill, who have ridden so far to find her,” said the imaum with a sneering laugh. “Enter, I say.” So Godwin took the lamp and went in, and the door was shut behind him. Surely the place was familiar to him? He knew that arched roof and these rough, stone walls. Why, it was here that he had been brought to die, and through that very door the false Rosamund had come to bid him farewell, who now returned to greet her in this same darksome den. Well, it was empty—doubtless she would soon come, and he waited, looking at the door. It did not stir; he heard no footsteps; nothing broke that utter silence. He turned again and stared about him. Something glinted on the ground yonder, towards the end of the vault, just where he had knelt before the executioner. A shape lay there; doubtless it was Masouda, imprisoned and asleep. “Masouda,” he said, and the sounding echoes from the arched walls answered back, “Masouda!” He must awaken her; there was no choice. Yes, it was she, asleep, and she still wore the royal robes of Rosamund, and a clasp of Rosamund’s still glittered on her breast. How sound Masouda slept! Would she never wake? He knelt down beside her and put out his hand to lift the long hair that hid her face. Now it touched her, and lo! the head fell over.