As he spoke a messenger entered the room and said that the hiding-place of Rosamund had been discovered. She had been admitted a novice into the community of the Virgins of the Holy Cross, who had their house by the arch on the Via Dolorosa. “Now I like it still less,” Balian went on, “for to touch her would be sacrilege.” “His Holiness, Heraclius, will give us absolution,” said a mocking voice. Then another leader rose—he was one of the party who desired peace—and pointed out that this was no time to stand on scruples, for the Sultan would not listen to them in their sore plight unless the lady were delivered to him to be judged for her offence. Perhaps, being his own niece, she would, in fact, suffer no harm at his hands, and whether this were so or not, it was better that one should endure wrong, or even death, than many. With such words he over-persuaded the most of them, so that in the end they rose and went to the convent of the Holy Cross, where the patriarch demanded admission for them, which, indeed, could not be refused. The stately abbess received them in the refectory, and asked their pleasure. “Daughter,” said the patriarch, “you have in your keeping a lady named Rosamund D’Arcy, with whom we desire to speak. Where is she?” “The novice Rosamund,” answered the abbess, “prays by the holy altar in the chapel.” Now one murmured, “She has taken sanctuary,” but the patriarch said: “Tell us, daughter, does she pray alone?” “A knight guards her prayers,” was the answer. “Ah! as I thought, he has been beforehand with us. Also, daughter, surely your discipline is somewhat lax if you suffer knights thus to invade your chapel. But lead us thither.” “The dangers of the times and of the lady must answer for it,” the abbess replied boldly, as she obeyed. Presently they were in the great, dim place, where the lamps burned day and night. There by the altar, built, it was said, upon the spot where the Lord stood to receive judgment, they saw a kneeling woman, who, clad in the robe of a novice, grasped the stonework with her hands. Without the rails, also kneeling, was the knight Wulf, still as a statue on a sepulchre. Hearing them, he rose, turned him about, and drew his great sword. “Sheathe that sword,” commanded Heraclius. “When I became a knight,” answered Wulf, “I swore to defend the innocent from harm and the altars of God from sacrilege at the hands of wicked men. Therefore I sheathe not my sword.” “Take no heed of him,” said one; and Heraclius, standing back in the aisle, addressed Rosamund: “Daughter,” he cried, “with bitter grief we are come to ask of you a sacrifice, that you should give yourself for the people, as our Master gave Himself for the people. Saladin demands you as a fugitive of his blood, and until you are delivered to him he will not treat with us for the saving of the city. Come forth, then, we pray you.” Now Rosamund rose and faced them, with her hand resting upon the altar.