“Good,” she said. “Except those of their own breed, there are no horses in Syria that can catch those two. They will come to Emesa, have no fear.”
“Who was the man who brought them to us?” asked Godwin, as they galloped side by side, their eyes fixed upon the ever-nearing cloud of dust, in which the spear points sparkled.
“My father’s brother—my uncle, as I called him,” she answered. “He is a sheik of the desert, who owns the ancient breed that cannot be bought for gold.”
“Then you are not of the Assassins, Masouda?”
“No; I may tell you, now that the end seems near. My father was an Arab, my mother a noble Frank, a French woman, whom he found starving in the desert after a fight, and took to his tent and made his wife. The Assassins fell upon us and killed him and her, and captured me as a child of twelve. Afterwards, when I grew older, being beautiful in those days, I was taken to the harem of Sinan, and, although in secret I had been bred up a Christian by my mother, they swore me of his accursed faith. Now you will understand why I hate him so sorely who murdered my father and my mother, and made me what I am; why I hold myself so vile also. Yes, I have been forced to serve as his spy or be killed, who, although he believed me his faithful slave, desired first to be avenged upon him.”
“I do not hold you vile,” panted Godwin, as he spurred his labouring steed. “I hold you most noble.”
“I rejoice to hear it before we die,” she answered, looking him in the eyes in such a fashion that he dropped his head before her burning gaze, “who hold you dear, Sir Godwin, for whose sake I have dared these things, although I am nought to you. Nay, speak not; the lady Rosamund has told me all that story—except its answer.”
Now they were off the sand over which they had been racing side by side, and beginning to breast the mountain slope, nor was Godwin sorry that the clatter of their horses’ hoofs upon the stones prevented further speech between them. So far they had outpaced the Assassins, who had a longer and a rougher road to travel; but the great cloud of dust was not seven hundred yards away, and in front of it, shaking their spears, rode some of the best mounted of their soldiers.
“These horses still have strength; they are better than I thought them,” cried Masouda. “They will not gain on us across the mountains, but afterwards—”
For the next league they spoke no more, who must keep their horses from falling as they toiled up the steep path. At length they reached the crest, and there, on the very top of it, saw Wulf and Rosamund standing by Flame and Smoke.