“Yes, both.”
“And does she love you both?”
“Yes,” replied Godwin, “both, or so she says.”
Saladin stroked his beard and considered them, while Hassan smiled a little.
“Then, knights,” he said presently, “tell me, which of you does she love best?”
“That, sire, is known to her alone. When the time comes, she will say, and not before.”
“I perceive,” said Saladin, “that behind this riddle hides a story. If it is your good pleasure, be seated, and set it out to me.”
So they sat down on the divan and obeyed, keeping nothing back from the beginning to the end, nor, although the tale was long, did the Sultan weary of listening.
“A great story, truly,” he said, when at length they had finished, “and one in which I seem to see the hand of Allah. Sir Knights, you will think that I have wronged you—ay, and your uncle, Sir Andrew, who was once my friend, although an older man than I, and who, by stealing away my sister, laid the foundations of this house of love and war and woe, and perchance of happiness unforeseen.
“Now listen. The tale that those two Frankish knaves, the priest and the false knight Lozelle, told to you was true. As I wrote to your uncle in my letter, I dreamed a dream. Thrice I dreamed it; that this niece of mine lived, and that if I could bring her here to dwell at my side she should save the shedding of much blood by some noble deed of hers—ay, of the blood of tens of thousands; and in that dream I saw her face. Therefore I stretched out my arm and took her from far away. And now, through you—yes, through you—she has been snatched from the power of the great Assassin, and is safe in my court, and therefore henceforth I am your friend.”