Soon they had told each other all there was to tell. When he heard of the woe of Rosamund Wulf well-nigh shed tears.
“We have our lives,” he said, “but how shall we save her? While Masouda stayed with her there was some hope, but now I can see none.”
“There is none, except in God,” answered Godwin, “Who can do all things—even free Rosamund and make her your wife. Also, if Masouda is at liberty, we shall hear from her ere long; so let us keep a good heart.”
But though he spoke thus, the soul of Godwin was oppressed with a fear which he could not understand. It seemed as though some great terror came very close to him, or to one who was near and dear. Deeper and deeper he sank into that pit of dread of he knew not what, until at length he could have cried aloud, and his brow was bathed with a sweat of anguish. Wulf saw his face in the moonlight, and asked:
“What ails you, Godwin? Have you some secret wound?”
“Yes, brother,” he answered, “a wound in my spirit. Ill fortune threatens us—great ill fortune.”
“That is no new thing,” said Wulf, “in this land of blood and sorrows. Let us meet it as we have met the rest.”
“Alas! brother,” exclaimed Godwin, “I fear that Rosamund is in sore danger—Rosamund or another.”
“Then,” answered Wulf, turning pale, “since we cannot, let us pray that some angel may deliver her.”
“Ay,” said Godwin, and as they rode through the desert sands beneath the silent stars, they prayed to the Blessed Mother, and to their saints, St. Peter and St. Chad—prayed with all their strength. Yet the prayer availed not. Sharper and sharper grew Godwin’s agony, till, as the slow hours went by, his very soul reeled beneath this spiritual pain, and the death which he had escaped seemed a thing desirable.