“By St. Peter!” said Godwin. “I know the broidery on that dress. Masouda! Say, is it you, Masouda?”
As he spoke the veil fell also, and lo! before them was a woman like to Masouda and yet not Masouda. The hair was dressed like hers; the ornaments and the necklace made of the claws of the lion which Godwin killed were hers; the skin was of the same rich hue; there even was the tiny mole upon her cheek, but as the head was bent they could not see her eyes. Suddenly, with a little moan she lifted it, and looked at them.
“Rosamund! It is Rosamund herself!” gasped Wulf. “Rosamund disguised as Masouda!”
And he fell rather than leapt from his saddle and ran to her, murmuring, “God! I thank Thee!”
Now she seemed to faint and slid from her horse into his arms, and lay there a moment, while Godwin turned aside his head.
“Yes,” said Rosamund, freeing herself, “it is I and no other, yet I rode with you all this way and neither of you knew me.”
“Have we eyes that can pierce veils and woollen garments?” asked Wulf indignantly; but Godwin said in a strange, strained voice:
“You are Rosamund disguised as Masouda. Who, then, was that woman to whom I bade farewell before Saladin while the headsman awaited me; a veiled woman who wore the robes and gems of Rosamund?”
“I know not, Godwin,” she answered, “unless it were Masouda clad in my garments as I left her. Nor do I know anything of this story of the headsman who awaited you. I thought—I thought it was for Wulf that he waited—oh! Heaven, I thought that.”
“Tell us your tale,” said Godwin hoarsely.