Then again they got them to their knees and sang the Miserere.
Presently, above their mournful chant, the sound of loud, insistent knockings echoed down the vaulted roofs. They sprang up screaming:
“The Saracens are here! Give us knives! Give us knives!”
Rosamund drew the dagger from its sheath.
“Wait awhile,” cried the abbess. “These may be friends, not foes. Sister Ursula, go to the door and seek tidings.”
The sister, an aged woman, obeyed with tottering steps, and, reaching the massive portal, undid the guichet, or lattice, and asked with a quavering voice:
“Who are you that knock?” while the nuns within held their breath and strained their ears to catch the answer.
Presently it came, in a woman’s silvery tones, that sounded strangely still and small in the spaces of that tomb-like church.
“I am the Queen Sybilla, with her ladies.”
“And what would you with us, O Queen? The right of sanctuary?”