“Yusuf Salah-ed-din.”
Rosamund finished reading, and the letter fluttered from her hand down to the marble floor.
Then the queen said:
“Lady, we ask this sacrifice of you in the name of these and all their fellows,” and she pointed to the women and the children behind her.
“And my life?” mused Rosamund aloud. “It is all I have. When I have paid it away I shall be beggared,” and her eyes wandered to where the tall shape of Wulf stood by a pillar of the church.
“Perchance Saladin will be merciful,” hazarded the queen.
“Why should he be merciful,” answered Rosamund, “who has always warned me that if I escaped from him and was recaptured, certainly I must die? Nay, he will offer me Islam, or death, which means—death by the rope—or in some worse fashion.”
“But if you stay here you must die,” pleaded the queen, “or at best fall into the hands of the soldiers. Oh! lady, your life is but one life, and with it you can buy those of eighty thousand souls.”
“Is that so sure?” asked Rosamund. “The Sultan has made no promise; he says only that, if I pray it of him, he will consider the question of the sparing of Jerusalem.”
“But—but,” went on the queen, “he says also that if you do not come he will surely put Jerusalem to the sword, and to Sir Balian he said that if you gave yourself up he thought he might grant terms which we should be glad to take. Therefore we dare to ask of you to give your life in payment for such a hope. Think, think what otherwise must be the lot of these”—and again she pointed to the women and children—“ay, and your own sisterhood and of all of us. Whereas, if you die, it will be with much honour, and your name shall be worshipped as a saint and martyr in every church in Christendom.