"Ay, upon the nobleness of a single woman, as my vision told me it should be.If her spirit is high enough, Jerusalem may yet be saved.If it be baser than I thought, as well may chance, then assuredly with her it is doomed.I have no more to say, but my envoys shall ride with you bearing a letter, which with their own hands they must present to my niece, the princess of Baalbec.
Then she can return with them to me, or she can bide where she is, when I shall know that I saw but a Iying vision of peace and mercy flowing from her hands, and will press on this war to its bloody end."Within an hour Balian rode to the city under safe conduct, taking with him the envoys of Saladin and the letter, which they were charged to deliver to Rosamund.
It was night, and in their lamp-lit chapel the Virgins of the Holy Cross upon bended knees chanted the slow and solemn Miserere.From their hearts they sang, to whom death and dishonour were so near, praying their Lord and the merciful Mother of God to have pity, and to spare them and the inhabitants of the hallowed town where He had dwelt and suffered, and to lead them safe through the shadow of a fate as awful as His own.They knew that the end was near, that the walls were tottering to their fall, that the defenders were exhausted, and that soon the wild soldiers of Saladin would be surging through the narrow streets.
Then would come the sack and the slaughter, either by the sword of the Saracens, or, perchance, if these found time and they were not forgotten, more mercifully at the hands of Christian men, who thus would save them from the worst.
Their dirge ended, the abbess rose and addressed them.Her bearing was still proud, but her voice quavered.
"My daughters in the Lord," she said, "the doom is almost at our door, and we must brace our hearts to meet it.If the commanders of the city do what they have promised, they will send some here to behead us at the last, and so we shall pass happily to glory and be ever with the Lord.But perchance they will forget us, who are but a few among eighty thousand souls, of whom some fifty thousand must thus be killed.Or their arms may grow weary, or themselves they may fall before ever they reach this house--and what, my daughters, shall we do then?"Now some of the nuns clung together and sobbed in their affright, and some were silent.Only Rosamund drew herself to her full height, and spoke proudly.
"My Mother," she said, "I am a newcomer among you, but I have seen the slaughter of Hattin, and I know what befalls Christian women and children among the unbelievers.Therefore I ask your leave to say my say.""Speak," said the abbess.
"This is my counsel," went on Rosamund, "and it is short and plain.When we know that the Saracens are in the city, let us set fire to this convent and get us to our knees and so perish.""Well spoken; it is best," muttered several.But the abbess answered with a sad smile:
"High counsel indeed, such as might be looked for from high blood.Yet it may not be taken, since self-slaughter is a deadly sin.""I see little difference between it," said Rosamund, "and the stretching out of our necks to the swords of friends.Yet, although for others I cannot judge, for myself I do judge who am bound by no final vows.I tell you that rather than fall into the hands of the Paynims, I will dare that sin and leave them nothing but the vile mould which once held the spirit of a woman."And she laid her hand upon the dagger hilt that was hidden in her robe.
Then again the abbess spoke.
"To you, daughter, I cannot forbid the deed, but to those who have fully sworn to obey me I do forbid it, and to them I show another if a more piteous way of escape from the last shame of womanhood.Some of us are old and withered, and have naught to fear but death, but others are still young and fair.To these Isay, when the end is nigh, let them take steel and score face and bosom and seat themselves here in this chapel, red with their own blood and made loathsome to the sight of man.Then will the end come upon them quickly, and they will pass hence unstained to be the brides of Heaven."Now a great groan of horror went up from those miserable women, who already saw themselves seated in stained robes, and hideous to behold, there in the carved chairs of their choir, awaiting death by the swords of furious and savage men, as in a day to come their sisters of the Faith were to await it in the doomed convent of the Virgins of St.Clare at Acre.*[* Those who are curious to know the story of the end of those holy heroines, the Virgins of St.Clare, I think in the year 1291, may read it in my book, "A Winter Pilgrimage," pp.270 and 271--AUTHOR.]
Yet one by one, except the aged among them, they came up to the abbess and swore that they would obey her in this as in everything, while the abbess said that herself she would lead them down that dreadful road of pain and mutilation.Yes, save Rosamund, who declared that she would die undisfigured as God had made her, and two other novices, they swore it one by one, laying their hands upon the altar.
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.
