Only with the man Nicholas he spoke much.
At length upon one golden evening--for Lozelle was a skilful pilot, one of the best, indeed, who sailed those seas--they came to the shores of Cyprus, and cast anchor.

Before them, stretched along the beach, lay the white town of Limazol, with palm trees standing up amidst its gardens, while beyond the fertile plain rose the mighty mountain range of Trooidos.

Sick and weary of the endless ocean, Rosamund gazed with rapture at this green and beauteous shore, the home of so much history, and sighed to think that on it she might set no foot.

Lozelle saw her look and heard her sigh, and as he climbed into the boat which had come out to row him into the harbour, mocked her, saying: "Will you not change your mind, lady, and come with me to visit my friend, the Emperor Isaac?
I swear that his court is gay, not packed full of sour Saracens or pilgrims thinking of their souls.
In Cyprus they only make pilgrimages to Paphos yonder, where Venus was born from out the foam, and has reigned since the beginning of the world--ay, and will reign until its end." Rosamund made no answer, and Lozelle, descending into the boat, was rowed shorewards through the breakers by the dark-skinned, Cyprian oarsmen, who wore flowers in their hair and sang as they laboured at the oars.
For ten whole days they rolled off Limazol, although the weather was fair and the wind blew straight for Syria.

When Rosamund asked why they bided there so long, Hassan stamped his foot and said it was because the Emperor refused to supply them with more food or water than was sufficient for their daily need, unless he, Hassan, would land and travel to an inland town called Nicosia, where his court lay, and there do homage to him.