She who walked behind him stopped also, and, seeing the black heap upon the cushion, shuddered.
"Woman, unveil," commanded the voice of Sinan.
She hesitated, then swiftly undid some fastening, so that her drapery fell from her head.

The brethren stared, rubbed their eyes, and stared again.
Before them stood Rosamund! Yes, it was Rosamund, worn with sickness, terrors, and travel, Rosamund herself beyond all doubt.

At the sight of her pale, queenly beauty the heap on the cushion stirred beneath his black cloak, and the beady eyes were filled with an evil, eager light.
Even the dais seemed to wake from their contemplation, and Masouda bit her red lip, turned pale beneath her olive skin, and watched with devouring eyes, waiting to read this woman's heart.
"Rosamund!" cried the brethren with one voice.
She heard.

As they sprang towards her she glanced wildly from face to face, then with a low cry flung an arm about the neck of each and would have fallen in the ecstacy of her joy had they not held her.

Indeed, her knees touched the ground.