Because she hated Sinan, who had murdered her parents and degraded her, she said; and doubtless that had to do with the matter.

But it was no longer possible to hide the truth.
She loved him, and had loved him from the first hour when they met.

He had always suspected it--in that wild trial of the horses upon the mountain side, when she sat with her arms about him and her face pressed against his face; when she kissed his feet after he had saved her from the lion, and many another time.
But as they followed Wulf and Rosamund up the mountain pass while the host of the Assassins thundered at their heels, and in broken gasps she had told him of her sad history, then it was that he grew sure.

Then, too, he had said that he held her not vile, but noble, as indeed he did; and, thinking their death upon them, she had answered that she held him dear, and looked on him as a woman looks upon her only love--a message in her eyes that no man could fail to read.

Yet if this were so, why had Masouda saved Rosamund, the lady to whom she knew well that he was sworn?
Reared among those cruel folk who could wade to their desire through blood and think it honour, would she not have left her rival to her doom, seeing that oaths do not hold beyond the grave?
An answer came into the heart of Godwin, at the very thought of which he turned pale and trembled.