It was Masouda.

They rose and bowed to her, but she passed before them into the house.
Thither they followed, while the soldier at the gate laughed again, and at the sound of his mockery Godwin's cheek grew red.
Even in the cool, darkened room she noticed it, and said, bitterly enough: "What does it matter?
Such insults are my daily bread whom they believe--" and she stopped.
"They had best say nothing of what they believe to me," muttered Godwin.
"I thank you," Masouda answered, with a sweet, swift smile, and, throwing off her cloak, stood before them unveiled, clad in the white robes that befitted her tall and graceful form so well, and were blazoned on the breast with the cognizance of Baalbec.

"Well for you," she went on, "that they hold me to be what I am not, since otherwise I should win no entry to this house." "What of our lady Rosamund ?" broke in Wulf awkwardly, for, like Godwin, he was pained.
Masouda laid her hand upon her breast as though to still its heaving, then answered: "The princess of Baalbec, my mistress, is well and as ever, beautiful, though somewhat weary of the pomp in which she finds no joy.

She sent her greetings, but did not say to which of you they should be delivered, so, pilgrims, you must share them." Godwin winced, but Wulf asked if there were any hope of seeing her, to which Masouda answered: "None," adding, in a low voice, "I come upon another business.

Do you brethren wish to do Salah-ed-din a service ?" "I don't know.