He wheeled, and, catching her by the wrists, stared into her eyes.
“Is it yes?”
A shudder seized her. There was dread in it, anguish too, and both were mortal. He had not lied, she saw, and the threat was real.
“Is it yes?” he repeated.
There may be moments that prolong, but there are others in which time no longer is; and as Mary shrank in the blight of Judas’ stare, both felt that the culmination of life was reached.
“No!”
The monosyllable dropped from her lips like a stone, yet even as it fell the banner of Maccabæus unfurled and flaunted in her face; the voice of Esther murmured, and a vision of Judith saving a nation visited her, and, continuing, made spots on the night.
Judas had flung her from him. She reeled; the violence roused her. Who was she to consider herself when the security of the Master was at stake? How should it matter though she died, if he were safe?
“It is my soul you ask,” she cried. “Take it. If I had a thousand souls, I would give each one for Him.”
But she cried to the unanswering night. Where the road curved about the shoulder of the Mount of Olives, for one second she saw a white robe glisten. Agonized, she called again, but there was no one now to hear.