“With you! What can it matter to you, sir, whether or no I am in love with Caleb, who, to tell you the truth, frightens me?”
“And that, I suppose, is why you plead so hard for him?”
“No,” she answered with a sudden sternness, “I plead hard for him as in like case I would plead hard for you—because he has been my friend, and if he did this deed he was provoked to it.”
“Well spoken,” said Marcus, gazing at her steadily. Indeed, she was worth looking at as she stood there before him, her hands clasped, her breast heaving, her sweet, pale face flushed with emotion and her lovely eyes aswim with tears. Of a sudden as he gazed Marcus lost control of himself. Passion for this maiden and bitter jealousy of Caleb arose like twin giants in his heart and possessed him.
“You say you are not in love with Caleb,” he said. “Well, kiss me and I will believe you.”
“How could such a thing prove my words?” she asked indignantly.
“I do not know and I do not care. Kiss me once and I will believe further that the peasants of these parts are all liars. I feel myself beginning to believe it.”
“And if I will not?”
“Then I am afraid I must refer the matter to a competent tribunal at Jerusalem.”
“Nehushta, Nehushta, you have heard. What shall I do?”