“You pack of cowards,” she cried, facing the amazed crowd of tormentors with her eyes on fire with scorn and wrath. “You make me sick. Go and find some one of your own size; why, if I had a few of our cowboys here with me, you’d get the worst licking any of you ever heard of. If there’s an ounce of manhood in the lot of you, you ought to die of shame.”
Ruth and Rowena closed in on either side, and now the three girls turned to the terrified child at their feet. The crowd growled, but several mumbling something to the effect that they must be highborn ladies or princesses, broke up in some confusion and drew away.
“You’re all right now,” Ruth murmured soothingly, smoothing the tumbled hair of the rescued maiden, who rose to her feet, panting a little through fright and surprise, the tears still standing in her immense black eyes. “Come, we’ll take you to your people. Who are you, and where is your father or your mother?”
“I am Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York,” whispered the child. “Oh, do not leave me to be killed! Yonder, beyond that furthest tent on the slope, my father has a pavilion. Take me back there, and we will escape from this frightful place.”
The poor little thing trembled from head to foot, and Rose threw a protecting arm about her.
“You’re all right now, dear,” she said. “Come along with us, and we’ll see you safe with your father. How lovely you are,” she added, almost involuntarily.
It wasn’t surprising, however. The young Jewess had an exotic beauty, like some tropic flower which her somewhat fantastic dress, with a strong hint of the Orient in its flowing lines and changing hues, suited to admiration. Her skin was a clear olive, her hair glossy black, her eyes deep and wonderfully dark.
Rowena withdrew from her with a gesture of haughtiness.
“Will you touch the Jew’s daughter?” she said to Rose, a note of scorn in her voice.
“Don’t be silly,” replied Rose, somewhat roughly. “What’s the matter with all you people anyhow? You make me tired. Come along, Rebecca.”