"Captain, I must put you under arrest. You will harbor me no ill will if I obey my orders?"
"Do your duty, Mercedes, or I myself will report you," replied Dion.
The Captain extended his hands, which were quickly bound with his own belt.
The uneven fight was soon over in the court. A score of Jews were either slain or captured, though more than twice that number of their antagonists measured their lengths upon the pavement. One lay with his head in the fountain basin at the feet of Aphrodite, and stared with his dead eyes into the face of the marble beauty that gazed down into them.
"Who is the leader of this gang of rebels?" asked Meton.
"The Lord of Hosts is our leader!" said one of the captives.
"The lord of the host?" queried Meton. "Has then the great Judas fallen into my trap? Shade of Apollonius! this is lucky for me. But where is your lord of the host?"
He turned over the bodies of the dead Jews to look at their faces. "He is not here—nor here. None of these have stature enough for the giant."
Jonathan, anxious for the fate of Caleb, had gone seeking for him in the upper part of the house. His way was blocked by an immense Greek who strode across a chamber carrying the blind boy beneath his arm. No sooner had Jonathan spied him than the man's dead hands dropped his burden. But a crowd of soldiers had followed the daring Jew, and now seemed to have him as their captive. Thrusting Caleb behind him, Jonathan kept his assailants at bay by the lightning movement of his blade.