"But, father, we cannot leave the daughter of Elkiah here," said the younger. "She must go with us."
Deborah had risen to her feet. The hood dropped from her head. Was it her grateful look, or only her surpassing beauty, that held the young Arab?
"You will go with us? You can ride?" said he.
"Nay, I must go to my kinsman, Ben Aaron of Masada. To seek refuge there I have fled. Tell me the shortest way, I beg of you."
"To Masada? That is a long journey, and rough, and full of dangers. You cannot go there alone."
Nadan held rapid speech with old Yusef, the conclusion of which was this, on his part:
"It is true we must not leave her here, nor can we delay. Take you the woman, Nadan. Cross the gorge of Kedron. By the night you can be at Masada, and by the morning back with us. Nadan, the woman is comely. Were I not needed with the people, she should share my saddle, not yours. No loitering, my son. My salutation to Ben Aaron, the damned Jew!—but it is unwise to damn him in the present emergency. His castle on Masada will be the strongest in the wilderness—when we get it. Speak him fair, and let the gift of his kinswoman be a pledge of peace between us—until we see fit to break it. That woman's breath on your cheek ought to give you soft words for Ben Aaron."
He placed his long lance in its resting strap, bowed his head to the neck of his steed—both a salaam to the woman and a signal of haste to the beast—and disappeared over the hill like an autumn leaf whirled away by the wind.