"I have now the clew of Sirach's credulity. As a child I was known for my crown jewel, as my playmates called the scar on my head. As a page they dubbed me 'Prince' because of it, and now my cock's comb of a scar has been good Sirach's decoy. Ha! ha! I bethink me there was a fellow in Philippi, a Jew adopted by a Greek, who wore a split scalp. I got my decoration in this way. As a child I played with my father's great sword. One day it fell on me, and but for the hand of some god as helpful as the arm of Sirach to his little Gershom, I had never lived to become the hero of such a pretty tale as our friend has told. But now, Sirach, I will give you a challenge in turn—tell me the name of the good Greek who so befriended your little Gershom's grandfather, Nahum, in the hippodrome."
Sirach sat staring at Dion, as if his words had stunned him.
"Tell us the noble Greek's name, Sirach—the Greek who was Sara's father's friend."
"Yes, yes," said the old man, "Nahum's friend was Ctesiphon, Ctesiphon——"
"But I—I am the son of Agathocles," fairly shouted Dion. "I am not son of any Ctesiphon."
The old man rose. He attempted to speak, but his throat gave no utterance. His face twitched as if pulled by strings. He sank back upon the couch. His eyes followed Dion; otherwise he was motionless.
"He would tell us more," said the Greek, and bent above him, held by a strange fascination. But the lips did not move again. An intense longing came into his eyes, as if the soul would speak without need of voice.
"It is a stroke of God," said Samuel. "He will tell us no more. I surely thought he had you, Dion, for as good a Jew as the rest of us."
"But for my father, Agathocles', memory I had not cared," replied Dion. "If my sword be Jew, why not the hand that holds it?"