"Yield!" he cried.
The man slightly lowered his sword.
"That voice is not a Jew's," came from the Greek helmet.
"The sword is," was Dion's reply.
"Yet played as never was a Jew's," came the response between wards and panting breaths. "If I am to fall, thank the gods it is by a Greek's hand, though he be a traitor to his blood!"
"Traitor!"
The taunt fired all the fiend in Dion's soul. With one stroke he sent his opponent's sword ringing among the stones, and his body backward to the ground, while a tremendous blow on his head completed his discomfiture.
The displaced helmet revealed white hair and beard. Dion did not strike again.
"I will not take the life of one of your years. So valiant an arm must have done better service than this in which it is now engaged. Rise! You are my prisoner."