"I will not be prisoner to a Jew," said the prostrate man. "But I swear by all the gods, that stroke was of no Jew's arm."
"Taunt me not again," shouted the victor, "or, by Jove! the sword, be it Jew or Greek, will find your heart."
"'By Jove!' Why, man, you have not been Jew long enough to learn new oaths. Now strike if you will. My life is yours, but first"—the man assumed an utter indifference of tone and manner—"first I would have a drink of the spring. It is hard to let out one's last breath through a throat so parched."
"That boon is well earned," said Dion, his rage tempered instantly by the man's grim humor.
He helped unclasp his antagonist's helmet, and gave his hand as he tottered over the dead bodies which lay in heaps about the spring, and through the mud made by the many feet that all day had trampled the ground soaked with water and blood.
"Faugh!" said the man. "I cannot drink this stuff. It is not wise to mix wines, and mixed bloods are worse. Cut my veins, my friend, and let me drink something at least clean and pure. A draught of life—good Greek life—to die by—ha! ha! Help me, ghost of Socrates!"
Dion cleared the surface of the fountain on the side where it came trickling up from the earth and mingled its white beads with the red foulness. Using his helmet for a vessel, he dipped a quantity.
"I have seen a fairer goblet at a feast," said he, offering it with a courtesy that was real for all its seeming mockery.
"Which again proves that you are a Greek," was the stranger's response.
"Why repeat that?" said Dion.