"But this is strange," replied the young man. "Gideon mentioned not your name, father. He told us a story of Ctesiphon, the friend of one Nahum."
"He spake not my name at all? He told you not that Agathocles was not your father? Then, Gideon, you were faithful to me. But why, now, did not those still lips open and check mine before they had uttered the fatal words? But let it be so, since Dion is still my own."
"But who, then, was Ctesiphon, father?"
Agathocles stood a moment in thought. He then took Dion's arm and led him away.
"Come, my boy; this is no place for us. Pardon me, my lady; let us not intrude these matters of our privacy. We will come again, and take part in honoring Sirach in his burial."
But what change had come over the fair woman? As the Greek had seen her sitting by the side of the dead man, he noted how pale she was within the hood of her raven hair; how Niobe-like was her attitude. Now she was transformed, radiant; the blood tingeing her cheeks like sunshine on snow. Her lips seemed to be about to utter some passionate cry. Her hand clasped that of Dion.
There was another who saw this tableau and knew its meaning. Judas Maccabæus had entered the court at the moment, and, as his custom was, without heralding. He paused by the entrance. He took in at a glance all the scene,—and saw also some things which were not outwardly acted. Noting that he had been unobserved, he went silently out, and with bowed head tramped along the Street of David, through the Cheesemakers' Street, and out to the Hill of Ophel, where he sat long upon a ruined coping of the Gymnasium, and gazed down the Valley of Kedron, and over the slopes of the mountains of the Wilderness. But, as Meph, who had followed him, said to a comrade, "Judas looked, but he saw nothing."
Deborah had led her visitors into a room adjacent to the court. Here Agathocles narrated that part of Sirach's story which the old servant's sudden infirmity, many days before, had cut short.