"Your love! your love!" There was utter contempt in her tone. "You, a hired slaughterer of our people!"
"Nay, then by my strength you shall not go."
He grasped her wrists. The might of her soul was imparted to her arms, and she had nearly freed herself. It required a rough grip of even the athlete's strong hands to detain her. His hard fingers deeply indented her softer flesh. Her face was contorted with pain. Dion relaxed his hold, but not enough to allow her to escape.
So close they stood that their breaths mingled. If soul were breath, as the one Hebrew word for both signifies, it might be that their spirits touched and mingled also; for the fire slowly died from her eyes.
"You are stronger than I," she said, with panting breath.
"Forgive my use of force," replied Dion; "but I had to choose between offending and saving you. I have seen too many cruelties to dare to let you go from the door."
Deborah's look searched Dion to the heart. She spoke with slow accents, as if uncertain whether to venture the words:
"I will trust you, though a Greek. Let no harm come to my father."
"If man can save him, I will. But do you pledge me, Deborah, that you will not go to the streets. A flower would be safer thrown there under the feet of the mob than you among the soldiers. Pledge me, I beg you; pledge me."