Deborah joined a group of Greek women on the edge of the camps. These were venting their rage upon an officer in command of a contingent sent from Jerusalem.
"The Captain forbids us to come among his tents; Astarte curse him! Are his men better than other men, or better than we?"
"They say he was born in Athens; as if Athens were better than Antioch!" said one.
"The statue of Athena, the prude, in the Parthenon, is so big that it crowds out all other gods and goddesses; and so this upstart Captain would crowd us out. And are we not goddesses? My Adonis, the one with a brass pot for a skull, called me one."
"Yes, they call us heavenly, and help us to Hades."
"Captain Dion would make Aphrodite herself wear long skirts," said another.
"Dion!" The word rang sharp as a thunder-crash through Deborah's soul. A glare as of the lightning's bolt seemed to illumine her. In it she saw herself again a woman. Dion! Was she leading this man to slaughter? But why not? He, too, was the enemy of her land, of her religion, of her God. Had she not vowed death to Greeks of every name? Did her oath spare even Dion?
Yet Dion had saved her. And that, too, in spite of his soldierly duty to his cause.
Deborah staggered back into the darkness. Her strength until now had been that of a man; but it was the strength which her soul, with its tremendous resoluteness, had imparted to nerve and muscle. Now that her soul was shaken, it sent its quiver through her physical frame, and she was weak as a child. She sank upon the ground.