The crackling of dried leaves caught Deborah's attention. A sentinel gave challenge.
Deborah instantly responded with the watchword of the Greek camp, "The sword of Apollonius," which she knew had been given for the night.
"Another woman, by Jove! One would think he had fallen upon the Grove of Daphne, or the streets of the Piræus, rather than a war camp," said one walking with the sentry.
"Come, get out of this! To the rear with you, or we will make you march in front of the first battle."
"I am not within the lines," replied Deborah. "The lines run from the twisted rock to the cypress yonder. So we were told."
"Are those the lines?" asked the officer. "Then let her stay. We ourselves have lost our bearing, but daylight is coming up yonder in the East, and we shall need no longer any lines here, for we move at dawn."
Deborah could not mistake that voice, nor the form that the dim light outlined. She thought that she was silent, enacting a tragedy back of her rigidly compressed lips; yet some word or outcry must have escaped her, for the officer turned quickly.
"Woman, did you speak?"
Now she was indeed silent, and moveless as the great rock against which she leaned. The man came nearer and tried to scan her features.