"My dear Dion," she said, "the greatest terror that possesses me is that you think me what my presence here might suggest. Save me first of all from falling in your respect. Believe me, I am still as worthy of your care as when you saw me, a mere child, in Jerusalem—though these few months have made me a woman, I fear with a wicked heart."
"I do believe you, Deborah," cried he, grasping both her hands. "Now that the light shows you, I see the same pure soul I once loved, and never for an instant have ceased to love. But, my child, you have suffered. Pain has cut deep lines. This must cease. If there is anything in my position, my estate, any influence with those in power, any strength in my arm or sharpness in my sword, let me use it. Only tell me."
The trumpet call was repeated. Dion rose, and stood for a while looking in the direction whence it had come.
"I can overtake them," he said, hesitating.
"But how explain your absence? Will not some harm come from your failing to appear with your command? You should go."
Yet her hands were hard holding his, and her face wore an intensity of desire which he, not knowing its full meaning, thought to be only the return of his love.
"I cannot go," said he. "I will not go, my love, until you have told me how I can save you. By all the gods I swear it."
"Swear not at all," said Deborah, placing her fingers upon his lips, only to receive the kiss they tempted.
Dion's arm stole about the form of his companion. She did not resist it. Why not? Only because thus she was detaining him. Let him interpret it otherwise; it was for his life, and when he was saved they would part forever.