Deborah: A tale of the times of Judas Maccabaeus. James M. Ludlow

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."

      "Then I will wait. But fly! oh, Dion, fly! Your word! Your sword if need be! My father! Oh, my father!"

      Dion was gone.

      As the Greek hurried away only the arm of the old servant Huldah prevented Deborah falling to the pavement. She moved close to the street door, but did not open it. There she stood, not unlike the statue of a runner whose whole attitude shows flight while the feet are motionless. She had almost broken her pledge and gone after Dion, but something held her back. Was it her word? She did not think of that. It was rather the word of the Greek; for had he not said, "If man can save him, I will"? She saw that in this man of hated race was the only hope. If he should fail, then God had willed the worst, and she would submit.

      Submit? To what? To grief? To bereavement? Yes. To insult? Perhaps to death, for the assailants of her father would not spare his child.

      But there was another submission she deliberately contemplated. It was submission to the overmastering passion which had been born last night amid the ruins of the house of Ben Isaac—to become a minister of vengeance for her people. She seemed to hear her father's voice above the din of the street calling her to avenge his name. The shades of the martyrs of Israel in her excited imagination trooped from Sheol, and stood around her as if to lay their hands upon her in ordination to a life entirely devoted to patriotism and religion; devoted, whether with her hands red in the blood of Israel's enemies, or white with nursing service of Israel's distressed people, she knew not, she cared not.

      She was aroused from her reverie by the voice of Caleb.

      "Sister, shall we not flee? Death is over the house. They have slain our father. I but now heard the passers-by say, 'Elkiah is dead.'"

      "Flee, child? Whither can we flee? The angel of destruction hovers over us, his wings black, oh, so black! and over all the city, and over all the land. We are safe for the moment only here. We must wait on the Lord, and—on the Greek!"

      "Has fear driven away your memory, sister dear?" said Caleb. "There are passages from our home into the great quarry which underlies the city."

      "True, child, but we have never learned them."

      "But I have. I go where those who can see find no way. From the cellar of our house a way opens into the cellar of our neighbor Moses, and from that into the cellar of Omri. They both fled that way. I heard them beg father to escape with them, but he would not. He declared that he would die in Jerusalem rather than flee so long as the altar of the Lord stood on Moriah. But the altar has fallen, sister; the people in the streets just now said that not a stone of it stood any longer. Were our father here, he would now flee. Come! Benjamin will be safe, since he has become as one of the Greeks, and Dion will care for him. Come! I can guide you, and God will guide me as He always has done. Come!"

      "Nay, child, the daughter of Elkiah cannot leave her house while her father lives. He will return—or Dion."

      "But our father will not come again," urged the child. "Did I not hear them say, 'The Jew is dead'? Come!"

      "I will not believe it until Dion returns and tells me with his own lips. They will not, they dare not kill my father. Besides, I have given the Greek my word."

      "Your word to a Greek! What is there in that?"

      "True, only my word to a Greek! To a Greek! Then let us go for your sake, child."

      She followed the blind boy as he darted across the court to the door which opened into the servants' apartment, and thence into the cellar. At the entrance she stopped.

      "Nay, child, I cannot go. I have given him my word."

      "Trust not the Greek," cried Caleb. "He will not come back. He dare not if he would. They would kill him if he befriended us or our father. But hark!"

      The blind boy stood in an attitude of listening. Then he cried excitedly, "Aye! He comes. I hear Captain Dion's voice in the street. He has turned the corner—now he is at the door."

      Dion stood before them.

      For a little he was speechless, as if the words he would speak were too cruel to utter. He did not even lift his eyes to the young woman's face.

      "Do not speak, sir!" said Deborah. "I know it all. My father has been slain by your people."

      "Nay, not slain," replied the Greek. "Your father's God has taken him. As Zeus lives—as Jehovah lives—Elkiah died as only the greatest and best of men can die; no hand struck the blow. On the steps of the altar of his God he himself gave up his life. The gods take the breath of such men with a kiss."

      Deborah bowed herself upon the pavement.

      "Aye, he was a sacrifice. Oh, my father!" Then she rose. Her eyes seemed to see the ascended spirit as she said slowly:

      "Now I swear by thy white locks—by the altar of thy broken heart! I, too, will be a sacrifice!"

      The Greek was paralyzed by the sense of his helplessness to say or do anything to mitigate the woman's woe. Though he knew not what it meant, he knew that there was a tragedy in her heart as real as the one that had just occurred at the Temple.

      Dion lingered to offer—what? Comfort? Help? Perhaps he acted simply from the instinct by which noble natures wait to give themselves to others for whatever may be needed. One thing he could do.

      "Your father shall have honorable interment. I have secured from Apollonius the order that he be buried in the sepulchre of his fathers. With your brother's sickness and the hazard to your life and that of Caleb, I ask your permission that I may be his mourner."

      "My thanks, good sir. And my father's God will bless you."

      Still Dion lingered, until Deborah herself said:

      "Captain Dion, you must go away. This house is no place for a Greek."

      "Nay, it is the place for such a Greek as I. Let me help you. Tell me your desire, and it shall be done."

      Deborah did not look at her companion. Advancing to the centre of the court where the sun gleamed fairly upon her, she raised her hand. It was not now the attitude of defense from danger such as Dion had seen before. It was not that of daring which had cowed the besotted Apollonius. It was that of supreme spiritual exaltation. It seemed to enlarge her physical form and to transfigure her countenance with the strong glow of inner light. Dion had seen the priestesses of almost every shrine among his own and foreign peoples, but nothing so august as this self-ordination of the Jewish maiden to her mysterious service, as she said in suppressed tones:

      "Now, O God of my father, I will fulfill my vow! Lead Thou whither Thou wilt. Guide me as Thou hast all true sons and daughters of Israel. Amen!"

      Then her eyes rested a moment upon Dion's. A faint smile, or rather the slightest yielding of the rigidness of her alabaster features, denoted a not unkind recognition. If her voice was softened, it lost no tone of determination as she repeated:

      "You must go away. I shall need no further help."

      "You know not what you say," replied Dion eagerly. "You are utterly helpless here. Your brother's name will not save you one moment from the danger which I know will follow you. You must flee. Can you conceal yourself for a little while? I will return with the dress of a Greek woman, and in that disguise I can take you to a place of safety."

      "Nay, go you and bury my father," said she.

      "Promise me that you will not pass into the street."

      "I will not go—into the street."

      "The gods be praised!" cried Dion. He seized her hand, and before she could withdraw