To this Dion responded with somewhat of resentment: "Is not your faith, Maccabæan, mine? Do you distrust my word of honor, which I gave you at the gate? I beg that you let me prove my sincerity in the sight of our two nations." "I may give you no charge," replied Judas, "but I take it that before another sunset one who would fight for Jewry will find his own opportunity. And I pledge you, Dion, not to forget your service, though I may not direct it." "It is enough," rejoined the Captain, as he hastened toward the battle, divining at a glance where it would be thickest. No spot in all the bloody field was more hotly contested than a little green glade about a spring. Jew and Greek fought desperately for possession of its cooling waters. The holders of the ground at one moment were slaughtered at the next by new assailants. More than a score of times the spring alternated its owners. Its veins seemed to spurt out blood, so thickened had the water become. At this spot toward the close of the day two men glared at each other over their sword points. One was Dion; the other wore the badge of high honor among Lycias' officers. He was faint from long exertion; but even Dion, master of sword-play though he was, could not find a spot in his antagonist's body unguarded by his quick ward. It was evident, however, that Dion would soon get from his foe's exhaustion what he could not wrest by his skill. "Yield!" he cried. The man slightly lowered his sword. "That voice is not a Jew's," came from the Greek helmet. "The sword is," was Dion's reply. "Yet played as never was a Jew's," came the response between wards and panting breaths. "If I am to fall, thank the gods it is by a Greek's hand, though he be a traitor to his blood!" "Traitor!" The taunt fired all the fiend in Dion's soul. With one stroke he sent his opponent's sword ringing among the stones, and his body backward to the ground, while a tremendous blow on his head completed his discomfiture. The displaced helmet revealed white hair and beard. Dion did not strike again. "I will not take the life of one of your years. So valiant an arm must have done better service than this in which it is now engaged. Rise! You are my prisoner." "I will not be prisoner to a Jew," said the prostrate man. "But I swear by all the gods, that stroke was of no Jew's arm." "Taunt me not again," shouted the victor, "or, by Jove! the sword, be it Jew or Greek, will find your heart." "'By Jove!' Why, man, you have not been Jew long enough to learn new oaths. Now strike if you will. My life is yours, but first"--the man assumed an utter indifference of tone and manner--"first I would have a drink of the spring. It is hard to let out one's last breath through a throat so parched." "That boon is well earned," said Dion, his rage tempered instantly by the man's grim humor.