Perhaps Deborah did not deliberately and of intent carry on this comparison. The thought of the Greek came into her mind of itself. She drove it out as she would have frightened a sparrow away from the lattice. She then indulged the reminiscence of the various ways in which, since she had dedicated her life to her country, she had been useful to Judas. She did not doubt, even in her humility, that he spoke honestly when he said that he needed her. But the sparrow came back to the lattice. Had not God also led her to help this Greek to his better faith? And did not he need her? She drove the sparrow away. She said that it should never come again. But, even as she said so, the sparrow twittered at the lattice. She became puzzled with her question, "Why can I only by positive effort exclude this man from my mind? Why are his face, and form, and accents, and traits, and offered love always with me? Why does he press upon me as the daylight against the window, to be excluded only by drawing close the curtain?" She had often observed a spring in the meadow, which the herdsmen tried to fill up and destroy; yet it broke out again, because its veins were deep and full beneath the earth. Was there such a spring of love for the Greek in her heart? Then her problem became one of casuistry. Would it be right for her to give herself to Judas when she could not exclude another man from her thoughts, though he could not come into her life? Would not that be essential meretriciousness? She had schooled herself to the habit of quick decision. So now she would pronounce judgment. Judges on the bench sometimes grow pale when they realize the immense consequences of their renderings; so Deborah, rapidly as her mind worked, passed an hour in a tragedy. She rose from the controversy strangely unnerved, until she steadied herself with her indomitable will. She stood out in the light that came through the latticed window, streaming in the last ray of the sunset. She hesitated to say the fateful words, which she knew must not be recalled, for she could not endure a repetition of the debate. Her face was uplifted to the sun-gleam; her hands tightly clenched behind her back--just her attitude, she remembered, when she made up her mind to become a spy three years ago, there in the ravine by the Fort of the Rocks. Her lips moved. Her words came heavy and cold, as if she had been changed from a living woman into a speaking statue: "The Greek cannot come into my life. Nor--can--my--life--enter--into--that--of--Judas. God help me!" She threw herself upon the divan, and the sun went down. XLVIII A BROKEN SENTENCE FINISHED