But what was that which the dawning light made suddenly visible against the background of the walls? Alas! Deborah was too familiar with the ubiquitous banner flying from the spear-head. Mizpah, like Jerusalem, was occupied by the enemy. To go nearer was to court the very danger from which they were fleeing. But to flee again was too much for exhausted flesh. The shock of this discovery paralyzed her remaining energy. She tried to cling to the side of the rock against which she had been leaning. She fell fainting at its base. Then the brain, too much excited, and unchecked by will, wrought its usual work. Memory and imagination became confused. The hill of Mizpah appeared to her repeopled with its ancient inhabitants. Old scenes of which she had read took the place of those she had just witnessed. The Greek tents became those of the ancient Philistines. Who should deliver Israel? She thought that the tall form of Saul, son of Kish, strode again along the slope of Mizpah, looking for his father's asses. Where was Samuel with the horn to anoint him king? A full flash of the sun bursting over the eastern mountains revived her. Did it awaken her, or merely vitalize and make real her dream? She could not tell, for though this was Caleb sleeping by her side, surely yonder was Saul. His herdsman's dress could not disguise his kingly bearing. It needed not the prophetic gift of Samuel to distinguish the Lord's anointed. So stalwart was he, a head taller than most men; so majestic of mien; so noble of countenance. The apparition came near. It stood over her, taller than the rock, and seeming stronger. It bent down to her, and then it spoke: "My children, why are you here?" The voice aroused Caleb. His movement and the quick grasp of his sister's hand brought Deborah fully back from her dream. She pressed her eyes, if possible to press out any mere illusion; but the figure of Saul was still there. He repeated his question, "Why are you here, children?" Kindly he gave a hand to the startled girl. She grasped it, partly to discover whether it were real or a phantom; partly because she was so weak in flesh and will that she would have grasped any human hand that did not strike her or wear the mail of the hated Greek. She rose to her feet. The stranger started as if he, too, were uncertain whether this were not an apparition; for Deborah was not a child, as her face asleep had betokened, but now a woman. Into her youthful features the sharp suffering of a few days had put those lines which ordinarily come only of mature years and slow corroding care. Her black eyes had sunken deeper into their sockets. Their gleam seemed to be a reflection from some inner mirror of the soul, rather than a direct outlook,--that resilience of intense introspection which martyrs have in their eyes when they gaze upon those who have come to see them die. The stranger's manner became that of reverential sympathy.