Hand and foot grew weary; their speed slackened. Slowly, now,
they moved in front of the cohort and back to the middle space. They
were evenly matched; both began to reel and labor heavily, their
strength failing in like degree. The end was at hand. Now the angel
of death hovered near, about to choose between them. Suddenly
Antipater, pressing upon his man, fell forward. At the very moment
Vergilius, who had been giving quarter, reeled a few paces and was down
upon his back. Prince and tribune lay apart some twenty cubits. Both
tried to rise and fell exhausted. Half a moment passed. Antipater had
risen to his elbow. Slowly he gained a knee, while the other lay as
one dead. He rested, staring with vengeful eyes at his enemy.
Stealthily he felt for his weapon. The right hand of Vergilius began
to move. A hush fell upon the scene. Swiftly, from beside the cohort
a fair daughter of Judea, in a white robe, ran across the field of
battle. She knelt beside Vergilius and touched his pale face with her
hands. Then she called to him: "Rise, O my beloved! Rise quickly! He
will slay you!"
"Cyran!" he whispered.
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