Antipater had gained his feet and now ran to glut his anger. Cyran
rose upon her knees and put her beautiful body between the steel and
him she loved. The sword seemed to spring at her bosom. She seized
it, clinging as if it were a thing she prized. Vergilius had risen.
Swiftly sword smote upon sword. The young Roman pressed his enemy,
forcing him backward. From dying lips he heard again the old chant of
faith:
"Let me not be ashamed--I trust in Thee, God
of my fathers;
Send, quickly send the new king" . . .
The words seemed to strengthen his arm. He fought as one having power
above that of men. On and on he forced his foe with increasing energy.
He gave him no chance to stop or turn aside. Yells of fury drowned the
clash of steel. The tumult grew. The son of Herod was near the pit.
He seemed to tempt the Roman to press him. Suddenly he leaped backward
to the very edge. The Roman rushed upon him. Before their swords met,
Antipater sprang aside with the quickness of a leopard. In cunning he
had outdone his foe.
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