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.

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.  Unable to check his onrush, Vergilius leaped forward and fell out of sight.  A booming roar from the startled lion rose out of the pit and hushed the tumult of the people.  Herod, pointing at his son, shrieked with rage as he bade the soldiers of the cohort to seize and put him in irons.

A score of slaves hastened to the mouth of the pit.  They caught the ropes and quickly lifted the arena.  As it came into view the tumult broke out afresh.  There far spent, resting on his bloody weapon, near the middle of the arena stood Vergilius, and the lion lay dead before him.

Slaves opened the iron gate.  Vergilius ran to the still form of the slave-girl.  He knelt beside her and kissed her lifeless hand.

“Poor child of God!” he whispered.  “If indeed you loved me, I have no wonder that you knelt here to die.”

The master brought a wreath of laurel to the young tribune, saying:  “’Tis from the king.”  Vergilius seemed not to hear.  Tenderly he raised the lifeless body of Cyran in his arms.  The spectators were cheering.  “Hail, victor!” they shouted.