eace.

"'Tis unfair," said he, pointing at Antipater. "In the name of the
fatherly Augustus, I protest."

The prince, still dragging his foe, answered with insulting threats.
The young commander leaped from his horse and ran to the side of
Antipater. The latter released his captive and drew sword. Swiftly
Vergilius approached him and the two met with a clash of steel.

Now the first battle in that war of the spirit, which was to shake the
world with fury had begun.

Back and forth across the court of Herod they fought their way--the son
of light and the son of darkness. Sparks of fire flew from their
weapons while a murmur in the cohort grew to a loud roar and the old
king and his women stood with hands uplifted shrieking like fiends of
hell. 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.

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