She struggled violently to disengage herself from his grasp, but in vain.
The countenance of the young warrior grew deadly pale, as he held her.
For a few minutes he glanced eagerly round the tent, in an agony of bewilderment and despair.

The conflicting interests of his duty towards his sister, and his anxiety for Antonina's preservation, filled his heart to distraction.

A moment more he hesitated, and during that short delay, the despotism of custom had yet power enough to prevail over the promptings of pity.

He called to the girl--withdrawing his arm which had hitherto been her support,--'Go, have mercy on me, go!' But she neither heeded nor heard him.

She fell on her knees at the woman's feet, and in a low moaning voice faltered out:-- 'What have I done that I deserve to be slain?
I never murdered your children; I never yet saw a child but I loved it; if I had seen your children, I should have loved them!' 'If I had preserved to this time the child that I saved from the massacre, and you had approached him,' returned the woman fiercely, 'I would have taught him to strike at you with his little hands! When you spoke to him, he should have spat upon you for answer--even thus!' Trembling, exhausted, terrified as she was, the girl's Roman blood rushed over her pale cheeks as she felt the insult.