groan, with a half start, he lifted his eyes above. They rested not on
the face of the editor nor on the pitying brows of his relenting judges.
He saw them not; they were as if the vast space was desolate and bare;
one pale agonizing face alone was all he recognized--one cry of a broken
heart was all that, amidst the murmurs and the shouts of the populace,
reached his ear. The ferocity vanished from his brow; a soft, a tender
expression of sanctifying but despairing love played over his
features--played--waned--darkened! His face suddenly became locked and
rigid, resuming its former fierceness. He fell upon the earth.
'Look to him,' said the aedile; 'he has done his duty!'
The officers dragged him off to the spoliarium.
'A true type of glory, and of its fate!' murmured Arbaces to himself,
and his eye, glancing round the amphitheatre, betrayed so much of
disdain and scorn, that whoever encountered it felt his breath suddenly
arrested, and his emotions frozen into one sensation of abasement and of
awe.
Again rich perfumes were wafted around the theatre; the attendants
sprinkled fresh sand over the arena.
'Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian,' said the editor.
And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest, and intense
(yet, strange to say, not unpleasing) terror lay, like a mighty and
awful dream, over the assembly.
Chapter III
SALLUST AND NYDIA'S LETTER.
THRICE had Sallust awakened from his morning sleep, and thrice,
recollecting that his friend was that day to perish, had he turned
himself with a deep sigh once more to court oblivion. His sole object
in life was to avoid pain; and where he could not avoid, at least to
forget it.
At length, unable any longer to steep his consciousness in slumber, he
raised himself from his incumbent posture, and discovered his favorite
freedman sitting by his bedside as usual; for Sallust, who, as I have
said, had a gentlemanlike taste for the polite letters, was accustomed
to be read to for an hour or so previous to his rising in the morning.
'No books to-day! no more Tibullus! no more Pindar for me! Pindar!
alas, alas! the very name recalls those games to which our arena is the
savage successor. Has it begun--the amphitheatre? are its rites
commenced?'
'Long since, O Sallust! Did you not hear the trumpets and the trampling
feet?'
'Ay, ay; but the gods be thanked, I was drowsy, and had only to turn
round to fall asleep again.'
'The gladiators must have been long in the ring.'
'The wretches! None of my people have gone to the spectacle?'
'Assuredly not; your orders were too strict.'
'That is well--would the day were over! What is that letter yonder on
the table?'
'That! Oh, the letter brought to you last night, when you
were--too--too...'
'Drunk to read it, I suppose. No matter, it cannot be of much
importance.'
'Shall I open it for you, Sallust,'
'Do: anything to divert my thoughts. Poor Glaucus!'
The freedman opened the letter. 'What! Greek?' said he: some learned
lady, I suppose.' He glanced over the letter, and for some moments the
irregular lines traced by the blind girl's hand puzzled him. Suddenly,
however, his countenance exhibited emotion and surprise. 'Good gods!
noble Sallust! what have we done not to attend to this before? Hear me
read!
'"Nydia, the slave, to Sallust, the friend of Glaucus! I am a prisoner
in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the praetor! procure my release, and
we shall yet save Glaucus from the lion. There is another prisoner
within these walls, whose witness can exonerate the Athenian from the
charge against him--one who saw the crime--who can prove the criminal in
a villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly! hasten! quick! quick! Bring with
you armed men, lest resistance be made, and a cunning and dexterous
smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is thick and strong. Oh!
by thy right hand and thy father's ashes, lose not a moment!"'
'Great Jove!' exclaimed Sallust, starting, 'and this day--nay, within
this hour, perhaps, he dies. What is to be done? I will instantly to
the praetor.'
'Nay; not so. The praetor (as well as Pansa, the editor himself) is the
creature of the mob; and the mob will not hear of delay; they will not
be balked in the very moment of expectation. Besides, the publicity of
the appeal would forewarn the cunning Egyptian. It is evident that he
has some interest in these concealments. No; fortunately thy slaves are
in thy house.'
'I seize thy meaning,' interrupted Sallust: 'arm the slaves instantly.
The streets are empty. We will ourselves hasten to the house of
Arbaces, and release the prisoners. Quick! quick! What ho! Davus
there! My gown and sandals, the papyrus and a reed.' I will write to
the praetor, to beseech him to delay the sentence of Glaucus, for that,
within an hour, we may yet prove him innocent. So, so, that is well.
Hasten with this, Davus, to the praetor, at the amphitheatre. See it
given to his own hand. Now then, O ye gods! whose providence Epicurus
denied, befriend me, and I will call Epicurus a liar!'
Chapter IV
THE AMPHITHEATRE ONCE MORE.
GLAUCUS and Olinthus had been placed together in that gloomy and narrow
cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last and fearful
struggle. Their eyes, of late accustomed to the darkness, scanned the
faces of each other in this awful hour, and by that dim light, the
paleness, which chased away the natural hues from either cheek, assumed
a yet more ashy and ghastly whiteness. Yet their brows were erect and
dauntless--their limbs did not tremble--their lips were compressed and
rigid. The religion of the one, the pride of the other, the conscious
innocence of both, and, it may be, the support derived from their mutual
companionship, elevated the victim into the hero.
'Hark! hearest thou that shout They are growling over their human
blood,' said Olinthus.
'I hear; my heart grows sick; but the gods support me.'
'The gods! O rash young man! in this hour recognize only the One God.
Have I not taught thee in the dungeon, wept for thee, prayed for
thee?--in my zeal and in my agony, have I not thought more of thy
salvation than my own?'
'Brave friend!' answered Glaucus, solemnly, 'I have listened to thee
with awe, with wonder, and with a secret tendency towards conviction.
Had our lives been spared, I might gradually have weaned myself from the
tenets of my own faith, and inclined to thine; but, in this last hour it
were a craven thing, and a base, to yield to hasty terror what should
only be the result of lengthened meditation. Were I to embrace thy
creed, and cast down my father's gods, should I not be bribed by thy
promise of heaven, or awed by thy threats of hell? Olinthus, no! Think
we of each other with equal charity--I honoring thy sincerity--thou
pitying my blindness or my obdurate courage. As have been my deeds,
such will be my reward; and the Power or Powers above will not judge
harshly of human error, when it is linked with honesty of purpose and
truth of heart. Speak we no more of this. Hush! Dost thou hear them
drag yon heavy body through the passage? Such as that clay will be ours
soon.'
'O Heaven! O Christ! already I behold ye!' cried the fervent Olinthus,
lifting up his hands; 'I tremble not--I rejoice that the prison-house
shall be soon broken.'
Glaucus bowed his head in silence. He felt the distinction between his
fortitude and that of his fellow-sufferer. The heathen did not tremble;
but the Christian exulted.
The door swung gratingly back--the gleam of spears shot along the walls.
'Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come,' said a loud and clear voice;
'the lion awaits thee.'
'I am ready,' said the Athenian. 'Brother and co-mate, one last
embrace! Bless me--and farewell!'
The Christian opened his arms--he clasped the young heathen to his
breast--he kissed his forehead and cheek--he sobbed aloud--his tears
flowed fast and hot over the features of his new friend.
'Oh! could I have converted thee, I had not wept. Oh! that I might say
to thee, "We two shall sup this night in Paradise!"'
'It may be so yet,' answered the Greek, with a tremulous voice. 'They
whom death part not, may meet yet beyond the grave: on the earth--on the
beautiful, the beloved earth, farewell for ever!--Worthy officer, I
attend you.'
Glaucus tore himself away; and when he came forth into the air, its
breath, which, though sunless, was hot and arid, smote witheringly upon
him. His frame, not yet restored from the effects of the deadly
draught, shrank and trembled. The officers supported him.
'Courage!' said one; 'thou art young, active, well knit. They give thee
a weapon! despair not, and thou mayst yet conquer.'
Glaucus did not reply; but, ashamed of his infirmity, he made a
desperate and convulsive effort, and regained the firmness of his
nerves. They anointed his body, completely naked, save by a cincture
round the loins, placed the stilus (vain weapon!) in his hand, and led
him into the arena.
And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and tens of thousands
upon him, he no longer felt that he was mortal. All evidence of
fear--all fear itself--was gone. A red and haughty flush spread over
the paleness of his features--he towered aloft to the full of his
glorious stature. In the elastic beauty of his limbs and form, in his
intent but unfrowning brow, in the high disdain, and in the indomitable
soul, which breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude,
his lip, his eye--he seemed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal,
of the valor of his land--of the divinity of its worship--at once a hero
and a god!
The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime, which had greeted his
entrance, died into the silence of involuntary admiration and
half-compassionate respect; and with a quick and convulsive sigh, that
seemed to move the whole mass of life as if it were one body, the gaze
of the spectators turned from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object in
the centre of the arena. It was the grated den of the lion!
'By Venus, how warm it is!' said Fulvia; 'yet there is no sun. Would
that those stupid sailors could have fastened up that gap in the
awning!'
'Oh! it is warm, indeed. I turn sick--I faint!' said the wife of Pansa;
even her experienced stoicism giving way at the struggle about to take
place.
The lion had been kept without food for twenty-four hours, and the
animal had, during the whole morning, testified a singular and restless
uneasiness, which the keeper had attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet
its bearing seemed rather that of fear than of rage; its roar was
painful and distressed; it hung its head--snuffed the air through the
bars--then lay down--started again--and again uttered its wild and
far-resounding cries. And now, in its den, it lay utterly dumb and mute,
with distended nostrils forced hard against the grating, and disturbing
with a heaving breath, the sand below on the arena.
The editor's lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he looked anxiously
around--hesitated--delayed; the crowd became impatient. Slowly he gave
the sign; the keeper, who was behind the den, cautiously removed the
grating, and the lion leaped forth with a mighty and glad roar of
release. The keeper hastily retreated through the grated passage
leading from the arena, and left the lord of the forest--and his prey.
Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture at
the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raised
on high, in the faint hope that one well-directed thrust (for he knew
that he should have time but for one) might penetrate through the eye to
the brain of his grim foe.
But, to the unutterable astonishment of all, the beast seemed not even
aware of the presence of the criminal.
At the first moment of its release it halted abruptly in the arena,
raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impatient sighs;
then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on the Athenian. At half-speed
it circled round and round the space, turning its vast head from side to
side with an anxious and perturbed gaze, as if seeking only some avenue
of escape; once or twice it endeavored to leap up the parapet that
divided it from the audience, and, on failing, uttered rather a baffled
howl than its deep-toned and kingly roar. It evinced no sign, either of
wrath or hunger; its tail drooped along the sand, instead of lashing its
gaunt sides; and its eye, though it wandered at times to Glaucus, rolled
again listlessly from him. At length, as if tired of attempting to
escape, it crept with a moan into its cage, and once more laid itself
down to rest.
The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion soon grew
converted into resentment at its cowardice; and the populace already
merged their pity for the fate of Glaucus into angry compassion for
their own disappointment.
The editor called to the keeper.
'How is this? Take the goad, prick him forth, and then close the door
of the den.'
As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment, was preparing to
obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; there
was a confusion, a bustle--voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking
forth, and suddenly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned in wonder at
the interruption, towards the quarter of the disturbance; the crowd gave
way, and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair
disheveled--breathless--heated--half-exhausted. He cast his eyes
hastily round the ring. 'Remove the Athenian,' he cried; 'haste--he is
