 Book 4 Chapter 16 of Last Days of Pompeii. The sorrow of Boone companions for our afflictions, the dungeon, and its victims. It was now late on the third and last day of the trial of Glaucous and Olympus, a few hours after the court had broken up and judgment been given, a small party of the fashionable youth at Pompeii were assembled round the fastidious board of Lepidus. So Glaucous denies his crime to the last, said Claudius. Yes, but the testimony of Arbisces was convincing. He saw the blow given, answered Lepidus. What could have been the cause? Why, the priest was a gloomy and sullen fellow. He probably rated Glaucous soundly about his gay life and gaming habits, and ultimately swore, he would not consent to his marriage with Ioni. High words arose. Glaucous seems to have been full of the passionate God, and struck in sudden exasperation. The excitement of wine, the desperation of abrupt remorse, brought on the delirium under which he suffered for some days. And I can readily imagine, poor fellow, that yet confused by that delirium, he is even now unconscious of the crime he committed. Such at least is the shrewd conjecture of Arbisces, who seems to have been most kind and forebearing in his testimony. Yes, he has made himself generally popular by it, but in consideration of these extenuating circumstances, the Senate should have relaxed the sentence. And they would have done so but for the people, but they were outrageous. The priest had spared no pains to excite them, and they imagined the ferocious brutes, as Glaucous was a rich man and a gentleman, that he was likely to escape. And therefore they were inveterate against him, and doubly resolved upon his sentence. It seems by some accident or other that he was never formally enrolled as a Roman citizen, and thus the Senate is deprived of the power to resist the people, though after all there was but a majority of three against him. Oh! the chaian! He looks sadly altered, but how composed and fearless! Hey! we shall see if his firmness will last over to-morrow. But what maritan courage, when that aesthetical how and olinthus manifested the same? The blasphemer. Yes, celepidus, with pious wrath. No wonder that one of the decurrients was, but two days ago struck dead by lightning in a serene sky. The gods feel vengeance against Pompey, while the vile desecrator is alive within its walls. What so lenient was the Senate, that had he but expressed his penitence and scattered a few grains of incense on the altar of Cybelle, he would have been let off. I doubt whether these Nazarenes, had they the state religion, would be as tolerant to us, supposing we had kicked down the image of their deity, blasphemed their rights, and denied their faith. They give Glaucous one chance in consideration of the circumstances. They allow him, against the lion, the use of the same stylus wherewith he smote the priest. Hast thou seen the lion? Hast thou looked at his teeth and fangs, and wilt thou call that a chance? Why, sword and buckler would be mere reed and papyrus against the rush of the mighty beast. No, I think the true mercy has been not to leave him long in suspense, and it was therefore fortunate for him, that our benign laws are slow to pronounce but swift to execute, and that the games of the amphitheater had been, by a sort of providence, so long since fixed for to-morrow. He who awaits death dies twice. As for the atheist, said Claudius, he is to cope the grim tiger naked-handed. Well these combats are past betting on, who will take the odds? A peel of laughter announced the ridicule of the question. Poor Claudius, said the host, I to lose a friend is something, but to find no one to bet on the chance of his escape is a worse misfortune to thee. Why it is provoking! It would have been some consolation to him and to me to think he was useful to the last. The people, said the grave pancer, are all delighted with the result. They were so much afraid the sports of the amphitheater would go off without a criminal for the beasts. And now to get to such criminals is indeed a joy for the poor fellows. They work hard. They ought to have some amusement. The poor speaks the popular pancer, who never moves without a string of clients as long as an Indian triumph. He is always preting on about the people. God's! He will end by being a gracas. Certainly I am no insolent patrician, said pancer, with a generous air. Well, observed Lepidus, it would have been assuredly dangerous to have been merciful on the eve of a beast-fight. If ever I, though a Roman, bred and born, come to be tried, pray Jupiter that there may be either no beasts in the vivaria or plenty of criminals in the girl, and pray, said one of the party, what has become of that poor girl whom Glaucus was to have married, a widow without being a bride? That is hard. Oh! returned Claudius, she is safe under the protection of her guardian, Arbisces. It was natural she should go to him when she had lost both lover and brother. By sweet Venus Glaucus was fortunate among the women. They say the rich Julia was in love with him. A mere fable, my friend, said Claudius coxcomically. I was with her to-day. If any feeling of the sort she ever conceived, I flatter myself that I have consoled her. Hush, gentlemen, said pancer, do not know that Claudius is employed at the house of Diomed in blowing hard at the torch. It begins to burn, and will soon shine bright on the shrine of Hyman. Is it so? said Lepidus. What? Claudius, become a married man. Fie! Never fear," answered Claudius, old Diomed is delighted at the notion of marrying his daughter to a nobleman, and will come down largely with the Cesterces. You will see that I shall not lock them up in the atrium. It will be a white day for his jolly friends when Claudius marries an Arras. Say you so, cried Lepidus, come, then, a full cup to the health of the fair Julia. While such was the conversation, one not discordant to the tone of mind common among the dissipated of that day, and which might perhaps a century ago have found an echo in the looser circles of Paris, while such, I say, was the conversation in the gaudy triclinium of Lepidus far different to the scene which scowled before the young Athenian. After his condemnation, Glaucus was admitted no more to the gentle guardianship of Salast, the only friend of his distress. He was led along the forum till the guards stopped at a small door by the side of the Temple of Jupiter. You may see the place still. The door opened in the centre, in a somewhat singular fashion revolving round on its hinges, as it were, like a modern turn-style, so as only to leave half the threshold open at the same time. Through this narrow aperture they thrust the prisoner, placed before him a loaf and a pitcher of water, and left him to darkness, and, as he thought, to solitude. So suddenly had been that revolution of fortune which had prostrated him from the palmy height of youthful pleasure and successful love to the lowest abyss of ignominy and the horror of the most bloody death that he could scarcely convince himself that he was not held in the meshes of some fearful dream. His elastic and glorious frame had triumphed over a potion, the greater part of which he had fortunately not drained. He had recovered sense and consciousness, but still a dim and misty depression clung to his nerves and darkened his mind. His natural courage and the Greek nobility of pride enabled him to vanquish all unbecoming apprehension and, in the judgment court, to face his awful lot with a steady mean and unquailing eye. But the consciousness of innocence scarcely sufficed to support him when the gaze of men no longer excited his haughty valor, and he was left loneliness and silence. He felt the damps of the dungeon sink chillingly into his enfeebled frame. He, the fastidious, the luxurious, the refined, he who had hitherto braved no hardship and known no sorrow, beautiful bird that he was. Why had he left his far and sunny climb, the olive groves of his native hills, the music of immemorial streams? Why had he wantoned on his glittering plumage amidst these harsh and ungenial strangers, dazzling the eyes with his gorgeous hues, charming the ear with his blithesome song, thus suddenly to be arrested, caged in darkness, a victim and a prey, his gay flights forever over, his hymns of gladness forever stilled, the poor Athenian. His very faults, the exuberance of a gentle and joyous nature, how little had his past career fitted him for the trials he was destined to undergo. The hoots of the mob, amidst whose plaudits he had so often guided his graceful car and bounding steeds, still rang gratingly in his ear. The cold and stony faces of former friends, the comates of merry revels still rose before his eye. None now were by to soothe, to sustain, the admired, the agulated stranger. These walls opened but on the dread arena of a violent and shameful death. And Ione, of her too, he had heard not. No encouraging word, no pitying message. She too had forsaken him, she believed him guilty. And of what crime? The murder of a brother. He ground his teeth, he groaned aloud, and ever and on a sharp fear shot across him. In that fell and fierce delirium, which had so unaccountably seized his soul, which had so ravaged the disordered brain, might he not, indeed, unknowing to himself have committed the crime of which he was accused? Yet as the thought flashed upon him it was as suddenly checked. For amidst all the darkness of the past he thought distinctly to recall the dim grove of Cybele, the upward face of the pale dead, the paws that he had made beside the corpse, and the sudden shock that felled him to the earth. He felt convinced of his innocence. And yet who, to the latest time, long after his mangled remains were mingled with the elements would believe him guiltless or uphold his fame? As he recalled his interview with Arbyses, and the causes of revenge which had been excited in the heart of that dark and fearful man, he could not but believe that he was the victim of some deep-laid and mysterious snare, the clue and train of which was lost in attempting to discover. And Ioni Arbyses loved her. Might his rival's success be founded upon his ruin? That thought cut him more deeply than all, and his noble heart was more stung by jealousy than appalled by fear. Again he groaned aloud. A voice from the recess of the darkness answered that burst of anguish. Who, it said, is my companion in this awful hour? Athenian Glaucous, is it thou? So indeed they called me in mine hour of fortune. They may have other names for me now. And thy name, stranger, is Oland this thy co-mate in the prison as the trial. What? He whom they call the atheist? Is it the injustice of men that has taught thee to deny the providence of the gods? Alas! answered Olanthus. Thou, not I, art the true atheist, for thou deniesst the soul true God, the unknown one to whom thy Athenian fathers erected an altar. It is in this hour that I know my God. He is with me in the dungeon. His smile penetrates the darkness. On the eve of death my heart whispers immortality, and earth recedes for me but to bring the weary soul nearer unto heaven. Tell me, said Glaucous abruptly, did I not hear thy name coupled with that of opacities in my trial? Does thou believe me guilty? God alone reads the heart, for my suspicion rested not upon thee. On whom, then? Thy accuser, Arbyses. Ha! Thou cheerest me! And wherefore? Because I know the man's evil breast, and he had caused to fear him who is now dead. With that Olanthus proceeded to inform Glaucous of those details which the reader already knows. The conversion of opacities. The plan they had proposed for the detection of the impostors of the Egyptian upon the youthful weaknesses of the proselyte. Therefore concluded Olanthus. Had the deceased encountered Arbyses, reviled his treasons and threatened detection, the place, the hour, might have favoured the wrath of the Egyptian, and passion and craft alike dictated the fatal blow. It must have been so, cried Glaucous joyfully. I am happy. Yet what, O unfortunate, avails to thee now the discovery? Thou art condemned and fated, and in thine innocence thou wilt perish. But I shall know myself guiltless! And in my mysterious madness I had fearful though momentary doubts. Yet tell me, man of strange creed, thinkest thou that for small errors or for ancestral faults we are forever abandoned and accursed by the powers above whatever name thou allot us to them? It is just, and abandons not his creatures for their mere human frailty. God is merciful, and curses none but the wicked who repent not. Yet it seemeth to me, as if in the divine anger, I had been smitten by a sudden madness, a supernatural and solemn frenzy wrought not by human means. There are demons on earth," answered the Nazarene fearfully, as well as there are God and his Son in heaven, and since thou acknowledges not the last, the first may have had power over thee. Glaucus did not reply, and there was a silence for some minutes. At length, the Athenian said, and it changed and soft and half-hesitating voice, Christian, believe us thou among the doctrines of thy creed, that the dead live again, that they who have loved here are united hereafter, that beyond the grave our good name shines pure from the mortal mists that unjustly dim it in this grosside world, and that the streams which are divided by the desert and the rock meet in the solemn Hades, and flow once more into one. Believe I that? Oh Athenian, no! I do not believe. I know! And it is that beautiful and blessed assurance which supports me now. Oh Sileen! continued all in this passionately, bride of my heart, torn from me in the first month of our nuptials, shall I not see thee yet, and ere many days be past. Welcome, death, that will bring me to heaven and thee! There was something in the sudden burst of human affection which struck a kindred chord in the soul of the Greek. He felt, for the first time, a sympathy greater than mere affliction between him and his companion. He crept nearer towards Olanthus, for the Italians, fierce in some points, were not unnecessarily cruel at others. They spared the separate cell and the superfluous chain, and allowed the victims of the arena the sad comfort of such freedom and such companionship as the prison would afford. Yes, continued the Christian with holy fervour, the immortality of the soul, the resurrection, the reunion of the dead is the great principle of our creed, the great truth a god suffered death itself to attest and proclaim. No fabled Elysium, no poetic orcus, but a pure and radiant heritage of heaven itself is the portion of the good. Kill me, then, thy doctrines, and expound to me thy hopes, said Glaucus earnestly. Olanthus was not slow to obey that prayer, and there, as often times in the early ages of the Christian creed, it was in the darkness of the dungeon, and over the approach of death, that the dawning gospel shed its soft and consecrating rays. CHAPTER XII. A CHANCE FOR Glaucus. The hours passed in lingering torture over the head of Nydia from the time in which she had been replaced in herself. Socia, as if afraid he should be again outwitted, had refrained from visiting her until late in the morning of the following day, and then he but thrust in the periodical basket of food and wine, and hastily reclosed the door. That day rolled on, and Nydia felt herself pent, barred, inexorably confined, when that day was the judgment day of Glaucus, and when her release would have saved him. Yet knowing, almost impossible as seemed her escape, that the sole chance for the life of Glaucus rested on her, this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely susceptible as she was, resolved not to give away to a despair that would disable her from seizing whatever opportunity might occur. She kept her senses whenever, beneath the whirl of intolerable thought, they reeled and tottered. Nay, she took food and wine that she might sustain her strength, that she might be prepared. She revolved scheme after scheme of escape, and was forced to dismiss all. Yet Socia was her only hope, the only instrument with which she could tamper. He had been superstitious in the desire of ascertaining whether he could eventually purchase his freedom. Blessed gods, might he not be won by the bribe of freedom itself? Was she not nearly rich enough to purchase it? Her slender arms were covered with bracelets, the presence of Ioni, and on her neck she yet wore that very chain which, it may be remembered, had occasioned her jealous quarrel with Glaucus, and which she had afterwards promised vainly to wear forever. She waited burningly till Socia should again appear. But as hour after hour passed, and he came not, she grew impatient. Every nerve beat with fever. She could endure the solitude no longer. She groaned. She shrieked aloud. She beat herself against the door. Her cries echoed along the hall, and Socia, in pivish anger, hastened to see what was the matter, and silence his prisoner, if possible. Ho, ho, what is this? said he surlyly. Young slave, if thou screamest out thus, we must gag thee again. My shoulders will smart for it if thou art heard by my master. Kind Socia chide me not. I cannot endure to be so long alone, answered Nidia. The solitude appalls me. Sit with me, I pray, a little while. Nay, fear not that I should attempt to escape. Place thy seat before the door. Keep thine eye on me. I will not stir from this spot. Socia, who was a considerable gossip himself, was moved by this address. He pitied one who had nobody to talk with. It was his case, too. He pitied and resolved to relieve himself. He took the hint of Nidia, placed a stool before the door, leaned his back against it, and replied, I am sure I do not wish to be churlish, and so far as a little innocent chat goes, I have no objection to indulge you. But mind, no tricks, no more conjuring. No, no. Tell me, dear Socia, what is the hour? It is already evening. The goats are going home. Oh, gods, how went the trial? Both condemned. Nidia repressed the shriek. Well, well, I thought it would be so. When do they suffer? Tomorrow in the amphitheater. If it were not for thee, little wretch, I should be allowed to go with the rest and see it. Nidia leaned back for some moments. Nature could endure no more. She had fainted away. But Socia did not perceive it, for it was dusk of Eve, and he was full of his own privations. He went on lamenting the loss of so delightful a show and accusing the injustice of our bosses for singling him out from all his fellows to be converted into a jailer. And ere he had half finished, Nidia, with a deep sigh, recovered the sense of life. Thou siest blind one at my loss. Well, that is some comfort. So long as you acknowledge how much you cost me, I will endeavor not to grumble. It is hard to be ill-treated and yet not pitied. Socia, how much does thou require to make up the purchase of thy freedom? How much? Why, about 2,000 cesterces. The gods be praised, not more? Siest thou these bracelets and this chain? They are well worth double that some. I will give them thee if tempt me not. I cannot release thee. Our bosses is a severe and awful master. Who knows but I might feed the fishes of the Sarnus Alice. All the cesterces in the world would not buy me back into life. Better a live dog than a dead lion. Socia, thy freedom! Think well! If thou wilt let me out only for one little hour, let me out at midnight. I will return ere tomorrow's dawn. Nay, thou canst go with me. No, said Socia sturdily. A slave once disobeyed our bosses and he was never more heard of. But the law gives a master no power over the life of a slave. The law is very obliging but more polite than efficient. I know that our bosses always gets the law on his side. Besides, if I am once dead, what law can bring me to life again? Nidia wrung her hands. Is there no hope then? said she convulsively. None of escape till our bosses gives the word. Well then, said Nidia quickly, thou wilt not at least refuse to take a letter for me. Thy master cannot kill thee for that. To whom? The Praetor. To a magistrate? No, not I. I should be made a witness in court for what I know, and the way they cross examine the slaves is by torture. Pardon, I meant not the Praetor. It was a word that escaped me unawares. I meant quite another person, the gay saloost. Oh, and what want you with him? Glaucus was my master. He purchased me from a cruel lord. He alone has been kind to me. He is to die. I shall never live happily if I cannot in his hour of trial and doom let him know that one heart is grateful to him. Saloost is his friend. He will convey my message. I am sure he will do no such thing. Glaucus will have enough to think of between this and tomorrow without troubling his head about a blind girl. Man, said Nidia, rising, wilt thou become free? Thou hast to be offer in thy power. Tomorrow it will be too late. Never was freedom more cheaply purchased. Thou canst easily and unmist leave home. Less than half an hour will suffice for thine absence. And for such a trifle wilt thou refuse liberty? Socia was greatly moved. It was true that the request was remarkably silly. But what was that to him? So much the better. He could lock the door on Nidia, and if Arbace should learn his absence, the offence was venial and would merit but a reprimand. Yet, should Nidia's letter contain something more than what she had said, should it speak of her imprisonment, as he shrewdly conjectured it would do, what then? It need never be known to Arbace that he had carried the letter. At the worst, the bribe was enormous, the risk light, the temptation irresistible. He hesitated no longer. He assented to the proposal. Give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter. Yet stay, thou art a slave, thou hast no right to these ornaments. They are thy masters. They were the gifts of Glaucus. He is my master. What chance hath he to claim them? Who else will know they are in my possession? Enough, I will bring me the papyrus. No, not papyrus, a tablet of wax and a stylus. Nidia, as the reader will have seen, was born of gentle parents. They had done all to lighten her calamity, and her quick intellect seconded their exertions. Despite her blindness, she had therefore acquired in childhood, though imperfectly, the art to write with a sharp stylus upon wax and tablets, in which her exquisite sense of touch came to her aid. The tablets were brought to her. She thus painfully traced some words in Greek, the language of her childhood, in which almost every Italian of the higher ranks was then supposed to know. She carefully wound round the epistle the thread, and covered its knot with wax. And ere she placed it in the hands of Socia, she thus addressed him, Socia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to deceive me. Thou mayst pretend only to take the letter to Salus. Thou mayst not fulfill thy charge. But here I solemnly dedicate thy head to vengeance, thy soul to the infernal powers, if thou wrongest thy trust. And I call upon thee to place thy right hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these words. By the ground on which we stand, by the elements which contain life and can curse life, by Orcus, the All-Avenging, by the Olympian Jupiter, the All-Seeing, I swear that I will honestly discharge my trust, and faithfully deliver into the hands of Salus this letter. And if I perjure myself in this oath, may the full curses of heaven and hell be wreaked upon me. Enough, I trust thee, take thy reward. It is already dark, depart at once. Thou art a strange girl, and thou hast frightened me terribly. But it is all very natural, and if Salus does to be found, I give him this letter as I have sworn. By my faith I may have my little peccadillos, but perjury know. I leave that to my bedders. With this, Socia withdrew, carefully passing the heavy bolt at Thwart Nidia's door, carefully locking its wards. And hanging the key to his girdle, he retired to his own den, enveloped himself from head to foot in a huge disguising cloak, and slipped out by the back way, undisturbed and unseen. The streets were thin and empty. He soon gained the house of Salus. The porter bade him leave his letter and be gone, for Salus was so bereaved at the condemnation of Glaucus that he could not on any account be disturbed. Nevertheless, I have sworn to give this letter into his own hands. Do so I must. And Socia, while knowing by experience that Cerberus loves a soff, thrusts some half a dozen cestercies into the hand of the porter. Well, well, said the latter, relenting, you may enter if you will, but to tell you the truth, Salus does drinking himself out of his grief. It is his way when anything disturbs him. He orders a capital supper, the best wine, and does not give over till everything is out of his head but the liquor. An excellent plan. Ah, what it is to be rich. If I were Salus, I would have some grief or another every day. But just say a kind word for me with the atreensis. I see him coming. Salus was too sad to receive company. He was too sad also to drink alone. So, as was his want, he admitted his favorite freedman to his entertainment. And a stranger banquet never was held. Before ever in a non, the kind-hearted epicure sighed, whimpered, wept outright, and then turned with double zest to some new dish or his refilled goblet. My good fellow, said he to his companion, it was a most awful judgment. Hi-ho! It is not bad that, kid, eh? Poor dear Glaucus, what a jaw the lion has, too. Ah, ah, ah! And Salus sobbed loudly. The fit was stopped by a counteraction of hiccups. Take a cup of wine, said the freedman. A thought too cold. But then how cold Glaucus must be! Shut up the house to-morrow. Not a slave shall stir forth. None of my people shall honor that cursed arena. No, no. Taste the falernian. Your grief distracts you. By the gods it does. A piece of that cheesecake. It was at this auspicious moment that Socia was admitted to the presence of the disconsolate carouser. Ho! What art thou? Merely a messenger to Salus. I give him this billet from a young female. There is no answer that I know of. May I withdraw? Thus said the discreet Socia, keeping his face muffled in his cloak, and speaking with a feigned voice, so that he might not hereafter be recognized. By the gods, a pimp, unfeeling wretch, do you not see my sorrows? Go and the curses of pandarus with you. Socia lost not a moment in retiring. Will you read the letter, Salus? said the freedman. Letter? Which letter? said the epicure, reeling, for he began to see double. A curse on these wenches, say I. Am I a man to think of, pick up, pleasure when, when my friend is going to be eat up? Eat another tartlet. No, no, my grief chokes me. Take him to bed, said the freedman, and Salus's head now declining fairly on his breast, they bore him off to his cubiculum, still muttering lamentations for glaucus and imprecations on the unfeeling overtures of ladies of pleasure. Meanwhile Socia strode indignantly homeward. Pimp indeed, quote he to himself. Pimp, a scurvy-tongued fellow that saluced, had I been called nave or thief, I could have forgiven it. But pimp, fa, there is something in the word which the toughest stomach in the world would rise against. A nave is a nave for his own pleasure, and a thief, a thief for his own profit. And there is something honorable and philosophical in being a rascal for one's own sake. That is doing things upon principle, upon a grand scale. But a pimp is a thing that defiles itself for another, a pimpkin that is put on the fire for another man's potage, a napkin that every guest wipes his hands upon, and the scullion says, buy your leave to a pimp. I would rather he had called me parasite. But the man was drunk and did not know what he said, and besides I disguised myself. Had he seen it had been Sosia who addressed him, it would have been honest Sosia and worthy man I warrant. Nevertheless the trinkets have been won easily, that some comfort. And oh, goddess Faronia, I shall be a freedman soon, and then I should like to see who will call me pimp, unless indeed he paid me pretty handsomely for it. While Sosia was soliloquizing in this high-minded and generous vein, his path lay along a narrow lane that led towards the amphitheater and its adjacent palaces. Suddenly as he turned a sharp corner, he found himself in the midst of a considerable crowd. Men, women, and children all were hurrying or laughing, talking gesticulating, and, ere he was aware of it, the worthy Sosia was born away with the noisy stream. What now? he asked of his nearest neighbor, a young artificer. What now? There are all these good folks thronging. Does any rich patron give away alms or vians tonight? Not so, man, better still, replied the artificer. The noble panza, the people's friend, has granted the public leave to see the beasts in their vivaria. By Hercules they will not be seen so safely by some persons tomorrow. Tis a pretty sight, said the slave, yielding to the throng that impelled him onward. And since I may not go to the sports tomorrow, I may as well take a peep at the beasts tonight. You will do well, returned his new acquaintance. A lion and a tiger are not to be seen at Pompeii every day. The crowd had now entered a broken and wide space of ground, on which, as it was only lighted scantily and from a distance, the press became dangerous to those whose limbs and shoulders were not fitted for a mom. Nevertheless the women especially, many of them with children in their arms or even at the breast, were the most resolute in forcing their way, and their shrill exclamations of complaint or objugation were heard loud above the more jovial and masculine voices. Yet amidst them was a young and girlish voice that appeared to come from one too happy in her excitement to be alive to the inconvenience of the crowd. Aha! cried the young woman to some of her companions. I always told you so. I always said we should have a man for the lion, and now we have one for the tiger, too. I wish tomorrow were calm. Ho, ho, for the merry, merry show, with a forest of faces in every row. Lo, the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alchimena, sweep side by side or the hushed arena. Talk while you may, you will hold your breath when they meet in the grasp of the glowing death. Tramp, tramp, how gaily they go! Ho, ho, for the merry, merry show! A jolly girl, said Socia. Yes, replied the young artificer, a curly-headed, handsome youth. Yes, replied he, enviously, the women love a gladiator. If I had been a slave, I would have soon found my school master in the Lannista. Would you indeed, said Socia, with a sneer, people's notions differ. The crowd had now arrived at the place of destination, but as the cell in which the wild beasts were confined was extremely small and narrow, tenfold more vehement than it hitherto had been was the rush of the aspirants to obtain admittance. Two of the officers of the amphitheater, placed at the entrance, very wisely mitigated the evil by dispensing to the foremost only a limited number of tickets at a time and admitting no new visitors till their predecessors had sated their curiosity. Socia, who was a tolerably stout fellow and not troubled with any remarkable scruples of diffidence or good breeding, contrived to be among the first of the initiated. Separated from his companion, the artificer, Socia found himself in a narrow cell of oppressive heat and atmosphere and lighted by several rank and flaring torches. The animals, usually kept in different vivaria or dens, were now, for the greater entertainment of the visitors, placed in one, but equally indeed divided from each other by strong cages protected by iron bars. There they were, the fell and grim wanderers of the desert, who have now become almost the principal agents of this story. The lion, who, as being the more gentle by nature than his fellow beast, had been more incited to ferocity by hunger, stalked restlessly and fiercely to and fro his narrow confines. His eyes were lurid with rage and famine, and as every now and then, he paused and glared round, the spectators fearfully pressed backward and drew their breath more quickly. But the tiger lay quiet and extended at full length in his cage, and only by an occasional play of his tail, or a long, impatient yawn, testified any emotion at his confinement, or at the crowd which honored him with their presence. I have seen no fiercer beast than yawn lion, even in the amphitheater of Rome, said a gigantic and sinewy fellow who stood at the right hand of Socia. I feel humbled when I look at his limbs, replied at the left of Socia, a slighter and younger figure, with his arms folded on his breast. The slave looked first at one, and then at the other. Virtus in medio, virtue is ever in the middle, muttered he to himself, a goodly neighborhood for these Socia, a gladiator on each side. That is well said, Leiden, returned the huger gladiator. I feel the same. And to think, observed Leiden, in a tone of deep feeling, to think that the noble Greek, he whom we saw but a day or two since before us, so full of youth and health and joyousness, is to feast yawn monster. Why not, growled Niger savagely? Many an honest gladiator has been compelled to a like combat by the emperor. Why not a wealthy murderer by the law? Leiden's side shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. Meanwhile the common gazers listened with staring eyes and lips apart. The gladiators were objects of interest as well as the beasts. They were animals of the same species. So the crowd glanced from one to the other, the men in the brutes, whispering their comments and anticipating the moral. Well, said Leiden, turning away, I think the gods, it is not the lion or the tiger I am to contend with. Even you, Niger, are a gentler combatant than they. But equally dangerous, said the gladiator, with a fierce laugh, and the bystanders, admiring his vast limbs and ferocious countenance, laughed, too. That as it may be, answered Leiden carelessly as he pressed through the throng and quitted the den. I may as well take advantage of his shoulders, thought the prudent sosia, hastening to follow him. The crowd always give way to a gladiator, so I will keep close behind and come in for a share of his consequence. The son of Meadon strove quickly through the mob, many of whom recognized his features and profession. That is young Leiden, a brave fellow, he fights tomorrow, said one. Ah, I have a bet on him, said another. See how firmly he walks. Good luck to thee, Leiden, said a third. Leiden, you have my wishes. Half whispered a fourth, smiling, a comely woman of the middle class. And if you win, why, you may hear more of me. A handsome man by Venus cried a fifth, who was a girl scarce in her teens. Thank you, returned sosia, gravely taking the compliment to himself. More strong the purer motives of Leiden, and certain though it be that he would never have entered so bloody a calling but from the hope of obtaining his father's freedom, he was not altogether unmoved by the notice he excited. He forgot that the voices now raised in commendation might on the morrow shout over his death pangs. By nature, fierce and reckless, as well as generous and warm-hearted, he was already imbued with the pride of a profession that he fancied he disdained and affected by the influence of a companionship that in reality he loathed. He saw himself now a man of importance. His step grew yet lighter, and his mean more elate. Niger, said he, turning suddenly, as he had now threaded the crowd, we have often quarreled. We are not matched against each other, but one of us at least may reasonably expect to fall. Give us thy hand. Most readily, said Socia, extending his palm. Ha! What fool is this? Why, I thought Niger was on my heels. I forgive the mistake, replied Socia condescendingly. Don't mention it. The error was easy. I and Niger are somewhat of the same build. Ha! Ha! That is excellent. Niger would have slit thy throat had he heard thee. Two gentlemen of the arena have a most disagreeable mode of talking, said Socia. Let us change the conversation. Va! Va! said Leiden impatiently. I am in no humor to converse with thee. Why truly, returned the slave, you must have serious thoughts enough to occupy your mind. Tomorrow is, I think, your first assay in the arena. Well I am sure you will die bravely. May thy words fall on thine own head, said Leiden superstitiously, for he by no means liked the blessing of Socia. Die! No! I trust my hour is not yet come. He who plays at dice with death must expect the dog's throw, replied Socia maliciously, but you are a strong fellow, and I wish you all imaginable luck, and so volley. With that the slave turned on his heel, and took his way homeward. I trust the rogue's words are not ominous, said Leiden musingly. In my zeal for my father's liberty, and my confidence in my own thues and sinews, I have not contemplated the possibility of death. My poor father, I am thy only son, if I were to fall. As the thought crossed him, the gladiator strode on with a more rapid and restless pace, when suddenly, in an opposite street, he beheld the very object of his thoughts. Leaning on his stick, his form bent by care and age, his eyes downcast and his steps trembling, the gray-haired midan slowly approached towards the gladiator. Leiden paused a moment, he divined at once the cause that brought forth the old man at that late hour. He sure it is I whom he seeks, thought he. He is horror-struck at the condemnation of Olympus. He more than ever esteems the arena criminal and hateful. He comes again to dissuade me from the contest. I must shun him. I cannot brook his prayers, his tears. These thoughts, so long to recite, flashed across the young man like lightning. He turned abruptly and fled swiftly in an opposite direction. He paused not till, almost spent in breathless, he found himself on the summit of a small aclivity, which overlooked the most gay and splendid part of that miniature city. And as there he paused and gazed along the tranquil streets glittering in the rays of the moon, which had just arisen, and brought partially and picturesquely into light the crowd around the amphitheater at a distance, murmuring and swaying to and fro. The influence of the scene affected him, rude and unimaginative though his nature. He sat himself down to rest upon the steps of a deserted portico, and felt the calm of the hour quiet and restore him. Opposite and near at hand, the lights gleamed from a palace in which the master now held his revels. The doors were open for coolness, and the gladiator beheld the numerous and festive group gathered round the tables in the atrium. While behind them, closing the long vista of the illumined rooms beyond, the spray of the distant fountains sparkled in the moon beams. There the garlands wreathed around the columns of the hall. There gleamed still infrequent the marble statue. There amidst peals of jock and laughter rose the music and the lay. Epicurean Song Away with your stories of Hades, which the flamin' has forged to affrite us, we laugh at your three maiden ladies, your fates and your sullen coquitas. Poor Job has a troublesome life, sir, could we credit your tales of his portals, in shutting his ears on his wife, sir, and opening his eyes upon mortals. O, blessed be the bright Epicurus, who taught us to laugh at such fables! On Hades they wanted to mour us, and his hand cut the terrible cables. If then there's a Job or a Juno, they vex not their heads about us man, besides, if they did, I and you know, it is the life of a God to live thus man. What, think you that gods place their bliss, ay, in playing the spy on a sinner, in counting the girls that we kiss, ay, or the cups that we empty at dinner? Content with the soft lips that love us, this music, this wine, and this mirth-boys, we care not for gods up above us. We know there's no God for this earth-boys. While Leiden's piety, which accommodating as it might be, was in no slight degree disturbed by these verses, which embodied the fashionable philosophy of the day, slowly recovered itself from the shock it had received, a small party of men in plain garments and of the middle class passed by his resting place. They were in earnest conversation and did not seem to notice or heed the gladiator as they moved on. Oh, horror on horrors, said one, olyntus is snatched from us. Our right arm is lopped away. When will Christ descend to protect his own? Can human atrocity go farther, said another, to sentence an innocent man to the same arena as a murderer? But let us not despair. The thunder of Sinai may yet be heard, and the Lord preserve his saint. The fool hath said in his heart there is no God. At that moment outbroke again from the illumined palace the burden of the revelers' song. We care not for gods up above us. We know there's no God for this earth-boys. ere the words died away, the Nazarenes, moved by sudden indignation, cut up the echo, and in the words of one of their favorite hymns shouted aloud, the warning hymn of the Nazarenes, around, about, forever near thee, God, our God, shall mark and hear thee. On his car of storm he sweeps, bow ye heavens, and shrink ye deeps. Woe to the proud ones who defy him, woe to the dreamers who deny him, woe to the wicked, woe. The proud stars shall fail. The sun shall grow pale. The heavens shrivel up like a scroll. Hell's ocean shall bear its depths of despair, each wave an eternal soul. For the only thing, then, that shall not live again, is the corpse of the giant time. Hark! The trumpet of thunder, low earth rent asunder, and forth on his angel throne he comes through the gloom, the judge of the tomb, to summon and save his own. O joy to care and woe to crime, he comes to save his own. Woe to the proud ones who defy him, woe to the dreamers who deny him, woe to the wicked, woe. A sudden silence from the startled hall of revel succeeded these ominous words. The Christians swept on and were soon hidden from the sight of the gladiator. Odd, he scarce knew why, by the mystic denunciations of the Christians, lied in after a short pause, now rose to pursue his way homeward. Before him, House serenely slept the starlight on that lovely city, how breathlessly its pillared streets reposed in their security, how softly rippled the dark green waves beyond, how cloudless spread aloft in blue the dreaming companion skies. Yet this was the last night for the gay Pompeii. The colony of the Hork Caldean, the fabled city of Hercules, the delight of the voluptuous Roman, age after age had rolled indestructive unheeded over its head, and now the last rake quivered on the dial plate of its doom. The gladiator heard some light steps behind. A group of females were wending homeward from their visit to the amphitheater. As he turned, his eye was arrested by a strange and sudden apparition. In the summit of Vesuvius, darkly visible in the distance, there shot a pale, meteoric, livid light. It trembled an instant and was gone. At the same moment that his eye caught it, the voice of one of the youngest of the women broke out hilariously in shrill. Tramp! Tramp! How gaily they go! Ho! Ho! For the Maros Mary show! End of book four. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit www.librivox.org. The Last Days of Pompeii by Edward George Boulwa-Lytton. Book the fifth. Chapter one. The dream of Arbacus. A visitor and a warning to the Egyptian. The awful night preceding the fierce joy of the amphitheatre rolled drearily away and gaily broke forth the dawn of the last day of Pompeii. The air was uncommonly calm and sultry, a thin and dull mist gathered over the valleys and hollows of the broad companion fields. But yet it was remarked in surprise by the early fishermen that, despite the exceeding stillness of the atmosphere, the waves of the sea were agitated and seemed, as it were, to run disturbedly back from the shore. While along the blue and stateless sarnus whose ancient breath of channeled the traveller now vainly seeks to discover, the crepte horse and sullen murmur as a glided by the laughing planes and the gaudy villas of the wealthy citizens. Near above the low mist rose the time-worn towers of the immemorial town, the red-tiled roofs of the bright streets, the solemn columns of many temples, and the static crowned portals of the Forum and the Arch of Triumph. Far in the distance the outline of the cycling hills soared above the vapours and mingled with the changeful hues of the morning sky. The cloud that had so long rested over the crest of Vesuvius had suddenly vanished and its rugged and haughty brow looked without a frown over the beautiful scenes below. Despite the earliness of the hour, the gates of the city were already opened. Horsemen upon horsemen, vehicle after vehicle, poured rapid lane, and the voices of numerous pedestrian groups, clad in holiday tire, rose high in joyous and excited merriment. The streets were crowded with citizens and strangers from the populous neighbourhood of Pompeii, and noisily, fast, confusedly swept the many streams of life towards the fatal show. Despite the vast size of the amphitheatre, seemingly so disproportioned to the extent of the city, and formed to include nearly the whole population of Pompeii itself, so great, on extraordinary occasions, was the concourse of strangers from all parts of Campania, that the space before it was usually crowded for several hours previous to the commencement of the sports, but such persons as were not entitled by their rank to appointed and special seats. And the intense curiosity which the trial and sentence of two criminals so remarkable has occasioned increased the crowd on this day to an extent wholly unprecedented. While the common people were the lively vehemence of their companion blood, with us pushing, scrambling, hurrying on, yet amidst all their eagerness, preserving, as is now the wound with Italians in such meetings, a wonderful order and uncorrelsome good humour, a strange visitor to our barcus was threading her way to his sequestered mansion. At the sight of her quaint and primeval garb, of her wild gait and gestures, the passengers she encountered touch each other and smiled. But as the quarter glimpse of her countenance, the mirth was hushed at once, for the face was as the face of the dead. And what were the ghastly features and obsolete robes of the stranger, it seemed as if one long entombed had risen once more amongst the living. In silence and awe, each group gave way as she passed along, and she soon gained the broad porch of the Egyptian's palace. The black porter, like the rest of the world, as stir at an unusual hour, started as he opened the door to her summons. The sleep of the Egyptian had been usually profound during the night, but as the dawn approached it was disturbed by strange and unquiet dreams which impressed him the more as they were coloured by the peculiar philosophy he embraced. He thought that he was transported to the bowels of the earth, and that he stood alone in a mighty cavern supported by enormous columns of rough and primeval rock, lost as they ascended in the vastness of a shadow, a thought whose eternal darkness, now beam of day, had ever glanced. And in the space between these columns were huge wheels that whirled round and round unceasingly and with a rushing and roaring noise. Only to the right and left extremities of the cavern, the space between the pillars was left bare, and the apertures stretched away into galleries, not wholly dark, but dimly lighted by wandering and erratic fires that meteor-like now crept as the snake creeps along the rugged dank soil and now leaped fiercely to and fro, darting across the vast gloom in wild gambles, suddenly disappearing and as suddenly bursting into tenfold prelancy and power. And while he gazed wanderingly upon the gallery to the left, thin mist-like aerial shapes passed slowly up, and when they had gained a hole, they seemed to rise aloft and to vanish as the smoke vanishes in the majoless ascent. He turned in fear towards the opposite extremity, and behold, they came swiftly from the gloom above similar shadows, which swept hurriedly along the gallery to the right as if born involuntarily at down the sides of some invisible stream, and the faces of these specters were more distinct than those that emerged from the opposite passage, and on some was joy, and on others sorrow. Some were vivid with expectation and hope, some unutterably dejected by awe and horror, and so they passed, swift and constantly on, till the eyes of the gaze ergrew dizzy and blinded with the whirl of a never-varying succession of things impelled by a power apparently not their own. Our barkers turned away, and in the recess of the hole he saw the mighty form of a giantess seated upon a pile of skulls, and her hands were busy upon a pale and shadowy woof, and he saw that the woof communicated with the numblest wheels as if it guided the machinery of their movements. He thought his feet, by some secret agency, were impelled towards the female, and that he was born onwards till he stood before her face to face. The countenance of the giantess was solemn and hushed and beautiful as serene. It was as the face of some colossal sculpture of his own ancestral sphinx. No passion, no human emotion, disturbed its brooding and unwrinkled brow. There was neither sadness, nor joy, nor memory, nor hope. It was free from all with which the wild human heart can sympathize. The mystery of mysteries rested on its beauty. It awed, but terrified not. It was the incarnation of the sublime. And Abarkus felt the voice leave his lips without an impulse of his own, and the voice asked, Who art thou, and what is thy task? I am that which thou hast acknowledged, answered without desisting from its work the mighty phantom. My name is nature. These are the wheels of the world, and my hand guides them for the life of all things. And what, said the voice of Abarkus, are these galleries, that strangely and fitfully illumined, stretch on neither hand into their base of glue? That, answered the giant mother, which thou beheldest to the left, is the gallery of the unborn. The shadows that float onward and upward into the world are the souls that pass from the long eternity of being to their destined pilgrimage on earth. That, which thou beheldest to thy right, were in the shadows descending from above, sweep on equally unknown and dim, is the gallery of the dead. And, wherefore, said the voice of Abarkus, young wandering lights, that so wildly break the darkness, but on the break not reveal. Dark fool of the human sciences, dreamer of the stars, and would-be decipher of their heart and origin of things. Those lights, but the glimmerings of such knowledge, as a slouch safe to nature, to work her way, to trace enough of the past and future, to give providence to her designs. Judge then, puppet of thou art, what lights are reserved for thee. Abarkus felt himself tremble as he asked again, Wherefore am I here? It is the forecast of thy soul, the pre-science of their Russian doom, the shadow of thy fate, lengthening into eternity as declines from earth. Ere Higdansa, Abarkus felt a rushing wind, sweep down the cavern as the winds of a giant god. Born aloft from the ground and whirled on high, as a leaf in the storms of autumn, he beheld himself in the midst of the spectres of the dead, and hurrying with them along the length of gloom. As in vain and impotent despair, he struggled against the impelling power, he thought the wind grew into something like a shape, a spectral outline of the wings and talons of an eagle, with limbs floating far and indistinctly along the air, and eyes that, alone clearly and vividly seen, glared stonely and remorselessly on his own. What art thou, again said the voice of the Egyptian, I am that which thou hast acknowledged, and the spectre laughed aloud, and my name is necessity. To what dost thou bear me, to the unknown, to happiness or to woe? As thou hast so known, so shall shall read. Dread thing not so, if thou art the ruler of life, thine are my misdeeds, not mine. I am but the breath of God. Answered the mighty wind. Then is my wisdom vain? Growns the dreamer. The husband man accusers not fate, when having sown thistles, he reads not corn. Thou hast sown crime, accuse not fate, if thou rebast not the harvest of virtue. The scene suddenly changed. Abarkas was in a place of human bones, and lo, in the midst of them was a skull, and the skull still retaining its fleshless hollows, assumed slowly, and in the mysterious confusion of a dream, the face of herpesidus. And forth from the grinning jaws, they crept a small worm, and it crawled to the feet of Abarkas. He attempted to stamp on it and to crush it, but it became longer and larger with that attempt. It swelled and bloated, till it grew into a vast serpent. It coiled itself round the limbs of Abarkas. It crunched his bones. It raised its glaring eyes, and poisonous jaws to his face. He writhed in vain. He withered. He gasped. Beneath the influence of the blighting breath, he felt himself blasted into death. And then a voice came from the reptile, which still bore the face of apesidus, and rang in his reeling ear. Thou victim is thy judge. The world thou wouldst crush becomes the servant that devours thee. With a shriek of wroth and woe, and despairing resistance, Abarkas awoke. His hair on end, his brow bathed in dew, his eyes glazed and staring, his mighty frame quivering as an infant. Beneath the agony of that dream, he awoke. He collected himself. He blessed the gods whom he disbelieved that he was in a dream. He turned his eyes from side to side. He saw the dawning lights break through his small but lofty window. He was in the precincts of day. He rejoiced. He smiled. His eyes fell. And opposite to him, he beheld the ghastly features, the lifeless eye, the levered lip of the hag of Vesuvius. He cried, placing his hands before his eyes as to shut out the grizzly vision. Do I dream still? Am I with the dead? My dear Hermes, no. Thou art with one deathlike, but not dead. Recognize thy friend and slave. There was a long silence. Slowly the shutters that passed over the limbs of the Egyptian chased each other away, faintly and faintly dying, till he was himself again. It was a dream then, said he. Well, let me dream no more, or the day cannot compensate for the pangs of night. Woman, how camest thou here, and wherefore? I came to warn thee. Answered the sepulchral voice of the saga. Warn me, the dream lied not then, of what peril? Listen to me. Some evil hangs over this fated city. Fly while at be time. Thou knowest that I hold my home on that mountain beneath which old tradition saith, There yet burn the fires of the river of Fledgerton. And in my cavern is a vast abyss. And in that abyss I have of late marked a red and dull stream creep slowly, slowly on, and heard many and many sounds hissing and roaring through the gloom. But last night, as I looked thereon, behold, the stream was no longer dull, but immensely and fiercely luminous. And while I gazed, the beast that liveth with me, and was covering by my side, uttered a shrill howl, and fell down, and died, and the slaver, and froth, and froth were round his lips. I crept back to my lair, but I distinctly heard, all the night, the rock shake and tremble. And though the air was heavy and still, there were the hissing of pen twins, and the grinding as of wheels beneath the ground. So when I rose this morning at the very birth of dawn, I looked again down the abyss, and saw vast fragments of stone, born black and floatingly over the lurid stream. And the stream itself was broader, fiercer, redder than the night before. Then I went forth, and ascended the summit of the rock. And in that summit, there appeared a sudden and vast hollow, which I had never perceived before, from which curled a dim, faint smoke. And the vapour was deathly, and I gasped, and sickened, and nearly died. I returned home. I took my gold, and my drugs, and left the habitation of many years. For I remember the dark Etruscan prophecy, which saith, When the mountain opens, the city shall fall. When the smoke crowns the hill of the parched fields, there shall be woe, and weeping in the hearths of the children of the sea. Dreadmaster, ere I leave these walls for some more distant dwelling, I come to thee. As thou livest, know I in my heart that the earthquake, that sixteen years ago shook the city to its solid base, was but the forerunner of more deadly doom. The walls of Pompeii are built above the fields of the dead, and the rivers of the sleepless hell be warned and fly. Which, I thank thee for thy care, of one not ungrateful, on yon table stands a cup of gold, take it, it is thine. I dreamt not that there lived one out of the priesthood of Isis, who'd have saved our barkers from destruction. The signs that thou hast seen in the bed of the extinct volcano continue the Egyptian musingly, surely tell of some coming danger to the city, perhaps another earthquake, fiercer than the last. Be that as it may, there is a new reason for my hastening from these walls. After this day, I will prepare my departure, daughter of Atruria, with a wendist thou. I shall cross over to Herculaneum this day, and wandering thence along the coast, shall seek out a new home. I am friendless. My two companions, the fox and the snake, are dead. Great Hermes, thou hast promised me 20 additional years of life. I, said the Egyptian, I have promised thee, but woman, he added lifting himself upon his arm, and gazing curiously on her face. Tell me, I pray thee, wherefore thou wishes to live? What sweets does thou discover in existence? It is not life that is sweet, but death that is awful, replied the hag, in a sharp, impressive tone that struck forcibly upon the heart of the vain starseer. He winced at the truth of the reply, at no longer anxious to retain, so uninviting a companion, he said, Time, wanes, I must prepare for the solemn spectacle of this day. Sister, farewell, enjoy thyself as thou canst over the ashes of life. The hag who had placed the costly gift of Arbacus in the loose folds of her vest now rose to depart, which had gained the door she paused, turned back and said, This may be the last time we meet on earth, but wither flyeth the flame when it leaves the ashes, wandering to and fro up and down as an exhalation on the morass, the flame may be seen in the marshes of the lake below, and the witch and the magian, the pupil and the master, the great one and the accursed one may meet again. Farewell. Out croaker, muttered Arbacus as the door closed on the hag's tattered robes, and impatient of his own thoughts, not yet recovered from the past dream, he hastily summoned his slaves. It was the custom to attend the ceremonials of the amphitheater in festive robes, and Arbacus arrayed himself that day with more than usual care. His tunic was of the most dazzling white. His many fibulae were formed from the most precious stones. Over his tunic flowed a loose eastern robe, half gown, half mantle, glowing in the richest hues of the Tyrian dye, and the sandals that reached half way up his knee were studded with gems, and inlaid with gold. In the quackeries that belonged to his priestly genius, Arbacus never neglected, on great occasions, the arts which dazzle and impose upon the vulgar. And on this day, that was forever to release him by the sacrifice of Glaucus, from the fear of arrival and the chance of a detection, he felt that he was arraying himself as for a triumph or a nuptial feast. It was customary for men of rank to be accompanied to the shows of the amphitheater by a procession of their slaves and freedmen, and the long family of Arbacus were already arranged in order to attend the litter of their lord, only to their great chagrin the slaves in attendance on Ioni and the worthy Socia, as Jailer to Nidia, were condemned to remain at home. Kallus, said Arbacus, apart to his freedmen, who was buckling on his girdle, I am weary of Pompeii. I propose to quit it in three days, should the wind favour. Thy knowest the vessel that lies in the harbour, which belonged to Narses of Alexandria, I have purchased it of him. The day after tomorrow we shall begin to remove my stores. So soon, Tiswell, Arbacus shall be obeyed, and his ward Ioni, accompanies me. Enough! Is the morning fair? Dim and oppressive. It will probably be intensely hot in the forenoon. The poor gladiators, and more wretched criminals, descend and see that the slaves are marshalled. Left alone, Arbacus stepped in his chamber of study, and thence upon the portico without. He saw the dense masses of men pouring fast into the amphitheater, and heard the cry of their assistants, and the cracking of the cordage, as they were straining aloft the huge awning unto which the citizens, molested by no discomforting ray, were to behold, at luxurious ease, the agonies of their fellow creatures. Suddenly a wild strange sound went forth, and as suddenly died away, it was the roar of the lion. There was a silence in the distant crowd, but the silence was followed by joyous laughter. They were making merry at the hungry impatience of the royal beast. Brutes, muttered the disdainful Arbacus. Are ye less homicides than I am? I slay, but in self-defense, ye make murder past time. He turned with a restless and curious eye towards Vesuvius. Beautifully glow the green vineyards round its breast, and tranquil as eternity lay in the breathless skies the form of the mighty hell. We have time yet if the earthquake be nursing, thought Arbacus, and he turned from the spot. He passed by the table which bore his mystic scrolls and Chaldean calculations. August's art, he thought, I have not consulted thy decrees since I passed the danger and the crisis they foretold. What matter? I know that henceforth all in my path is bright and smooth. Have not events already proved it? A way doubt, a way petty. Reflect on my heart, reflect for the future, but to images, empire, and Ioni. OF LAST DAYS OF POMPEI This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton, Book 5, Chapter 2, The Amphitheater Nydia, assured by the account of Socia on his return home and satisfied that her letter was in the hands of Sallust, gave herself up once more to hope. Sallust would surely lose no time in seeking the Prador, in coming to the house of the Egyptian, in releasing her, in breaking the prison of Calanus. That very night Glaucus would be free. Alas, the night passed, the dawn broke. She heard nothing but the hurried footsteps of the slaves along the hall in Peristyle and their voices in preparation for the show. By and by the commanding voice of Arbases broke on her ear. A flourish of music rung out cheerily. The long procession were sweeping to the Amphitheater to glut their eyes on the death pangs of the Athenian. The procession of Arbases moved along slowly and with much solemnity till now, arriving at the palace where it was necessary for such as came in litters or chariots to a light, Arbases descended from his vehicle and proceeded to the entrance by which the more distinguished spectators were admitted. His slaves, mingling with the humbler crowd, were stationed by officers who received their tickets, not much unlike our modern opera ones, in places in the Popularia, the seats apportioned to the vulgar. And now, from the spot where Arbases sat, his eyes scant the mighty and impatient crowd that filled the stupendous theater. On the upper tier, but apart from the male spectators, sat women, their gay dresses resembling some gaudy flower bed. It is needless to add that they were the most talkative part of the assembly, and many were the looks directed up to them, especially from the benches appropriated to the young and unmarried men. On the lower seats round the arena sat the more high-born and wealthy visitors, the magistrates and those of senatorial or equestrian dignity. The passages which, by corridors at the right and left, gave access to these seats at either end of the oval arena were also the entrances for the combatants. Strong palings at these passages prevented any unwelcome eccentricity in the movements of the beasts and confined them to their appointed prey. Around the parapet which was raised above the arena and from which the seats gradually rose were gladiatorial inscriptions and paintings wrought in fresco, typical of the entertainments for which the place was designed. Throughout the whole building wound invisible pipes, from which, as the day advanced, cooling and fragrant showers were to be sprinkled over the spectators. The officers of the amphitheater were still employed in the task of fixing the vast awning, or velaria, which covered the whole and which luxurious invention the companions irrigated to themselves. It was woven of the whitest apulean wool and variegated with broad stripes of crimson. Owing either to some inexperience on the part of the workmen or to some defect in the machinery, the awning, however, was not arranged that day so happily as usual. Indeed, from the immense space of the circumference, the task was always one of great difficulty and art. So much so, that it could seldom be adventured in rough or windy weather. But the present day was so remarkably still that there seemed to the spectators no excuse for the awkwardness of the artificers. And when a large gap in the back of the awning was still visible, from the obstinate refusal of one part of the velaria to ally itself with the rest, the murmurs of discontent were loud in general. The ideley panza, at whose expense the exhibition was given, looked particularly annoyed at the defect and vowed bitter vengeance on the head of the chief officer of the show, who, fretting, puffing, perspiring, busied himself in idle orders and unavailing threats. The hubbub ceased suddenly. The operators desisted. The crowd were stilled. The gap was forgotten. For now, with a loud and warlike voice, and warlike flourish of trumpets, the gladiators, marshaled in ceremonious procession, entered the arena. They swept round the oval space very slowly and deliberately in order to give the spectators full leisure to admire their stern serenity of feature, their brawny limbs and various arms, as well as to form such wagers as the excitement of the moment might suggest. Oh! cried the widow Falvia to the wife of panza, as they leaned down from their lofty bench. Do you see that gigantic gladiator? How droly he is dressed! Yes, said the ideley's wife, with complacent importance, for she knew all the names and qualities of each combatant. He is a raterious or netter. He is armed only, you see, with a three-pronged spear like a trident and a net. He wears no armor, only the fillet and the tunic. He is a mighty man and is to fight with spores, yon thick-set gladiator, with the round shield and drawn sword, but without body armor. He has not his helmet on now, in order that you may see his face, how fearless it is. By and by he will fight with his visor down. But surely a net and spear are poor arms against a shield and sword? That shows how innocent you are, my dear fulvia. The raterious has generally the best of it. But who is yon handsome gladiator, nearly naked? Is it not quite improper? By Venus, but his limbs are beautifully shaped. It is Leiden, a young untried man. He has the rashness to fight yon other gladiator, similarly dressed, or rather undressed, tetraides. They fight first in the Greek fashion with the cestus. Afterwards they put on armor and try sword and shield. He is a proper man, this Leiden, and the women I am sure are on his side. So are not the experienced betters. Clodius offers three to one against him. Oh, Jove, how beautiful! exclaimed the widow, as two gladiators, armed capapier, rode round the arena on light and prancing steeds. Resembling much the combatants in the tilts of the middle age, they bore lances and round shields beautifully inlaid. Their armor was woven intricately with bands of iron, but it covered only the thighs and the right arms. Short cloaks, extending to the seat, gave a picturesque and graceful air to their costume. Their legs were naked, with the exception of sandals, which were fastened a little above the ankle. Oh, beautiful! who are these? asked the widow. The one is named Burbix. He has conquered twelve times. The other assumes the arrogant name of Nobiliore. They are both Gauls. While thus conversing, the first formalities of the show were over. To these succeeded a feigned combat with wooden swords between the various gladiators matched against each other. Amongst these the skill of two Roman gladiators, hired for the occasion, was the most admired, and next to them the most graceful combatant was Leiden. This sham contest did not last above an hour, nor did it attract any very lively interest, except among those connoisseurs of the arena to whom art was preferable to more coarse excitement. The body of the spectators were rejoiced when it was over, and when the sympathy rose to terror. The combatants were now arranged in pairs as agreed beforehand, their weapons examined, and the grave sports of the day commenced amidst the deepest silence, broken only by an exciting and preliminary blast of warlike music. It was often customary to begin the sports by the most cruel of all, and some bestiarious or gladiator appointed to the beasts was slain first as an initiatory sacrifice. But in the present instance the experienced panza thought it better that the sanguinary drama should advance not decrease in interest, and accordingly the execution of a lintess and glaucus was reserved for the last. It was arranged that the two horsemen should first occupy the arena, that the foot gladiators paired off should then be loosed indiscriminately on the stage, that glaucus and the lion should next perform their part in the bloody spectacle, and the tiger and the Nazarene be the grand finale. And in the spectacles of Pompeii the reader of Roman history must limit his imagination, nor expect to find those vast and wholesale exhibitions of magnificent slaughter with which a Nero or a Caligula regaled the inhabitants of the imperial city. The Roman shows which absorbed the more celebrated gladiators and the chief portion of foreign beasts were indeed the very reason why in the lesser towns of the empire the sports of the amphitheater were comparatively humane and rare, and in this as in other respects Pompeii was but the miniature the microcosm of Rome. Still it was an awful and imposing spectacle with which modern times have happily nothing to compare, a vast theater rising row upon row and swarming with human beings from fifteen to eighteen thousand in number, intent upon no fictitious representation, no tragedy of the stage, but an actual victory or defeat, the exultant life or the bloody death of each and all who entered the arena. The two horsemen were now at either extremity of the lists, if so they might be called, and at a given signal from Panza the combatants started simultaneously as in full collision, each advancing his round buckler, each poising on high his light yet sturdy javelin, but just when within three paces of his opponent the steed of vervex suddenly halted, wheeled round, and as Nobiliore was born rapidly by his antagonist spurred upon him. The buckler of Nobiliore quickly and skillfully extended received a blow which otherwise would have been fatal. Well done, Nobiliore! cried the prador, giving the first vent to the popular excitement. Bravely struck my vervex, answered Claudius from his seat, and the wild murmur swelled by many a shout echoed from side to side. The visors of both the horsemen were completely closed, like those of the knights in aftertimes, but the head was nevertheless the great point of assault, and Nobiliore, now wheeling his charger with no less adroitness than his opponent, directed his spear full on the helmet of his foe. Vervex raised his buckler to shield himself, and his quick-eyed antagonist, suddenly lowering his weapon, pierced him through the breast. Vervex reeled and fell. Nobiliore! Nobiliore! shouted the populace. I have lost ten Cisternia, said Claudius between his teeth. Habit! he has it, said Pansa deliberately. The populace, not yet hardened into cruelty, made the signal of mercy, but as the attendants of the arena approached they found the kindness came too late. The heart of the gall had been pierced, and his eyes were set in death. It was his life's blood that flowed so darkly over the sand and sawdust of the arena. It is a pity it was so soon over. There was little enough for one's trouble, said the widow Falvia. Yes, I have no compassion for Vervex. Anyone might have seen that Nobiliore did but faint. Mark, they fixed the fatal hook to the body. They dragged him away to the Spoliarium. They scattered new sand over the stage. Pansa regrets nothing more than that he is not rich enough to strew the arena with borax and cinnabar, as Nero used to do. Well, if it had been a brief battle, it has quickly succeeded. See my handsome Leiden in the arena, I in the net-bearer too, and the swordsmen. Oh, charming! There were now on the arena six combatants. Niger and his net matched against Sporus with his shield and his short broadsword. Leiden and Tetraides, naked, saved by a sinker round the waist, he charmed only with a heavy Greek cestus, and two gladiators from Rome clad in complete steel and evenly matched with immense bucklers and pointed swords. The initiatory contest between Leiden and Tetraides, being less deadly than that between the other combatants, no sooner had they advanced to the middle of the arena than, as by common ascent, the rest held back to see how that contest should be decided, and wait till fiercer weapons might replace the cestus ere they themselves commenced hostilities. They stood leaning on their arms, and apart from each other, gazing on the show, which, if not bloody enough thoroughly to please the populace, they were still inclined to admire, because its origin was of their ancestral Greece. No person could, at first glance, have seemed less evenly matched than the two antagonists. Tetraides, though not taller than Leiden, weighed considerably more. The natural size of his muscles was increased, to the eyes of the vulgar, by masses of solid flesh. For, as it was a notion that the contest of the cestus fared easiest with him who was plumpest, Tetraides had encouraged to the utmost his hereditary predisposition to the portly. His shoulders were vast, and his lower limbs, thick set, double-jointed, and slightly curved outward, in that formation which takes so much from beauty to give so largely to strength. But Leiden, except that he was slender even almost to meagerness, was beautifully and delicately proportioned, and the skillful might have perceived that, with much less compass of muscle than his foe, that which he had was more seasoned, iron and compact. In proportion, too, as he wanted flesh, he was likely to possess activity, and a haughty smile on his resolute face, which strongly contrasted the solid heaviness of his enemies, gave assurance to those who beheld it, and united their hope to their pity, so that, despite the disparity of their seeming strength, the cry of the multitude was nearly as loud for Leiden as for Tetraides. Whoever is acquainted with modern cry's ring, whoever has witnessed the heavy and disabling strokes which the human fist skillfully directed, hath the power to bestow, may easily understand how much that happy facility would be increased by a band carried by thongs of leather round the arm as high as the elbow, and terribly strengthened about the knuckles by a plate of iron, and sometimes a plummet of lead. Yet this, which was meant to increase, perhaps rather diminished the interest of the fray. For it necessarily shortened its duration. A very few blows, successfully and scientifically planted, might suffice to bring the contest to a close, and the battle did not, therefore, often allow full scope for the energy, fortitude, and dogged perseverance that we technically style pluck, which not unusually wins the day against superior science, and which heightens to so painful a delight the interest in the battle and the sympathy for the brave. Guard thyself, growled Tetraides, moving nearer and nearer to his foe, who rather shifted round him than receded. Leiden did not answer, saved by a scornful glance of his quick, vigilant eye. Tetraides struck. It was the blow of a smith on a vice. Leiden sank suddenly on one knee. The blow passed over his head. Not so harmless was Leiden's retaliation. He quickly sprung to his feet and aimed his cestus full on the broad chest of his antagonist. Tetraides reeled. The populace shouted. You are unlucky today, said Lepidistus Clodius. You have lost one bet. You will lose another. By the gods, my bronzes go to the auctioneer if that is the case. I have no less than a hundred cisteria upon Tetraides. Ha, ha, see how he rallies. That was a home stroke. He has cut open Leiden's shoulder. A tetraides, a tetraides. But Leiden is not disheartened. By Pollux, how well he keeps his temper. See how dexterously he avoids those hammer-like hands, dodging now here, now there, circling round and round. Ah, poor Leiden, he has it again. Three to one still on Tetraides. What say you, Lepidistus? Well, nine cisteria to three, be it so. What, again Leiden? He stops. He gasps for breath. By the gods, he is down. No, he is again on his legs. Brave Leiden, Tetraides is encouraged. He laughs loud. He rushes on him. Fool, success blinds him. He should be cautious. Leiden's eye is like the lynxes, said Claudius between his teeth. Ha, Claudius, you saw that? Your man totters. Another blow. He falls. He falls. Earth revives him then. He is once more up, but the blood rolls down his face. By the thunderer, Leiden wins it. See how he presses on him. That blow on the temple would have crushed an ox. It has crushed Tetraides. He falls again. He cannot move. Have it, have it. Have it, repeated Panza. Take them out and give them the armor and swords. Noble Editor, said the officers, we fear that Tetraides will not recover in time. How be it, we will try. Do so. In a few minutes, the officers, who had dragged off the stunned and insensible Gladiator, returned with rueful countenances. They feared for his life. He was utterly incapacitated from re-entering the arena. In that case, said Panza, hold Leiden a subjectitious, and the first Gladiator that is vanquished, let Leiden supply his place with the victor. The people shouted their applause at this sentence. Then they again sunk into deep silence. The trumpet sounded loudly. The four combatants stood each against each in prepared and stern array. Does thou recognize the Romans, my Claudius? Are they among the celebrated, or are they merely ordinary? Humulpus is a good second-rate swordsman, my lepidus. Nepimus, the lesser man I have never seen before. But he is the son of one of the imperial fiscales, and brought up in a proper school. Doubtless they will show sport, but I have no heart for the game. I cannot win back my money. I am undone. Curses on that Leiden. Who could have supposed he was so dexterous or so lucky? Well, Claudius, shall I take compassion on you and accept your own terms with these Romans? And even tend Cisternia on Humulpus, then? What, when Nepimus is untried? Nay, nay, that is too bad. Well, ten to eight? Agreed. While the contest in the amphitheater had thus commenced, there was one in the loftier benches for whom it had assumed, indeed, a poignant and stifling interest. The aged father of Leiden, despite his Christian horror of the spectacle, in his agonized anxiety for his son, had not been able to resist being the spectator of his fate. One amidst a fierce crowd of strangers, the lowest rabble of the populace, the old man saw felt nothing but the form the presence of his brave son. Not a sound had escaped his lips when twice he had seen him fall to the earth. Only he turned paler and his limbs trembled. But he had uttered one low cry when he saw him victorious. Unconscious, a last of the more fearful battle to which the victory was but a prelude. My gallant boy, said he, and wiped his eyes. Is he thy son? said a brawny fellow to the right of the Nazarene. He has fought well. Let us see how he does by and by. Hark, he is to fight the first victor. Now, old boy, pray the gods that that victor be neither of the Romans, nor next to them the giant Niger. The old man sat down again and covered his face. The fray for the moment was indifferent to him. Leiden was not one of the combatants. Yet, yet, the thought flashed across him, the fray was indeed of deadly interest. The first who fell was to make way for Leiden. He started and bent down, with straining eyes and clasped hands, to view the encounter. The first interest was attracted towards the combat of Niger with Sporus, for this species of contest, from the fatal result which usually attended it, and from the great science it required in either antagonist, was always peculiarly inviting to the spectators. They stood at a considerable distance from each other. The singular helmet which Sporus wore, the visor of which was down, concealed his face. But the features of Niger attracted a fearful and universal interest from their compressed and vigilant ferocity. Thus they stood for some moments, each eyeing each, till Sporus began slowly and with great caution, to advance, holding his sword pointed like a modern fencers at the breast of his foe. Niger retreated as his antagonist advanced, gathering up his net with his right hand, and never taking his small glittering eye from the movements of the swordsmen. Suddenly, when Sporus had approached nearly at arm's length, the Retearius threw himself forward and cast his net. A quick inflection of body saved the gladiator from the deadly snare. He uttered a sharp cry of joy and rage, and rushed upon Niger. But Niger had already drawn in his net, thrown it across his shoulders, and now fled round the lists with a swiftness which the Secutor in vain endeavored to equal. The people laughed and shouted aloud to see the ineffectual efforts of the broad-shouldered gladiator to overtake the flying giant. When, at that moment, their attention was turned from these to the two Roman combatants. They had placed themselves at the onset, face to face, at the distance of modern fencers from each other. But the extreme caution which both events at first had prevented any warmth of engagement, and allowed the spectators full leisure to interest themselves in the battle between Sporus and his foe. But the Romans were now heated into full and fierce encounter. They pushed, returned, advanced on, retreated from each other with all that careful yet scarcely perceptible caution which characterizes men well experienced and equally matched. But at this moment, Humulpis, the elder gladiator, by that dexterous backstroke which was considered in the arena so difficult to avoid, had wounded nephemists in the side. The people shouted, lepidus turned pale. Ho! said Claudius. The game is nearly over. If Humulpis fights now, the quiet fight, the other will gradually bleed himself away. But, thank the gods, he has not fight the backward fight. See, he presses hard upon nephemists. By Mars, but nephemists had him there. The helmet rang again. Claudius, I shall win. Why do I ever bet but at the dice? Grown Claudius to himself. Or why cannot one cog a gladiator? Osporus! Osporus! shouted the populace, as Niger having now suddenly paused, had again cast his net, and again unsuccessfully. He had not retreated this time with sufficient agility. The sword of Osporus had inflicted a severe wound upon his right leg, and, incapacitated to fly, he was pressed hard by the fierce swordsmen. His great height and length of arm still continued, however, to give him no despicable advantages. And steadily keeping his trident at the front of his foe, he repelled him successfully for several minutes. Osporus now tried by great rapidity of evolution to get round his antagonist, who necessarily moved with pain and slowness. In so doing, he lost his caution. He advanced too near to the giant, raised his arm to strike, and received the three points of the fatal spear full in his breast. He sank on his knee. In a moment more, the deadly net was cast over him. He struggled against its meshes in vain. Again, again, again he rived mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the trident. His blood flowed fast through the net, and redly over the sand. He lowered his arms in acknowledgment of defeat. The conquering Retearius withdrew his net, and, leaning on his spear, looked to the audience for their judgment. Slowly too, at the same moment, the vanquished gladiator rolled his dim and despairing eyes around the theatre. From row to row, from bench to bench, they're glared upon him but merciless and unpitying eyes. Hushed was the roar, the murmur. The silence was dread, for it was no sympathy. Not a hand, no not even a woman's hand, gave the signal of charity and life. Sporus had never been popular in the arena, and lately the interest of the combatant had been excited on behalf of the wounded Niger. The people were warmed into blood. The mimic fight had ceased to charm. The interest had mounted up to the desire of sacrifice and the thirst of death. The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed. He uttered no prayer, no groan. The people gave the signal of death. In dogged but agonized submission, he bent his neck to receive the fatal stroke. And now, as the spear of the Rhetarius was not a weapon to inflict instant and certain death, they're stocked into the arena a grim and fatal form, brandishing a short, sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed beneath his visor. With slow and measured steps, this dismal headsman approached the gladiator, still kneeling, laid the left hand on his humbled crest, drew the edge of the blade across his neck, turned round to the assembly, lest in the last moment remorse should come upon them. The dread signal continued the same. The blade glittered brightly in the air, fell, and the gladiator rolled upon the sand. His limbs quivered, were still. He was a corpse. His body was dragged at once from the arena through the Gate of Death and thrown into the gloomy den, termed technically the Spoliarium. And ere it had well reached that destination, the strife between the remaining combatants was decided. The sword of Umulpus had inflicted the death wound upon the less experienced combatant. A new victim was added to the receptacle of the slain. Throughout that mighty assembly, there now ran a universal movement. The people breathed more freely and resettled themselves in their seats. A grateful shower was cast over every row from the concealed conduits. In cool and luxurious pleasure, they talked over the late spectacle of blood. Umulpus removed his helmet and wiped his brows. His close curled hair and short beard, his noble Roman features and bright dark eye attracted the general admiration. He was fresh, unwounded, unfatigued. The editor paused and proclaimed aloud that, as Niger's wound disabled him from again entering the arena, Leiden was to be the successor to the slaughtered Nepomis and the new combatant of Umulpus. Yet Leiden added he, if thou wouldst decline the combat with one so brave and tried, thou mayst have full liberty to do so. Umulpus is not the antagonist that was originally decreed for thee. Thou knowest best how far thou canst cope with him. If thou failest, thy doom is honourable death. If thou conquerest, out of my own purse I will double the stipulated prize. The people shouted applause. Leiden stood in the lists. He gazed around. High above he beheld the pale face, the straining eyes of his father. He turned away irresolute for a moment. No, the conquest of the Cestus was not sufficient. He had not yet won the prize of victory. His father was still a slave. Noble ideally, he replied in a firm and deep tone, I shrink not from this combat. For the honour of Pompeii, I demand that one trained by its long-celebrated Lannista shall do battle with this Roman. The people shouted louder than before. Four to one against Leiden, said Clodius Telepidus. I would not take twenty to one, why Umulpus is a very Achilles, and this poor fellow is but a Tyro. Umulpus gazed hard at the face of Leiden. He smiled, yet the smile was followed by a slight and scarce audible sigh. A touch of compassionate emotion, which custom conquered the moment the heart acknowledged it. And now both, clad in complete armor, the sword drawn, the visor closed, the two last combatants of the arena, ere man at least was matched with beast, stood opposed to each other. It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the Prador by one of the attendants of the arena. He removed the sink sure, glanced over it for a moment. His countenance betrayed surprise and embarrassment. He reread the letter, and then muttering, Tush, it is impossible. The man must be drunk even in the morning to dream of such follies, threw it carelessly aside, and gravely settled himself once more in the attitude of attention to the sports. The interest of the public was wound up very high. Umulpus had at first won their favor, but the gallantry of Leiden, and his well-timed allusion to the honor of the Pompeii and Lannista, had afterwards given the latter the preference in their eyes. Hola, old fellow, said Meadon's neighbor to him. Your son is hardly matched, but never fear the editor will not permit him to be slain. No, nor the people, neither. He has behaved too bravely for that. Ha! that was a home thrust, well averted by Pollux. Add him again, Leiden. They stopped to breathe. What art thou muttering, old boy? Prayers, answered Meadon, with a more calm and hopeful mean than he had yet maintained. Prayers, trifles, the time for gods to carry a man away in a cloud is gone now. Ha! Jupiter, what a blow! Thy side, thy side, take care of thy side, Leiden. There was a compulsive tremor throughout the assembly. A fierce blow from Umulpus, full on the crest, had brought Leiden to his knee. Habit, he has it! cried a shrill female voice. He has it! It was the voice of the girl who had so anxiously anticipated the sacrifice of some criminal to the beasts. Beasts, silent child, said the wife of Pansa, hodlily. None habit, he is not wounded. I wish he were, if only to spite old Sirly Meadon, muttered the girl. Meanwhile, Leiden, who had hitherto defended himself with great skill and valor, began to give way before the vigorous assaults of the practised Roman. His arm grew tired, his eye dizzy, he breathed hard and painfully. The combatants paused again for breath. Young man, said Umulpus, in a low voice, desist, I will wound thee slightly, then lower thy arms. Thou hast propitiated the editor and the mob, thou wilt be honourably saved. And my father still enslaved, groaned Leiden to himself. No, death or his freedom. At that thought, and seeing that his strength not being equal to the endurance of the Roman, everything depended on a sudden and desperate effort, he threw himself fiercely on Umulpus. The Roman werely retreated. Leiden thrust again. Umulpus drew himself aside. The sword grazed his queerness. Leiden's breast was exposed. The Roman plunged his sword through the joints of the armor, not meaning, however, to inflict a deep wound. Leiden, weak and exhausted, fell forward, fell right on the point. It passed through and through, even to the back. Umulpus drew forth his blade. Leiden still made an effort to regain his balance. His sword left his grasp. He struck mechanically at the gladiator with his naked hand and fell prostrate on the arena. With one accord, editor and assembly made the signal of mercy. The officers of the arena approached. They took off the helmet of the vanquished. He still breathed. His eyes rolled fiercely on his foe. The savageness he had acquired in his calling glared from his gaze and lowered upon the brow darkened already with the shades of death. Then, with a convulsive 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 ideolet. He has done his duty. The officers dragged him off to the Spoliarium. A true type of glory and of its fate murmured our bosses to himself, and his eye, glancing round the amphitheater, 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 theater. The attendance sprinkled fresh sand over the arena. Ring 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. End of book five, chapter two.