The trusty scholar appeared immediately, and under pretence of fetching food, the two neophytes eloped to the amphitheatre.

“What means all this, Porphyry?” demanded Plotinus sternly.  “The City of Philosophers polluted by human blood!  The lovers of wisdom mingling with the dregs of the rabble!”

Porphyry’s account, which Plotinus could only extract by consenting to eat while his disciple talked, corresponded in all essential particulars with that of the two young men.

“And I see not,” added he, “what we can do in the matter.  This abomination is supposed to be in honour of the Emperor’s victories.  If we interfere with it we shall be executed as rebels, supposing that we are not first torn to pieces as rioters.”

“Porphyry,” replied Plotinus, “I should esteem this disgrace to philosophy a disgrace to myself if I did not my utmost to avert it.  Remain thou here, and perform my funeral rites if it be necessary.”

But to this Porphyry would by no means consent, and the two philosophers proceeded to the amphitheatre together.  It was so crowded that there was no room on the seats for another person.  Theocles was enthroned in the chair of honour, his beard manifesting evident traces of the depilatories administered by Leaena, who nevertheless sat by his side, her voluptuous face gloating over the anticipated banquet of agony.  The philosophic part of the spectators were ranged all around, the remaining seats were occupied by a miscellaneous public.  The master of the gladiators, a man of distinguished appearance, whose yellow locks gave him the aspect of a barbarian prince, stood in the arena surrounded by his myrmidons.  The entry of Plotinus and Porphyry attracted his attention:  he motioned to his followers, and in an instant the philosophers were seized, bound, and gagged without the excited assembly being in the least conscious of their presence.

Two men stepped out into the arena, both fine and attractive figures.  The athletic limbs, the fair complexion, the curling yellow hair of one proclaimed the Goth; he lightly swung his huge sword in his right hand, and looked as if his sole arm would easily put to flight the crowd of effeminate spectators.  The other’s beauty was of another sort; young, slender, pensive, spiritual, he looked like anything rather than a gladiator, and held his downward pointed sword with a negligent grasp.

“Guard thyself!” cried the Goth, placing himself in an attitude of offence.

“I spill not the blood of a fellow-creature,” answered the other, casting his sword away from him.

“Coward!” yelled well-nigh every voice in the amphitheatre.

“No,” answered the youth with a grave smile, “Christian.”

His shield and helmet followed his sword, he stood entirely defenceless before his adversary.

“Throw him to my lion,” cried Theocles.

“Or thy lioness,” suggested Hermon.