This allusion to Leaena provoked a burst of laughter.  Suddenly the Goth aimed a mighty blow at the head of the unresisting man.  A shorn curl fell to the ground, the consummate skill of the swordsman averted all further contact between his blade and the Christian, who remained erect and smiling, without having moved a muscle or an eyelash.

“Master,” said the Goth, addressing the lanista, “I had rather fight ten armed men than this unarmed one.”

“Good,” returned his lord, with a gesture of approval.  “Retire both of you.”

A roar of disapprobation broke out from the spectators, which seemed not to produce the slightest effect on the lanista.

“Turn out the next pair,” they cried.

“I shall not,” said he.

“Wherefore?”

“Because I do not choose.”

“Rogue!  Cheat!  Swindler!  Cast him into prison!  Throw him to the lion!” Such epithets and recommendations rained from the spectators’ seats, accompanied by a pelting of more substantial missiles.  In an instant the yellow hair and common dress lay on the ground, and those who knew him not by the features could by the Imperial ornaments recognise the Emperor Gallienus.  With no less celerity his followers, the Goth and the Christian excepted, disencumbered themselves of their exterior vesture, and stood forward in the character of Roman soldiers.

“Friends,” cried Gallienus, turning to the plebeian multitude, “I am not about to balk you of your sport.”

At a sign from him the legionaries ascended to the seats allotted to the philosophic portion of the audience, and a torrent of wisdom in their persons, including that of Leaena, flung forth with the energy of a catapult, descended abruptly and violently to the earth.  They were instantly seized and dragged into an erect attitude by the remainder of the soldiery, who, amid the most tempestuous peals of laughter and applause from the delighted public, thrust swords into their hands, ranged them in opposite ranks, and summoned them to begin the fight and quit themselves like men.  It was equally ludicrous and pitiable to see the bald, mostly grey-bearded men, their garments torn in their expulsion and their persons bruised by the fall, confronting each other with quaking limbs, helplessly brandishing their weapons or feebly calling their adversaries to come on, while the soldiers prodded them from behind with spears, and urged them into the close quarters they so anxiously desired to avoid.  Plotinus, helpless with his bonds and gag, looked on in impotent horror.  Gallienus was often cruel, but could he intend such a revolting massacre?  There must be something behind.