“But Lydon is not disheartened.  By Pollux! how well he keeps his temper!  See how dextrously he avoids those hammer-like hands!—­dodging now here, now there—­circling round and round.  Ah, poor Lydon! he has it again.”

“Three to one still on Tetraides!  What say you, Lepidus?”

“Well—­nine sestertia to three—­be it so!  What! again Lydon.  He stops—­he gasps for breath.  By the gods, he is down!  No—­he is again on his legs.  Brave Lydon!  Tetraides is encouraged—­he laughs loud—­he rushes on him.”

“Fool—­success blinds him—­he should be cautious.  Lydon’s eye is like a lynx’s!” said Clodius, between his teeth.

“Ha, Clodius! saw you 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!  Lydon 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—­habet!—­habet!”

“Habet!” repeated Pansa.  “Take them out and give them the armor and swords.” ...

While the contest in the amphitheatre had thus commenced, there was one in the loftier benches for whom it had assumed indeed a poignant, a stifling interest.  The aged father of Lydon, 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.  Once amid 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 had turned paler, and his limbs trembled.  But he had uttered one low cry when he saw him victorious; unconscious, alas! of the more fearful battle to which that 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—­Lydon 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 Lydon!  He started, and bent down, with straining eyes and clasped hands, to view the encounter.

The first interest was attracted toward the combat of Niger with Sporus; for this spectacle 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.