Sporus 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 writhed 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 retiarius 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, there glared upon him but merciless and unpitying eyes.

Hushed was the roar—­the murmur!  The silence was dread, for in 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 combat 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 retiarius was not a weapon to inflict instant and certain death, there stalked into the arena a grim and fatal form, brandishing a short, sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed beneath its visor.  With slow and measured step 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 Eumolpus 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 settled 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.  Eumolpus 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.