The aedile paused, and proclaimed aloud that as Niger’s wound disabled him from again entering the arena, Lydon was to be the successor to the slaughtered Nepimus and the new combatant of Eumolpus.

“Yet, Lydon,” added he, “if thou wouldst decline the combat with one so brave and tried, thou mayst have full liberty to do so.  Eumolpus 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 honorable death; if thou conquerest, out of my own purse I will double the stipulated prize.”

The people shouted applause.  Lydon 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 aedile!” he replied, in a firm and deep tone, “I shrink not from this combat.  For the honor of Pompeii, I demand that one trained by its long-celebrated lanista shall do battle with this Roman.”

The people shouted louder than before.

“Four to one against Lydon!” said Clodius to Lepidus.

“I would not take twenty to one!  Why, Eumolpus is a very Achilles, and this poor fellow is but a tyro!”

Eumolpus gazed hard on the face of Lydon:  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 praetor by one of the attendants of the arena; he removed the cincture—­glanced over it for a moment—­his countenance betrayed surprise and embarrassment.  He re-read 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.  Eumolpus had at first won their favor; but the gallantry of Lydon, and his well-timed allusion to the honor of the Pompeiian lanista, had afterward given the latter the preference in their eyes.

“Holla, old fellow!” said Medon’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!  At him again, Lydon!—­they stop to breathe!  What art thou muttering, old boy?”

“Prayers!” answered Medon, with a more calm and hopeful mien 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, Lydon!”