Again rich perfumes were wafted around the theatre; the attendants sprinkled fresh sand over the arena.

“Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian,” said the aedile.

And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest and intense (yet strange to say not unpleasing) terror lay like a mighty and awful dream over the assembly.

* * * * *

The door swung gratingly back—­the gleam of spears shot along the wall.

“Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come,” said a loud and clear voice; “the lion awaits thee.”

“I am ready,” said the Athenian.  “Brother and co-mate, one last embrace!  Bless me—­and farewell!”

The Christian opened his arms; he clasped the young heathen to his breast; he kissed his forehead and cheek; he sobbed aloud; his tears flowed fast and hot over the features of his new friend.

“Oh! could I have converted thee, I had not wept.  Oh that I might say to thee, ‘We two shall sup this night in Paradise!’”

“It may be so yet,” answered the Greek with a tremulous voice, “They whom death parts now may yet meet beyond the grave; on the earth—­oh! the beautiful, the beloved earth, farewell for ever!  Worthy officer, I attend you.”

Glaucus tore himself away; and when he came forth into the air, its breath, which though sunless was hot and arid, smote witheringly upon him.  His frame, not yet restored from the effects of the deadly draught, shrank and trembled.  The officers supported him.

“Courage!” said one; “thou art young, active, well knit.  They give thee a weapon! despair not, and thou mayst yet conquer.”

Glaucus did not reply; but ashamed of his infirmity, he made a desperate and convulsive effort and regained the firmness of his nerves.  They anointed his body, completely naked save by a cincture round the loins, placed the stilus (vain weapon!) in his hand, and led him into the arena.

And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and tens of thousands upon him, he no longer felt that he was mortal.  All evidence of fear, all fear itself, was gone.  A red and haughty flush spread over the paleness of his features; he towered aloft to the full of his glorious stature.  In the elastic beauty of his limbs and form; in his intent but unfrowning brow; in the high disdain and in the indomitable soul which breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude, his lip, his eye,—­he seemed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal, of the valor of his land; of the divinity of its worship:  at once a hero and a god!

The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime which had greeted his entrance died into the silence of involuntary admiration and half-compassionate respect; and with a quick and convulsive sigh, that seemed to move the whole mass of life as if it were one body, the gaze of the spectators turned from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object in the centre of the arena.  It was the grated den of the lion.