As the keeper, with some fear but more astonishment, was preparing to obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; there was a confusion, a bustle—­voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking forth, and suddenly silenced at the reply.  All eyes turned in wonder at the interruption, toward the quarter of the disturbance; the crowd gave way, and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair disheveled—­breathless—­heated—­half exhausted.  He cast his eyes hastily round the ring.  “Remove the Athenian!” he cried; “haste—­he is innocent!  Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian—­HE is the murderer of Apaecides!”

[Illustration:  IN THE ARENA, Photogravure from a Drawing by Frank Kirchbach.

“Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raised on high, in the faint hope that one well-directed thrust (for he knew that he should have time but for one) might penetrate through the eye to the brain of his grim foe.  But to the unutterable astonishment of all, the beast seemed not even aware of the presence of the criminal.” ]

[Illustration:  Untitled]

“Art thou mad, O Sallust!” said the praetor, rising from his seat.  “What means this raving?”

“Remove the Athenian!—­Quick! or his blood be on your head.  Praetor, delay, and you answer with your own life to the Emperor!  I bring with me the eye-witness to the death of the priest Apaecides.  Room there, stand back, give way.  People of Pompeii, fix every eye upon Arbaces; there he sits!  Room there for the priest Calenus!”

Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of death, his face fallen, his eyes dull as a vulture’s, his broad frame gaunt as a skeleton, Calenus was supported into the very row in which Arbaces sat.  His releasers had given him sparingly of food; but the chief sustenance that nerved his feeble limbs was revenge!

“The priest Calenus—­Calenus!” cried the mob.  “It is he?  No—­it is a dead man!”

“It is the priest Calenus,” said the praetor, gravely.  “What hast thou to say?”

“Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides, the priest of Isis; these eyes saw him deal the blow.  It is from the dungeon into which he plunged me—­it is from the darkness and horror of a death by famine—­that the gods have raised me to proclaim his crime!  Release the Athenian—­he is innocent!”

“It is for this, then, that the lion spared him, A miracle! a miracle!” cried Pansa.

“A miracle! a miracle!” shouted the people; “remove the Athenian—­Arbaces to the lion.”

And that shout echoed from hill to vale—­from coast to sea—­Arbaces to the lion.

“Officers, remove the accused Glaucus—­remove, but guard him yet,” said the praetor.  “The gods lavish their wonders upon this day.”

As the praetor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy:  a female voice, a child’s voice; and it was of joy!  It rang through the heart of the assembly with electric force; it was touching, it was holy, that child’s voice.  And the populace echoed it back with sympathizing congratulation.