antagonists were now locked in each other’s grasp—­the hand of each seeking the throat of the other—­the face drawn back—­the fierce eyes flashing—­the muscles strained—­the veins swelled—­the lips apart—­the teeth set—­both were strong beyond the ordinary power of men, both animated by relentless wrath; they coiled, they wound, around each other; they rocked to and fro—­they swayed from end to end of their confined arena—­they uttered cries of ire and revenge—­they were now before the altar—­now at the base of the column where the struggle had commenced:  they drew back for breath—­Arbaces leaning against the column—­Glaucus a few paces apart.

‘O ancient goddess!’ exclaimed Arbaces, clasping the column, and raising his eyes toward the sacred image it supported, ’protect thy chosen—­proclaim they vengeance against this thing of an upstart creed, who with sacrilegious violence profanes thy resting-place and assails thy servant.’

As he spoke, the still and vast features of the goddess seemed suddenly to glow with life; through the black marble, as through a transparent veil, flushed luminously a crimson and burning hue; around the head played and darted coruscations of livid lightning; the eyes became like balls of lurid fire, and seemed fixed in withering and intolerable wrath upon the countenance of the Greek.  Awed and appalled by this sudden and mystic answer to the prayer of his foe, and not free from the hereditary superstitions of his race, the cheeks of Glaucus paled before that strange and ghastly animation of the marble—­his knees knocked together—­he stood, seized with a divine panic, dismayed, aghast, half unmanned before his foe!  Arbaces gave him not breathing time to recover his stupor:  ‘Die, wretch!’ he shouted, in a voice of thunder, as he sprang upon the Greek; ’the Mighty Mother claims thee as a living sacrifice!’ Taken thus by surprise in the first consternation of his superstitious fears, the Greek lost his footing—­the marble floor was as smooth as glass—­he slid—­he fell.  Arbaces planted his foot on the breast of his fallen foe.  Apaecides, taught by his sacred profession, as well as by his knowledge of Arbaces, to distrust all miraculous interpositions, had not shared the dismay of his companion; he rushed forward—­his knife gleamed in the air—­the watchful Egyptian caught his arm as it descended—­one wrench of his powerful hand tore the weapon from the weak grasp of the priest—­one sweeping blow stretched him to the earth—­with a loud and exulting yell Arbaces brandished the knife on high.  Glaucus gazed upon his impending fate with unwinking eyes, and in the stern and scornful resignation of a fallen gladiator, when, at that awful instant, the floor shook under them with a rapid and convulsive throe—­a mightier spirit than that of the Egyptian was abroad!—­a giant and crushing power, before which sunk into sudden impotence his passion and his arts.  It woke—­it stirred—­that Dread Demon of the Earthquake—­laughing