The son of Medon strode quickly through the mob, many of whom recognized his features and profession.

‘That is young Lydon, a brave fellow:  he fights to-morrow,’ said one.

‘Ah!  I have a bet on him,’ said another; ‘see how firmly he walks!’

‘Good luck to thee, Lydon!’ said a third.

‘Lydon, you have my wishes,’ half whispered a fourth, smiling (a comely woman of the middle class)—­’and if you win, why, you may hear more of me.’

‘A handsome man, by Venus!’ cried a fifth, who was a girl scarce in her teens.  ‘Thank you,’ returned Sosia, gravely taking the compliment to himself.

However strong the purer motives of Lydon, and certain though it be that he would never have entered so bloody a calling but from the hope of obtaining his father’s freedom, he was not altogether unmoved by the notice he excited.  He forgot that the voices now raised in commendation might, on the morrow, shout over his death-pangs.  By nature fierce and reckless, as well as generous and warm-hearted, he was already imbued with the pride of a profession that he fancied he disdained, and affected by the influence of a companionship that in reality he loathed.  He saw himself now a man of importance; his step grew yet lighter, and his mien more elate.

‘Niger,’ said he, turning suddenly, as he had now threaded the crowd; ’we have often quarrelled; we are not matched against each other, but one of us, at least, may reasonably expect to fall—­give us thy hand.’

‘Most readily,’ said Sosia, extending his palm.

‘Ha! what fool is this?  Why, I thought Niger was at my heels!’

‘I forgive the mistake,’ replied Sosia, condescendingly:  ’don’t mention it; the error was easy—­I and Niger are somewhat of the same build.’

’Ha! ha! that is excellent!  Niger would have slit thy throat had he heard thee!’

‘You gentlemen of the arena have a most disagreeable mode of talking,’ said Sosia; ‘let us change the conversation.’

‘Vah! vah!’ said Lydon, impatiently; ’I am in no humor to converse with thee!’

‘Why, truly,’ returned the slave, ’you must have serious thoughts enough to occupy your mind:  to-morrow is, I think, your first essay in the arena.  Well, I am sure you will die bravely!’

‘May thy words fall on thine own head!’ said Lydon, superstitiously, for he by no means liked the blessing of Sosia.  ’Die!  No—­I trust my hour is not yet come.’

‘He who plays at dice with death must expect the dog’s throw,’ replied Sosia, maliciously.  ’But you are a strong fellow, and I wish you all imaginable luck; and so, vale!’

With that the slave turned on his heel, and took his way homeward.

‘I trust the rogue’s words are not ominous,’ said Lydon, musingly.  ’In my zeal for my father’s liberty, and my confidence in my own thews and sinews, I have not contemplated the possibility of death.  My poor father!  I am thy only son!—­if I were to fall...’