As the thought crossed him, the gladiator strode on with a more rapid and restless pace, when suddenly, in an opposite street, he beheld the very object of his thoughts.  Leaning on his stick, his form bent by care and age, his eyes downcast, and his steps trembling, the grey-haired Medon slowly approached towards the gladiator.  Lydon paused a moment:  he divined at once the cause that brought forth the old man at that late hour.

‘Be sure, it is I whom he seeks,’ thought he; ’he is horror struck at the condemnation of Olinthus—­he more than ever esteems the arena criminal and hateful—­he comes again to dissuade me from the contest.  I must shun him—­I cannot brook his prayers—­his tears.’

These thoughts, so long to recite, flashed across the young man like lightning.  He turned abruptly and fled swiftly in an opposite direction.  He paused not till, almost spent and breathless, he found himself on the summit of a small acclivity which overlooked the most gay and splendid part of that miniature city; and as there he paused, and gazed along the tranquil streets glittering in the rays of the moon (which had just arisen, and brought partially and picturesquely into light the crowd around the amphitheatre at a distance, murmuring, and swaying to and fro), the influence of the scene affected him, rude and unimaginative though his nature.  He sat himself down to rest upon the steps of a deserted portico, and felt the calm of the hour quiet and restore him.  Opposite and near at hand, the lights gleamed from a palace in which the master now held his revels.  The doors were open for coolness, and the gladiator beheld the numerous and festive group gathered round the tables in the atrium; while behind them, closing the long vista of the illumined rooms beyond, the spray of the distant fountain sparkled in the moonbeams.  There, the garlands wreathed around the columns of the hall—­there, gleamed still and frequent the marble statue—­there, amidst peals of jocund laughter, rose the music and the lay.

Epicurean song

Away with your stories of Hades,
Which the Flamen has forged to affright us—­
We laugh at your three Maiden Ladies,
Your Fates—­and your sullen Cocytus.

Poor Jove has a troublesome life, sir,
Could we credit your tales of his portals—­
In shutting his ears on his wife, sir,
And opening his eyes upon mortals.

       Oh, blest be the bright Epicurus! 
          Who taught us to laugh at such fables;
        On Hades they wanted to moor us,
          And his hand cut the terrible cables.

If, then, there’s a Jove or a Juno,
They vex not their heads about us, man;
Besides, if they did, I and you know
’Tis the life of a god to live thus, man!

What! think you the gods place their bliss—­eh?—­
In playing the spy on a sinner? 
In counting the girls that we kiss, eh? 
Or the cups that we empty at dinner?