While the contest in the amphitheatre had thus commenced, there was one in the loftier benches for whom it had assumed, indeed, a poignant—­a stifling interest.  The aged father of Lydon, despite his Christian horror of the spectacle, in his agonized anxiety for his son, had not been able to resist being the spectator of his fate.  One amidst a fierce crowd of strangers—­the lowest rabble of the populace—­the old man saw, felt nothing, but the form—­the presence of his brave son!  Not a sound had escaped his lips when twice he had seen him fall to the earth—­only he had turned paler, and his limbs trembled.  But he had uttered one low cry when he saw him victorious; unconscious, alas! of the more fearful battle to which that victory was but a prelude.

‘My gallant boy!’ said he, and wiped his eyes.

’Is he thy son said a brawny fellow to the right of the Nazarene; ’he has fought well:  let us see how he does by-and-by.  Hark! he is to fight the first victor.  Now, old boy, pray the gods that that victor be neither of the Romans! nor, next to them, the giant Niger.’

The old man sat down again and covered his face.  The fray for the moment was indifferent to him—­Lydon was not one of the combatants.  Yet—­yet—­the thought flashed across him—­the fray was indeed of deadly interest—­the first who fell was to make way for Lydon!  He started, and bent down, with straining eyes and clasped hands, to view the encounter.

The first interest was attracted towards the combat of Niger with Sporus; for this species of contest, from the fatal result which usually attended it, and from the great science it required in either antagonist, was always peculiarly inviting to the spectators.

They stood at a considerable distance from each other.  The singular helmet which Sporus wore (the vizor of which was down) concealed his face; but the features of Niger attracted a fearful and universal interest from their compressed and vigilant ferocity.  Thus they stood for some moments, each eyeing each, until Sporus began slowly, and with great caution, to advance, holding his sword pointed, like a modern fencer’s, at the breast of his foe.  Niger retreated as his antagonist advanced, gathering up his net with his right hand, and never taking his small glittering eye from the movements of the swordsman.  Suddenly when Sporus had approached nearly at arm’s length, the retiarius threw himself forward, and cast his net.  A quick inflection of body saved the gladiator from the deadly snare! he uttered a sharp cry of joy and rage, and rushed upon Niger:  but Niger had already drawn in his net, thrown it across his shoulders, and now fled round the lists with a swiftness which the secutor in vain endeavored to equal.  The people laughed and shouted aloud, to see the ineffectual efforts of the broad-shouldered gladiator to overtake the flying giant:  when, at that moment, their attention was turned from these to the two Roman combatants.