They had placed themselves at the onset face to face, at the distance of modern fencers from each other:  but the extreme caution which both evinced at first had prevented any warmth of engagement, and allowed the spectators full leisure to interest themselves in the battle between Sporus and his foe.  But the Romans were now heated into full and fierce encounter:  they pushed—­returned—­advanced on—­retreated from each other with all that careful yet scarcely perceptible caution which characterizes men well experienced and equally matched.  But at this moment, Eumolpus, the elder gladiator, by that dexterous back-stroke which was considered in the arena so difficult to avoid, had wounded Nepimus in the side.  The people shouted; Lepidus turned pale.

‘Ho!’ said Clodius, ’the game is nearly over.  If Eumolpus fights now the quiet fight, the other will gradually bleed himself away.’

’But, thank the gods! he does not fight the backward fight.  See!—­he presses hard upon Nepimus.  By Mars! but Nepimus had him there! the helmet rang again!—­Clodius, I shall win!’

‘Why do I ever bet but at the dice?’ groaned Clodius to himself;—­or why cannot one cog a gladiator?’

‘A Sporus!—­a Sporus!’ shouted the populace, as Niger having now suddenly paused, had again cast his net, and again unsuccessfully.  He had not retreated this time with sufficient agility—­the sword of Sporus had inflicted a severe wound upon his right leg; and, incapacitated to fly, he was pressed hard by the fierce swordsman.  His great height and length of arm still continued, however, to give him no despicable advantages; and steadily keeping his trident at the front of his foe, he repelled him successfully for several minutes.  Sporus now tried, by great rapidity of evolution, to get round his antagonist, who necessarily moved with pain and slowness.  In so doing, he lost his caution—­he advanced too near to the giant—­raised his arm to strike, and received the three points of the fatal spear full in his breast!  He sank on his knee.  In a moment more, the deadly net was cast over him, he struggled against its meshes in vain; again—­again—­again he writhed mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the trident—­his blood flowed fast through the net and redly over the sand.  He lowered his arms in acknowledgment of defeat.

The conquering retiarius withdrew his net, and leaning on his spear, looked to the audience for their judgement.  Slowly, too, at the same moment, the vanquished gladiator rolled his dim and despairing eyes around the theatre.  From row to row, from bench to bench, there glared upon him but merciless and unpitying eyes.

Hushed was the roar—­the murmur!  The silence was dread, for it was no sympathy; not a hand—­no, not even a woman’s hand—­gave the signal of charity and life!  Sporus had never been popular in the arena; and, lately, the interest of the combat had been excited on behalf of the wounded Niger.  The people were warmed into blood—­the mimic fight had ceased to charm; the interest had mounted up to the desire of sacrifice and the thirst of death!