’I would not take twenty to one!  Why, Eumolpus is a very Achilles, and this poor fellow is but a tyro!’

Eumolpus gazed hard on the face of Lydon; he smiled; yet the smile was followed by a slight and scarce audible sigh—­a touch of compassionate emotion, which custom conquered the moment the heart acknowledged it.

And now both, clad in complete armor, the sword drawn, the vizor closed, the two last combatants of the arena (ere man, at least, was matched with beast), stood opposed to each other.

It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the proctor by one of the attendants of the arena; he removed the cincture—­glanced over it for a moment—­his countenance betrayed surprise and embarrassment.  He re-read the letter, and then muttering—­’Tush! it is impossible!—­the man must be drunk, even in the morning, to dream of such follies!’—­threw it carelessly aside, and gravely settled himself once more in the attitude of attention to the sports.

The interest of the public was wound up very high.  Eumolpus had at first won their favor; but the gallantry of Lydon, and his well-timed allusion to the honour of the Pompeian lanista, had afterwards given the latter the preference in their eyes.

‘Holla, old fellow!’ said Medon’s neighbor to him.  ’Your son is hardly matched; but never fear, the editor will not permit him to be slain—­no, nor the people neither; he has behaved too bravely for that.  Ha! that was a home thrust!—­well averted, by Pollux!  At him again, Lydon!—­they stop to breathe.  What art thou muttering, old boy

‘Prayers!’ answered Medon, with a more calm and hopeful mien than he had yet maintained.

’Prayers!—­trifles!  The time for gods to carry a man away in a cloud is gone now.  Ha!  Jupiter! what a blow!  Thy side—­thy side!—­take care of thy side, Lydon!’

There was a convulsive tremor throughout the assembly.  A fierce blow from Eumolpus, full on the crest, had brought Lydon to his knee.

‘Habet!—­he has it!’ cried a shrill female voice; ‘he has it!’ It was the voice of the girl who had so anxiously anticipated the sacrifice of some criminal to the beasts.

‘Be silent, child!’ said the wife of Pansa, haughtily.  ’Non habet!—­he is not wounded!’

‘I wish he were, if only to spite old surly Medon,’ muttered the girl.

Meanwhile Lydon, who had hitherto defended himself with great skill and valor, began to give way before the vigorous assaults of the practised Roman; his arm grew tired, his eye dizzy, he breathed hard and painfully.  The combatants paused again for breath.

‘Young man,’ said Eumolpus, in a low voice, ’desist; I will wound thee slightly—­then lower thy arms; thou hast propitiated the editor and the mob—­thou wilt be honorably saved!’

‘And my father still enslaved!’ groaned Lydon to himself.  ’No! death or his freedom.’