As the sense of the dangers around them flashed on the Athenian, his generous heart recurred to Olinthus.  He, too, was reprieved from the tiger by the hand of the gods; should he be left to a no less fatal death in the neighboring cell?  Taking Nydia by the hand, Glaucus hurried across the passages; he gained the den of the Christian!  He found Olinthus kneeling and in prayer.

‘Arise! arise! my friend,’ he cried.  ’Save thyself, and fly!  See!  Nature is thy dread deliverer!’ He led forth the bewildered Christian, and pointed to a cloud which advanced darker and darker, disgorging forth showers of ashes and pumice stones—­and bade him hearken to the cries and trampling rush of the scattered crowd.

‘This is the hand of God—­God be praised!’ said Olinthus, devoutly.

‘Fly! seek thy brethren!—­Concert with them thy escape.  Farewell!’

Olinthus did not answer, neither did he mark the retreating form of his friend.  High thoughts and solemn absorbed his soul:  and in the enthusiasm of his kindling heart, he exulted in the mercy of God rather than trembled at the evidence of His power.

At length he roused himself, and hurried on, he scarce knew whither.

The open doors of a dark, desolate cell suddenly appeared on his path; through the gloom within there flared and flickered a single lamp; and by its light he saw three grim and naked forms stretched on the earth in death.  His feet were suddenly arrested; for, amidst the terror of that drear recess—­the spoliarium of the arena—­he heard a low voice calling on the name of Christ!

He could not resist lingering at that appeal:  he entered the den, and his feet were dabbled in the slow streams of blood that gushed from the corpses over the sand.

‘Who,’ said the Nazarene, ‘calls upon the son of God?’

No answer came forth; and turning round, Olinthus beheld, by the light of the lamp, an old grey-headed man sitting on the floor, and supporting in his lap the head of one of the dead.  The features of the dead man were firmly and rigidly locked in the last sleep; but over the lip there played a fierce smile—­not the Christian’s smile of hope, but the dark sneer of hatred and defiance.  Yet on the face still lingered the beautiful roundness of early youth.  The hair curled thick and glossy over the unwrinkled brow; and the down of manhood but slightly shaded the marble of the hueless cheek.  And over this face bent one of such unutterable sadness—­of such yearning tenderness—­of such fond and such deep despair!  The tears of the old man fell fast and hot, but he did not feel them; and when his lips moved, and he mechanically uttered the prayer of his benign and hopeful faith, neither his heart nor his sense responded to the words:  it was but the involuntary emotion that broke from the lethargy of his mind.  His boy was dead, and had died for him!—­and the old man’s heart was broken!