black and white
wrestled together! How well the contrast of color distinguished the
individual combatants, even when they clung together in close embrace!
And when, toward the end of the struggle, a bark was overturned bodily,
and some of the antagonists would not be parted, even as they fell,
trying to kill each other in their rage and hatred, the very walls of the
great structure shook with the wild clamor and applause of thousands of
every degree.

Only once did the roar of approval reach a higher pitch, and that was
after the battle was ended, at what succeeded. Hardly had the victorious
Spirits of Light been seen to stand up in their barks, waving their
torches, to receive from fluttering genii wreaths of laurel which they
flung down to where Caesar sat, than a perfumed vapor, emanating from the
place where the painted sky met the wall of the circular building, hid
the whole of the upper part of it from the sight of the spectators. The
music stopped, and from above there came a strange and ominous growling,
hissing, rustling, and crackling. A dull light, dimmer even than before,
filled the place, and anxious suspicions took possession of the ten
thousand spectators.

What was happening? Was the velarium on fire; had the machinery for
lighting up refused to work; and must they remain in this uncomfortable
twilight?

Here and there a shout of indignation was heard, or a shrill whistle from
the capricious mob. But the mist had already gradually vanished, and
those who gazed upward could see that the velarium with the sun and stars
had made way for a black surface. No one knew whether this was the real
cloudy sky, or whether another, colorless awning closed them in. But
suddenly the woven roof parted; invisible hands drew away the two halves.
Quick, soft music began as if at a signal from a magician, and at the
same time such a flood of light burst down into the theatre that every
one covered his eyes with his hand to avoid being blinded. The full glory
of sunshine followed on the footsteps of night, like a triumphant chorus
on a dismal mourning chant.

The machinists of Alexandria had done wonders. The Romans, who, even at
the night performances of the festival of Flora, had never seen the like,
hailed the effect with a storm of applause which showed no signs of
ceasing, for, when they had sufficiently admired the source of the light
which flooded the theatre, reflected from numberless mirrors, and glanced
round