r.

It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the praetor 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 honor of the Pompeiian lanista, had afterward 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 practiced
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 arm; 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."

At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being equal to the
endurance of the Roman, everything depended on a sudden and desperate