erest the gladiatorial displays, the chariot
races; even a fierce duel between two yellow-haired barbarians evoked
not a single cry. Rome was in a killing mood: thumbs were not often
upturned. The imperial one gloomed as he sat high in his gold and ivory
tribune. His eyes were sullen with satiety, his heart flinty.

As the afternoon waned the murmurs modulated clamorously and a voice
shrilled forth, "Give us the Christians!" The cry was taken up by a
thundrous chorus which chaunted alternately the antiphonies of hate and
desire until the earth trembled. And Diocletian smiled.

The low doors of the iron cages adjoining the animals opened, and a
dreary group of men, women, children were pushed to the centre of the
arena; a half million of eyes, burning with anticipation, watched them.
Shouts of disappointment, yells of disgust arose. To the experts the
Christians did not present promise of a lasting fight with the lions.
The sorry crew huddled with downcast looks and lips moving in silent
prayer as they awaited the animals. In the onslaught nothing could be
heard but the snarls and growls of the beasts. A whirlwind of dust and
blood, a brief savage attack of keepers armed with metal bars heated
white, and the lions went to their cages, jaws dripping and bellies
gorged. The sand was dug, the bored spectators listlessly viewing the
burial of the martyrs' mangled bones; it was all over within the hour.

Rome was not yet satisfied and Diocletian made no sign. Woefully had the
massacre of the saints failed to please the palate of the populace. So
often had it been glutted with butcheries that it longed for more
delicate devilries, new depths of death. Then a slim figure clad in
clinging garments of pure white was led to the imperial tribune and
those near the Emperor saw him start as if from a wan dream. Her
bronze-hued hair fell about her shoulders, her eyes recalled the odor
of violets; and they beheld the vision of the Crucified One. She was a
fair child, her brow a tablet untouched by the stylus of sin.

The populace hungered. Fresh incense was thrown on the brazier of coals
glowing before the garlanded statue of Venus as flutes intoned a
languorous measure. A man of impassive priestly countenance addressed
her thrice, yet her eyes never wandered, neither did she speak. She thus
refused to worship Venus, and angered at the insult offered to the
beautiful foe of chastity, Rome screamed and hooted, demanding that she
be g