s maiden in
his arms, and, going to Nero's padium, held her up and looked up
imploringly.

Vinicius sprang over the barrier, which separated the lower seats from
the arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her with his toga.

Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the scars left by
wounds received in the Armenian war, and stretched out his hands to the
multitude.

At this the enthusiasm passed everything ever seen in a circus before.
Voices choking with tears began to demand mercy. Yet Nero halted and
hesitated. He would have preferred to see the giant and the maiden rent
by the horns of the bull.

Nero was alarmed. He understood that to oppose longer was simply
dangerous. A disturbance begun in the circus might seize the whole city.
He looked once more, and, seeing everywhere frowning brows, excited
faces and eyes fixed on him, he slowly raised his hand and gave the sign
for mercy.

Then a thunder of applause broke from the highest seats to the lowest.
But Vinicius heard it not. He dropped on his knees in the arena,
stretched his hands toward heaven and cried: "I believe! Oh, Christ! I
believe! I believe!"

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Copyright, 1896, by Jeremiah Curtin.

THE ARROW AND THE SONG[2]

H. W. LONGFELLOW

I shot an arrow into the air.
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air.
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong
That it can follow the flight of song.

Long, long afterward, in an oak,
I found the arrow still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his
works.

AUX ITALIENS

R. BULWER LYTTON

At Paris it was, at the opera there;
And she looked like a queen that night,
With a wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
And the brooch in her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the "Trovatore":
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"_Non ti scordar di me?_"

The Emperor there in h