eath 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
effort, he threw himself fiercely on Eumolpus; the Roman warily
retreated--Lydon thrust again--Eumolpus drew himself aside--the sword
grazed his cuirass--Lydon's breast was exposed--the Roman plunged his
sword through the joints of the armor, not meaning, however, to inflict
a deep wound; Lydon, weak and exhausted, fell forward, fell right on the
point: it passed through and through, even to the back. Eumolpus drew
forth his blade; Lydon still made an effort to regain his balance--his
sword left his grasp--he struck mechanically at the gladiator with his
naked hand, and fell prostrate on the arena. With one accord, editor
and assembly made the signal of mercy--the officers of the arena
approached--they took off the helmet of the vanquished. He still
breathed; his eyes rolled fiercely on his foe; the savageness he had
acquired in his calling glared from his gaze, and lowered upon the brow
darkened already with the shades of death; then, with a convulsive
groan, with a half start, he lifted his eyes above. They rested not on
the face of the editor nor on the pitying brows of his relenting judges.
He saw them not; they were as if the vast space was desolate and bare;
one pale agonizing face alone was all he recognized--one cry of a broken
heart was all that, amidst the murmurs and the shouts of the populace,
reached his ear. The ferocity vanished from his brow; a soft, a tender
expression of sanctifying but despairing love played over his
features--played--waned--darkened! His face suddenly became locked and
rigid, resuming its former fierceness. He fell upon the earth.

'Look to him,' said the aedile; 'he has done his duty!'

The officers dragged him off to the spoliarium.

'A true type of glory, and of its fate!' murmured Arbaces to himself,
and his eye, glancing round the amphitheatre, betrayed so much of
disdain and scorn, that whoever encountered it felt his breath suddenly
arrested, and his emotions frozen into one sensation of abasement and of
awe.

Again rich perfumes were wafted around the theatre; the attendants
sprinkled fresh sand over the arena.

'Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian,' said the editor.

And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest, and intense
(yet, strange to say, not unpleasing) terror lay, like a