ed forms stretched on the earth in
death. His feet were suddenly arrested; for, amidst the terror of that
drear recess--the spoliarium of the arena--he heard a low voice calling
on the name of Christ!

He could not resist lingering at that appeal: he entered the den, and
his feet were dabbled in the slow streams of blood that gushed from the
corpses over the sand.

'Who,' said the Nazarene, 'calls upon the son of God?'

No answer came forth; and turning round, Olinthus beheld, by the light
of the lamp, an old grey-headed man sitting on the floor, and supporting
in his lap the head of one of the dead. The features of the dead man
were firmly and rigidly locked in the last sleep; but over the lip there
played a fierce smile--not the Christian's smile of hope, but the dark
sneer of hatred and defiance. Yet on the face still lingered the
beautiful roundness of early youth. The hair curled thick and glossy
over the unwrinkled brow; and the down of manhood but slightly shaded
the marble of the hueless cheek. And over this face bent one of such
unutterable sadness--of such yearning tenderness--of such fond and such
deep despair! The tears of the old man fell fast and hot, but he did
not feel them; and when his lips moved, and he mechanically uttered the
prayer of his benign and hopeful faith, neither his heart nor his sense
responded to the words: it was but the involuntary emotion that broke
from the lethargy of his mind. His boy was dead, and had died for
him!--and the old man's heart was broken!

'Medon!' said Olinthus, pityingly, 'arise, and fly! God is forth upon
the wings of the elements! The New Gomorrah is doomed!--Fly, ere the
fires consume thee!'

'He was ever so full of life!--he cannot be dead! Come hither!--place
your hand on his heart!--sure it beats yet?'

'Brother, the soul has fled! We will remember it in our prayers! Thou
canst not reanimate the dumb clay! Come, come--hark! while I speak, yon
crashing walls!--hark! yon agonizing cries! Not a moment is to be
lost!--Come!'

'I hear nothing!' said Medon, shaking his grey hair. 'The poor boy, his
love murdered him!'

'Come! come! forgive this friendly force.'

'What! Who could sever the father from the son?' And Medon clasped the
body tightly in his embrace, and covered it with passionate kisses.
'Go!' said he, lifting up his face for one moment. 'Go!--we must be
alone!'

'Alas!' said the compassionate Nazarene, 'Death hath severed ye