The people were warmed into blood--the mimic fight had ceased to charm; the interest had mounted up to the desire of sacrifice and the thirst of death!
The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed: he uttered no prayer--no groan.
The people gave the signal of death! In dogged but agonized submission, he bent his neck to receive the fatal stroke. And now, as the spear of the retiarius was not a weapon to inflict instant and certain death, there stalked into the arena a grim and fatal form, brandishing a short, sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed beneath its vizor. With slow and measured steps, this dismal headsman approached the gladiator, still kneeling--laid the left hand on his humbled crest--drew the edge of the blade across his neck--turned round to the assembly, lest, in the last moment, remorse should come upon them; the dread signal continued the same: the blade glittered brightly in the air--fell--and the gladiator rolled upon the sand; his limbs quivered--were still--he was a corpse.'
His body was dragged at once from the arena through the gate of death, and thrown into the gloomy den termed technically the spoliarium. And ere it had well reached that destination, the strife between the remaining combatants was decided. The sword of Eumolpus had inflicted the death-wound upon the less experienced combatant. A new victim was added to the receptacle of the slain.
Throughout that mighty assembly there now ran a universal movement; the people breathed more freely, and resettled themselves in their seats. Agrateful shower was cast over every row from the concealed conduits. In cool and luxurious pleasure they talked over the late spectacle of blood.
Eumolpus removed his helmet, and wiped his brows; his close-curled hair and short beard, his noble Roman features and bright dark eye attracted the general admiration. He was fresh, unwounded, unfatigued.
The editor paused, and proclaimed aloud that, as Niger's wound disabled him from again entering the arena, Lydon was to be the successor to the slaughtered Nepimus, and the new combatant of Eumolpus.
'Yet, Lydon,' added he, 'if thou wouldst decline the combat with one so brave and tried, thou mayst have full liberty to do so. Eumolpus is not the antagonist that was originally decreed for thee. Thou knowest best how far thou canst cope with him. If thou failest, thy doom is honorable death; if thou conquerest, out of my own purse I will double the stipulated prize.'
The people shouted applause. Lydon stood in the lists, he gazed around;high above he beheld the pale face, the straining eyes, of his father. He turned away irresolute for a moment. No! the conquest of the cestus was not sufficient--he had not yet won the prize of victory--his father was still a slave!
'Noble aedile!' he replied, in a firm and deep tone, 'I shrink not from this combat. For the honour of Pompeii, I demand that one trained by its long-celebrated lanista shall do battle with this Roman.'
The people shouted louder than before.
'Four to one against Lydon!' said Clodius to Lepidus.
'I would not take twenty to one! Why, Eumolpus is a very Achilles, and this poor fellow is but a tyro!'
Eumolpus gazed hard on the face of Lydon; he smiled; yet the smile was followed by a slight and scarce audible sigh--a touch of compassionate emotion, which custom conquered the moment the heart acknowledged it.
And now both, clad in complete armor, the sword drawn, the vizor closed, the two last combatants of the arena (ere man, at least, was matched with beast), stood opposed to each other.
It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the proctor 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.
