“The Briton!” exclaimed Calchas, starting from his seat. “Why did you not tell me so before? Quick, girl, fetch me my gown and sandals. I will go there without delay.”
She helped him, nothing loth. In a few minutes Calchas was ready to go forth, and as she watched him from the door, and saw him turn the corner of the street, Mariamne clasped her hands and muttered a thanksgiving for the success of her well‐meant artifice; while the old man strode boldly to his destination, confident in the integrity of his purpose, and rejoicing in the breastplate of proof which covers a good heart bound on a pious mission. “It is no business of mine,” was a maxim unknown to the early Christian. Fresh in his memory was the parable of the Good Samaritan; and it never occurred to him that, like the Pharisee, he might pass by on the other side. The world is some centuries older, yet is that tale of the friendless wounded wayfarer less suggestive now than it was then?
The gladiators were pausing from their toil. Brawny chests heaved and panted, deep voices laughed and swore with returning breath; strong arms looked heavier and stronger as the athlete rested his wide hands upon his hips, and not unconsciously brought his huge muscles into full relief in the attitude. Esca and his late antagonist were wiping the sweat from their brows, and looking at one another with wistful eyes, as if by no means loth to renew the contest, so equally had the last bout been waged. Hirpinus laid down the weighty clubs he had been wielding, with a grunt of relief. No unpractised arm could have lifted those cumbrous instruments from the ground, yet they were but as reeds in the hands of the gladiator; nevertheless, he lamented piteously the tendency of his mighty frame to increasing bulk, which rendered such heavy and uninteresting work necessary to fit him for the arena.
“By the body of Hercules!” complained the giant, “I would I were but such a half‐starved ape as thou, my Lutorius! See what the master calls training for a man of some solidity, and thank the gods that an hour’s girls’‐play with sword and buckler is enough to keep that slender waist of thine within the compass of a knight’s finger‐ring.”
“Girls’‐play, call you it?” answered Lutorius. “In faith ’tis a game that would put thy fat carcass on the sand, from sheer want of breath, in a quarter of the time. No more girls’‐play for us, my lads, till after the feast of Ceres. The school will be thinner then, or I am mistaken. How many pairs are promised by the Consul for this coming bout? I heard the crier tell us in the street, but I have forgotten.”