Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of death, his face fallen, his eyes dull as a vulture's, his broad frame gaunt as a skeleton—Calenus was supported into the very row in which Arbaces sat. His releasers had given him sparingly of food; but the chief sustenance that nerved his feeble limbs was revenge!
'The priest Calenus!—Calenus!' cried the mob. 'Is it he? No—it is a dead man?'
'It is the priest Calenus,' said the praetor, gravely. 'What hast thou to say?'
'Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides, the priest of Isis; these eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dungeon into which he plunged me—it is from the darkness and horror of a death by famine—that the gods have raised me to proclaim his crime! Release the Athenian—he is innocent!'
'It is for this, then, that the lion spared him. A miracle! a miracle!' cried Pansa.
'A miracle; a miracle!' shouted the people; 'remove the Athenian—Arbaces to the lion!'
And that shout echoed from hill to vale—from coast to sea—'Arbaces to the lion!'
Officers, remove the accused Glaucus—remove, but guard him yet,' said the praetor. 'The gods lavish their wonders upon this day.'
As the praetor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy—a female voice—a child's voice—and it was of joy! It rang through the heart of the assembly with electric force—it, was touching, it was holy, that child's voice! And the populace echoed it back with sympathizing congratulation!
'Silence!' said the grave praetor—'who is there?'