"Phobeg is the strongest man in Cathne," said Erot. "I really think that the stranger has no chance at all against him; he is as good as dead already."
"Very well then, if you feel that way about it you should bet on Phobeg," whispered Nemone softly. "I am going to wager 100,000 drachmas on the stranger. How much of this do you wish, my dear Erot?"
"I wish that my Queen would not risk her money on him at all," said Erot; "I am grieved when my beloved Queen loses."
"You bore me, Erot." Nemone gestured impatiently and then, turning to the other nobles, "Is there none here who will cover my drachmas?"
Instantly they were all eager to accommodate her. To win a hundred thousand drachmas from the Queen in addition to all that they would win from the common people was too much for their cupidity; they even forgot Nemone's possible wrath in their anxiety to accommodate her now that it was certain that her decision could not be altered, and in a few minutes the bets had been recorded.
"He has a fine physique," commented Nemone, her eyes upon the jungle lord, "and he is taller than the other."
"But look at Phobeg's muscles," Erot reminded her. "This Phobeg has killed many men; they say that he twists their necks and breaks their spines."
"We shall see," was the Queen's only comment.
Erot thought that he would not like to be in Phobeg's sandals, for if the stranger did not kill him Nemone most certainly would see that he did not long survive, who had robbed her of a hundred thousand drachmas.
Now the two men were posted in the arena a short distance from the royal loge, and the captain of the stadium was giving them their instructions which were extremely simple: they were to remain inside the arena and try to kill one another with their bare hands, though the use of elbows, knees, feet, or teeth was not barred; there were no other rules governing the combat. The winner was to receive his freedom, though even this had been qualified by Nemone.