At any rate, there was a toot on a horn, or some kind of signal like that, and off they went.
"Do you take Pride, Stowe," said the Sergeant. "And so each of the rest of you pick out a cardinal sin. I, myself will take Covetousness." He lifted his Roman short sword over his head and shouted like a wild man.
"Now, LET GOD ARISE!" he shouted, and the Roundheads charged toward the enemy.
"I'm moving you back to Nero," said Myers' voice in my ear. "Maybe we can put pressure on him somehow."
I was swooped back to the royal box. But by the time I got there the situation was such that neither of us could think of anything to do. Nero was bouncing around like a fat toad, squeaking at the top of his lungs.
"Why—what—what—" he was squealing. "What are they doing? You Christians, stop it! Stop chasing my gladiators, do you hear me? Stop it! Stop it!"
Somebody blew that silly horn again, and the gladiators stopped, but the Roundheads went right on.
"Guard thyself, Pride!" the stentorian voice of John Stowe floated up to us in the Royal box. Beside Stowe there was a clang and a thud as the Sergeant decapitated Covetousness.
