Suddenly Katon straightened. "They come!" he whispered, and sprang forward to join the others.
At his words, the prisoners, yelling in well-simulated rage, pounced on the hawk-faced Vulcar. The one-time officer was swept from his feet and sent crashing to the floor with a resounding thump. A second later he was at the bottom of a pile of raving madmen, all clearly lusting for his blood.
It was this scene that met the eyes of four guards and Wotar as they came into the room. Taking in the situation at a glance, the director barked a curt order that sent the guards into the scuffle. Using spear butts as flails they managed to beat the cursing prisoners from the limp body of a disheveled Vulcar, who got painfully to his feet.
"What means this?" Wotar thundered. "Is there so little fighting in the arena that you must brawl amongst yourselves?"
Vulcar, still trembling from his narrow escape, hurried to explain.
"These men," he panted, indicating the scowling faces about him, "hate me because they think I am responsible for their being here. I have tried to tell them it was Urim's fault, that I had only obeyed his orders; but they would not listen. Some cried out that they would kill me; then all of them sprang upon me. I would be dead now, had you not come. As soon as you go they will try again. Put me elsewhere, mighty Wotar; I am afraid to stay here."
Vulcar's voice broke with fear, and he trembled so that he could hardly stand.
Wotar's lips curled with contempt. "Put him with the prisoners across the hall," he instructed one of the soldier-priests. "Perhaps they will be more gentle and considerate."
Wotar was an intelligent man; but he failed to notice that the departing prisoner no longer seemed the craven weakling of a moment before. Too, he failed to perceive the poorly hidden satisfaction of the other captives....