Theron sighed as if his heart would break. “The very fool pities me. I am grown old and weak and have no hope.”
Even as he spoke the sound of the footsteps that had scared away Diogenes grew louder, and Hieronymus emerged from the archway and came to Theron.
“Come,” Hieronymus said. “Some unfamiliar gentleness in the King permits you to see your daughter. Go at once. The jailer will admit you.”
Theron bowed his head. “Your blessing and your prayers,” he said. Then he rose and moved slowly to the archway and disappeared.
Hieronymus looked after him thoughtfully. “Oh,” he mused, “that a poor priest’s blessing might be as potent as a great King’s curse!”
At that moment a great trumpet sounded, the signal to admit the people of Syracuse to the royal gardens. Hieronymus could hear the eager shouts and the tramp of hurrying feet. Sadly he turned and followed Theron to the cell where Perpetua lay.
The arena was not long empty. Soon the human flood poured over its sand, babbling, shouting, eager to get seated.
“Hurry, dame, hurry!” cried one citizen to his mate. “’Tis first come first served, and there is a rare scrambling for the seats.”
“I wish,” grumbled another, “the King had given us leave to enter the gardens earlier. We could have sat here cosily, eating and drinking till the sport began.”