“It’s only a revival of the big festivals of the ancient Romans, after all, Chick,” his chief reminded him.
“That may be. But this is the twentieth century, not the first—or whenever it was they used to kill people in the Colosseum,” was Chick’s rejoinder. “Baseball is more in my line.”
Lord Slava pointed out of the doorway, and the others all stared out, with strange feelings of mingled interest and indignation, as they thought of the attempt that was to be made on the lives of Leslie Arnold and themselves.
It was a wonderful sight, regarded purely in the light of a spectacle.
They found themselves looking into an immense circular amphitheater of soft sand. It measured some five hundred feet across, and was surrounded on all sides by tier upon tier of stone seats, as symmetrically made as if each had been the work of a finished artist.
Many of these seats already had occupants, although it would be some time before the exhibition would begin. Dimly seen, ghostly forms they were, as they came up from below and slid silently into their chosen places.
There was a high wall at the bottom of the tiers of seats, so that those who would take part in the performances in the arena would not be able to reach the spectators. In a general way, the place looked like a bullfighting theater.
The lower seats, next to the top of the wall, were handsomely decorated. They were reserved for the nobles and other people of importance. The upper ones, and by far the greater number, were given over to the populace.
Directly opposite the special seats for the nobility was a stone archway, with a gilded, barred gate.
“It is by that gate that the Scarab comes for his victims,” explained Slava. “From that other gate, yonder, the victims are driven out, or dragged away, as the case may be.”