“No; they said the purse was lost in the canal. It was a leopard-skin purse, the gift of an African sorceress. What sayest thou of the knife?”
“That it is here, see it, still rusty with the water; thy purse I gave to thy slaves; my own knife I retained for myself; look at it again. Dost thou believe me now? Have I been always a viper on thy path?”
Too ungenerous to acknowledge that he had been conquered in the struggle between them, Corvinus only felt himself withered, degraded, before his late school-fellow, crumbled like a clot of dust in his hands. His very heart seemed to him to blush. He felt sick, and staggered, hung down his head, and sneaked away. He cursed the games, the emperor, the yelling rabble, the roaring beasts, his horses and chariot, his slaves, his father, himself,—every thing and every body except one—he could not, for his life, curse Pancratius.
He had reached the door, when the youth called him back. He turned and looked at him with a glance of respect, almost approaching to love. Pancratius put his hand on his arm, and said, “Corvinus, I have freely forgiven thee. There is One above, who cannot forgive without repentance. Seek pardon from Him. If not, I foretell to thee this day, that by whatsoever death I die, thou too shalt one day perish.”
Corvinus slunk away, and appeared no more that day. He lost the sight on which his coarse imagination had gloated for days, which he had longed for during months. When the holiday was over he was found by his father completely intoxicated: it was the only way he knew of drowning remorse.
As he was leaving the prisoners, the lanista, or master of the gladiators, entered the room and summoned them to the combat. They hastily embraced one another, and took leave on earth. They entered the arena, or pit of the amphitheatre, opposite the imperial seat, and had to pass between two files of venatores, or huntsmen, who had the care of the wild beasts, each armed with a heavy whip, wherewith he inflicted a blow on every one as he went by him. They were then brought forward, singly or in groups, as the people desired, or the directors of the spectacle chose. Sometimes the intended prey was placed on an elevated platform to be more conspicuous; at another time he was tied up to posts to be more helpless. A favorite sport was to bundle up a female victim in a net, and expose her to be rolled, tossed, or gored by wild cattle.[176] One encounter with a single wild beast often finished the martyr’s course; while occasionally three or four were successively let loose, without their inflicting a mortal wound. The confessor was then either remanded to prison for further torments, or taken back to the spoliatorium, where the gladiator’s apprentices amused themselves with despatching him.
But we must content ourselves with following the last steps of our youthful hero, Pancratius. As he was passing through the corridor that led to the amphitheatre, he saw Sebastian standing on one side, with a lady closely enwrapped in her mantle, and veiled. He at once recognized her, stopped before her, knelt, and taking her hand, affectionately kissed it.
“Bless me, dear mother,” he said, “in this your promised hour.”
“See, my child, the heavens,” she replied, “and look up thither, where Christ with His saints expecteth thee. Fight the good fight for thy soul’s sake, and show thyself faithful and steadfast in thy Saviour’s love.[177] Remember him too whose precious relic thou bearest round thy neck.”
“Its price shall be doubled in thine eyes, my sweet mother, ere many hours are over.”