ry much, indeed, was the
news that there was to be this great show in the ancient amphitheatre:
two men fighting for a woman's life, a young man and an old man--for
everybody knew, too, that the only champion Perpetua could find was her
own father, the executioner Theron--and at the end of the battle a fair
maid on a stack of faggots, and then a big blaze. Such a thing had not
been seen, had not been heard of in Syracuse for many a long day, and
those who heard of it now were resolved, to a man and to a woman, to see
it. Not that the citizens of Syracuse were particularly cruel; but in
the first place it was a spectacle too novel to miss, and in the second
place all Syracuse had been formally summoned, under pain of death, to
be present at the event, and to witness the King's vengeance on his
enemy.

The day after Perpetua's capture was lovely, even for Syracuse, even for
Sicily. The great amphitheatre lay in the soft morning light, a wonder
of white curves, beneath great awnings of silk, crimson and gold. All
around the orchards and gardens, that the good King had planted, showed
cool and green; the subtle odors of many flowers charged the air with
sweetness, and the ceaseless lapse of fountains lulled the ear with
distant whispers of delight. It were hard to believe that so fair a
place, upon so fair a day, could be destined for a scene of trial by
bloodshed and punishment by fire. But in the great space of the arena
one object stood ominous, to remind the spectator that the reign of
Robert the Good was ended. This was a small wooden platform with two
steps and an upright beam, the whole painted a glaring scarlet. Round
this platform were banked great piles of faggots, sinister witnesses to
the work that was to be done ere noon.

The great arena was almost empty. By order of the King, no citizens of
Syracuse were to be permitted to enter the royal gardens, through which
alone access to the amphitheatre was possible, until the sounding of a
trumpet told the city that the hour had come. The great arena was almost
empty, but not quite. On one of the lowest tiers of seats an old man sat
in an attitude of grief. This man was Theron the executioner.

It had been his duty, as instrument of the King's justice, to make all
the preparations for the deed that was to be done that day, and now all
was completed and he sat alone and thought bitter thoughts. The child of
his life was in peril, the beautiful Perpetua, so dear to hi