not why,
and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting
the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go
to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very
night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished
me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse--the bleeding body of my father
flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling! To-day I killed a man in
the arena; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend.
He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died--the same sweet smile upon
his lips that I had marked, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the
lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish
triumph!

I told the praetor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and
brave; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a
funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Aye! upon my knees, amid the dust
and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled
maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble,
shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's
fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of
bleeding clay! And the praetor drew back as if I were pollution, and
sternly said, "Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans."
And so, fellow gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs.

O, Rome! Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Aye! thou hast given
to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone
than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to
drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm
it in the marrow of his foe--to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the
fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay
thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its
deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled!

Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass is in your
toughened sinews, but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume
from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and
bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his
den? 'Tis three days since he has tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall
break his fast upon yours--and a dainty meal for him ye will be! If ye are
beasts, then