e band of kinsmen,
friends, and followers, many of whom were armed, was gathering round
the Gundings.

Thrasaric was stepping into their midst to try to avert the impending
conflict, but he was now surrounded by throngs of his own and his
brother's slaves.

"My Lord," they cried, "Thrasabad has disappeared. What shall be done?
The festival--"

"Is over. Alas that it ever began!"

"But the races in the Circus opposite?"

"Will not take place! Lead the horses out! Return them to their
owners."

"I will not take the stallion until after we have thrown the dice,"
cried Modigisel. "Ay, tremble with rage. I hold you to your word."

"And the wild beasts?" urged a freedman. "They are roaring for food."

"Leave them where they are! Feed them!"

"And the Moorish prisoner?"

He could not answer; for while the racehorses, the stallion among them,
were being led from the Circus into the square between it and the
Amphitheatre, loud shouts rang from the exits of the latter.

"The Moor! The captive! He has escaped! He is running away! Stop him!"

Thrasaric turned, and saw the figure of the young Moor coming toward
him. He had been bound hand and foot, and though successful in breaking
the rope around his ankles, he had been unable to sever the one firmly
fastened about his wrists, and was greatly impeded in forcing a way
through the crowd by his inability to use his hands.

"Let him go! Let him run!" ordered Thrasaric.

"No," shouted the pursuers. "He has just knocked his master down by a
blow of his fist. His master commanded it! He must die! A thousand
sestertii to the man who captures him."

Stones flew, and here and there a spear whizzed by.

"A thousand sestertii?" cried one Roman to another. "Friend Victor, let
us forget our quarrel and earn them together."

"Done. Halves, O Laurus!"

The fugitive now darted like an arrow straight toward Thrasaric. His
lithe, noble figure came nearer and nearer. Lofty wrath glowed on the
finely moulded young face. Then, close beside Thrasaric, Laurus grasped
at the rope hanging from the Moor's wrists. A violent jerk, the youth
fell. Victor grasped his arm.

"The thousand sestertii are ours," cried Laurus, drawing the rope
toward him.

"No," exclaimed Thrasaric, snatching his short-sword from its sheath.
The weapon flashed through the cord. "Fly, Moor!"

The youth was instantly on his feet again; one grateful glance at the
Vandal, and he was in the midst of the race-hor