Unable to check his onrush, Vergilius leaped
forward and fell out of sight. A booming roar from the startled lion
rose out of the pit and hushed the tumult of the people. Herod,
pointing at his son, shrieked with rage as he bade the soldiers of the
cohort to seize and put him in irons.
A score of slaves hastened to the mouth of the pit. They caught the
ropes and quickly lifted the arena. As it came into view the tumult
broke out afresh. There far spent, resting on his bloody weapon, near
the middle of the arena stood Vergilius, and the lion lay dead before
him.
Slaves opened the iron gate. Vergilius ran to the still form of the
slave-girl. He knelt beside her and kissed her lifeless hand.
"Poor child of God!" he whispered. "If indeed you loved me, I have no
wonder that you knelt here to die."
The master brought a wreath of laurel to the young tribune, saying:
"'Tis from the king." Vergilius seemed not to hear. Tenderly he
raised the lifeless body of Cyran in his arms. The spectators were
cheering. "Hail, victor!" they shouted.
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