Part 47

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 him for herself, so dear in reincarnating for him the great love and the great sorrow of his manhood. Only one moon ago their life had been as it had ever been, tranquil, happy, a companionship of peace and joy. And now this beloved child, this dear companion, lay a prisoner under the terrible charge of sorcery, and in the ordeal of battle which was to decide her fate the only arm that could be found to champion her was her father's arm, the arm of an old man against the arm of the most brilliant swordsman in Sicily. Theron remembered with a pang the ease and grace with which Hildebrand had wielded the great sword of the headsman on that unhappy morning, and he asked himself, despairingly, what hope there could be for him against such an adversary.

Out from an archway in the side of the amphitheatre, a dark archway that opened from the corridor leading to the cells where prisoners used to be confined, and where Perpetua was now confined, Hieronymus came forth. He saw Theron where he sat, and advancing towards him rested his hand on his shoulder and named his name.

Theron looked wearily up and bowed for the benediction of the religious.

"My son," Hieronymus said, gravely, "by trumpet-call, within the hour, the chafing populace will be admitted into these royal gardens to witness the ordeal by battle. My son, my son, when your child's voice cries for a champion to-day, I fear yours will be the only hand raised to defend her."

"They fear her for a witch," Theron answered, bitterly; "as if such golden goodness could go to the making of witch-flesh. Men are fools--men are devils."

"Be brave, be patient," Hieronymus exhorted. "Courage and patience are the harness of a soldier of God."

Theron made a gesture of impatience. "You have every man and woman in Syracuse for son and daughter. She is my only child. How is she?"

"Smiling like a bride," Hieronymus replied. "Never since the heathen built these walls did any martyr face her fate more radiantly."

"She is not harshly treated?" Theron asked, anxiously.

Hieronymus shook his head.

"Will they not let me see her?" Theron questioned anew.

"I think they will let you see her by-and-by," Hieronymus answered. "I have entreated for you. I shall know soon."

Theron gripped his hands tightly together. "I wish I had the King here at my mercy," he muttered.

Hieronymus raised a reproving hand. "We must forgive our enemies, though, indeed, such a King is God's enemy. His prisons are filled with the flower of Sicilian chivalry--the list of those he dooms to die is long."

"Though none have died yet," Theron interrupted.

Hieronymus nodded. "They say he swore a great oath his court-fool should be the first victim of your sword, and till the fool is found the victims wait on death."

"Please Heaven he be not found, then," Theron prayed.

Hieronymus smiled sadly. "He will be found when his time comes," he said. "Yet Heaven seems to counter the wicked King. Those whom he drove into exile still linger in the port. Contrary winds deny their sails."

Theron lifted his head from his hands. "They say the fairest maids of Sicily have been carried to his palace."

"Yet they are maids still," Hieronymus said, "for he swears to love no woman till your daughter dies."

"He is so sure of that," Theron sighed.

Hieronymus sought to console him.

"Your cause is just, your sword is sharp; fight in God's name. I will go to your daughter now."

Theron thanked him with a grateful glance.

"Tell her her father loves her. She knows that well, yet tell it to her."

Hieronymus left him and passed out of the arena through the archway which led to the cells. Theron remained sitting on the step with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his hands.

"This is the time when a man should pray," he said to himself, "but my thoughts tangle and my words jangle."