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Updated: May 8, 2025
Then find my orderly and bid him bring Appius hither by the way of Bethlehem. If he arrives there before the end of the third watch he will see my fire-light on the hill." David left the scene as a powerful Thracian, standing by the arena's gate, saluted the king. Entering, the gladiator engaged the lion with his lance. Incautiously he pressed his weapon too far, drawing blood.
As one man we moved, an irresistible fighting mass, over the bodies of dead and dying foes toward the gorgeous throne of the Martian deity. Hordes of the doughtiest fighting-men of the First Born poured from the audience to check our progress. We mowed them down before us as they had been paper men. "To the seats, some of you!" I cried as we approached the arena's barrier wall.
Its end formed a nearly square platform, about fourteen feet above the floor, and the broad track thence to the arena, as well as all the arena's boundary, had been marked off by great earthenware lamps, whose greasy smoke streaked up and was lost by the wind among the stalactites. "Greek lamps, every one of 'em!"
The devil goes to where it expects to find them." Sssuri was already on his way, running about the arena's curve to reach the point above the archway through which the snake-devil had raced. Dalgard padded after him, bow in hand. He trusted Sssuri implicitly when it came to tracking. If the merman said that the snake-devil had a definite goal in view, he was right.
When the brute came to the arena's end, and saw before him the shouting multitude, it suddenly swerved to come back, and Ted realized that something had happened to the saddle. It was slipping, and yet he was sure he had cinched it tight. Back they came tearing again, and passed Stella and Bud like a rocket. "Great guns!" cried Bud, "his saddle's loose. He's a goner now, shore."
Alone are seen the tints of green upon his sword-belt spread, For by that blade the blood of foes in vengeance shall be shed. The color of the mantle which on his arm he bore Is like the dark arena's dust when it is drenched in gore. Black as the buskins that he wears, and black his stirrup's steel, And red with rust of many a year the rowels at his heel.
Her friend the toothless lion had succumbed to old age, several of the helpers had been changed, and Vardri was no longer near at hand to lift her on to her horse and wait to help her dismount. Whenever he could get away from Vladimir and the newspaper office, he was among the spectators, and their thoughts and glances met across the wide arena's space.
It would be difficult to exaggerate the value of this meeting to me, for no matter what anyone may now say of the Arena's logic or literary style, its editor's life was nobly altruistic. I have never known a man who strove more single-heartedly for social progress, than B. O. Flower.
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