On the east side of the passage the gladiators are standing and sitting at ease, waiting, like the Christians, for their turn in the arena. One (_Retiarius_) is a nearly naked man with a net and a trident. Another (_Secutor_) is in armor with a sword. He carries a helmet with a barred visor. The editor of the gladiators sits on a chair a little apart from them. _The Call Boy enters from the passage._ THE CALL BOY. Number six. Retiarius versus Secutor. _The gladiator with the net picks it up. The gladiator with the helmet puts it on; and the two go into the arena, the net thrower taking out a little brush and arranging his hair as he goes, the other tightening his straps and shaking his shoulders loose. Both look at themselves in the mirrors before they enter the passage._ LAVINIA. Will they really kill one another? SPINTHO. Yes, if the people turn down their thumbs. THE EDITOR. You know nothing about it. The people indeed! Do you suppose we would kill a man worth perhaps fifty talents to please the riffraff? I should like to catch any of my men at it. SPINTHO. I thought— THE EDITOR. (_contemptuously_) You thought! Who cares what you think? You’ll be killed all right enough. SPINTHO. (_groans and again hides his face_)!!! Then is nobody ever killed except us poor— LAVINIA. Christians? THE EDITOR. If the vestal virgins turn down their thumbs, that’s another matter. They’re ladies of rank. LAVINIA. Does the Emperor ever interfere? THE EDITOR. Oh, yes: he turns his thumbs up fast enough if the vestal virgins want to have one of his pet fighting men killed. ANDROCLES. But don’t they ever just only pretend to kill one another? Why shouldn’t you pretend to die, and get dragged out as if you were dead; and then get up and go home, like an actor? THE EDITOR. See here: you want to know too much. There will be no pretending about the new lion: let that be enough for you. He’s hungry. SPINTHO. (_groaning with horror_) Oh, Lord! Can’t you stop talking about it? Isn’t it bad enough for us without that? ANDROCLES. I’m glad he’s hungry. Not that I want him to suffer, poor chap! but then he’ll enjoy eating me so much more. There’s a cheerful side to everything. THE EDITOR. (_rising and striding over to Androcles_) Here: don’t you be obstinate. Come with me and drop the pinch of incense on the altar. That’s all you need do to be let off. ANDROCLES. No: thank you very much indeed; but I really mustn’t. THE EDITOR. What! Not to save your life? ANDROCLES. I’d rather not. I couldn’t sacrifice to Diana: she’s a huntress, you know, and kills things. THE EDITOR. That don’t matter. You can choose your own altar. Sacrifice to Jupiter: he likes animals: he turns himself into an animal when he goes off duty. ANDROCLES. No: it’s very kind of you; but I feel I can’t save myself that way. THE EDITOR. But I don’t ask you to do it to save yourself: I ask you to do it to oblige me personally.