‘Poor wretches,’ said Onesimus to Glanydon; ‘they do not talk of the panic which sometimes seizes them, and how they are howled at when, in ignominious defeat, they fly to the end of the arena to beg for their lives; how, when they see overwhelming odds against them and grim death staring them in the face, they are still driven into the fight with cracking scourges and plates of iron heated red hot; nor--but what is the use of talking of all this, Glanydon? you know it all better than I do.’ ‘Brutal, bloody, slaves and women, are these Romans,’ cried Glanydon. ‘The Druids of my native land served the gods with cruel rites, but they did not play with death as though it were a pretty toy, as these weaklings do. And to think that by arms and discipline they conquered my countrymen! Oh, for one hour again under Caradoc or under Boudicca! I would never leave another field alive.’ ‘You do not, then, fear death?’ said Onesimus. ‘Why should I? What has life for me? The maiden I loved is in her hut on my Silurian hills. I shall never see her more, nor set foot on those purple mist-clad mountains. I shall be butchered to amuse these swine. Death! No,’ he said, while he indignantly dashed away the tear which had burst forth at the thought of his home--‘I do not fear death, but I hate to die thus.’ ‘Did your Druids think that death ended all?’ Glanydon turned his blue eyes on the speaker. ‘I do not think they did. There were mysteries which they hid from us. But’.... With amazement Onesimus saw him sketch in the dust the helmet of a mirmillo, of which the crest was a dolphin. The Phrygian said nothing, but scratched in the dust the same symbol. Glanydon started up and seized his hand. ‘A Christian?’ he asked in amazement; ‘and yet here?’ ‘You too are here,’ said Onesimus, hanging his head. ‘Ah, yes!’ said the Briton; ‘but surely for no crime. What could I do but strike a wretch viler than a worm? Nor have I been illuminated-- my teacher would not baptise me till he could see proof that I had controlled the fierce outbursts of passion.’ ‘Your teacher?’ ‘There came from Jerusalem an old white-haired man. They called him Joseph. He had seen the Christ; he had buried Him in his own tomb. --But you, Onesimus?’ ‘I am no better than a renegade. My own follies have brought me here. There is no more hope for me. Ask me no more.’ ‘Do you fear death?’ asked the Briton. ‘If so, I pity your lot.’ ‘The gods--or God if there be but one God--cannot be _worse_ than men,’ answered Onesimus gloomily. Glanydon was silent. After a pause, he said, ‘I am a rude barbarian, as they call me here; yet he who taught me spoke much of “love for all and hope for all.”’ Onesimus sat with bowed head, and the Briton was moved. ‘We are brothers,’ he said. ‘Even in this hell we can love one another.’