That he did so was not his own fault. He too was a slave of Pedanius, who had cruelly degraded him to this place in the amphitheatre as a punishment for a trivial offence, followed by an outbreak of resentment, when, in his younger days, he had been a favourite cup-bearer of his master. It would be useless to aver that his character had not been somewhat brutalised by the hideous duties forced upon him; but he regarded himself as the victim of necessity, and therefore as not responsible--a view not without a grim element of truth in the case of a pagan slave. Seeing Syra as she lingered about the amphitheatre, he had been struck by her helpless prettiness, and she had learnt to admire a face which still retained its good looks, if not its good expression. They fell in love with each other; but when she was forced to tell him of her misfortune, he declared all question of marriage to be impossible unless she were cured of her comitial disease. He had himself persuaded her to come this evening to the spoliarium after the games, and to try the remedy which alone seemed to offer any chance of success. But poor Syra dared not go alone through the darkening, crowded, and vicious streets, and thought that Junia, as she was now a freedwoman, could protect her. Junia was always actuated by the principle as well as by the instinct of kindness. Not guessing the object of the girl’s errand, but knowing her hapless love for Phlegon, she consented to accompany her. It cost her a pang to leave her father on that happy evening, but she knew that with him, no less than with herself, the claims of charity were paramount, and all the more towards those who seemed to need it most. ‘Could you find no better youth to love than one of so dire a trade, Syra?’ she gently asked the girl, as, with their heads covered with shawls, they went in the deepening dusk down the Via Sacra towards the amphitheatre. ‘It is not his fault, Junia. He hates it. His heart is naturally pitiful. He was brought up in the midst of luxury in the house of Pedanius, where he was a favourite. But Pedanius is a wretch, and once he treated Phlegon so cruelly that, in a fit of rage, the boy struck him. He might have been crucified for it, or flung to the lampreys; but, instead of that, Pedanius made him take to this work in the amphitheatre. How else could he live?’ ‘There are some lives worse than death,’ said Junia. ‘Well,’ answered Syra; ‘many a time he has longed to stab himself with his own sword; but ... he loves me.’ ‘I did not mean that he should have killed himself,’ said Junia; ‘none of us have a right to fling away the life which God gives us. I meant that it would be worth while facing any risk to escape doing wrong.’ ‘Nothing can be wrong which our masters make us do,’ answered Syra simply; and Junia could only sigh, for she knew that this was an axiom with both slaves and their masters.