Stealthily, like panthers waiting to spring, the combatants went towards each other; each was watching for an unprotected spot in his antagonist, while trying to expose himself as little as possible. They probably had known each other for some time; they had most likely lived for some months in the same barrack and been in daily intercourse; they perhaps had made friends--if the occupation of a gladiator could leave room for the feeling of friendship--and now they had but one idea: To kill, in order not to be killed. There was a loud ring of metal; Marcus had dealt the Cheruscan a fearful blow on the helmet. Tumelicus nearly lost his balance; he withdrew a step or two, anxiously screening himself with his shield. Thus he recovered from the shock of the onslaught. He rushed forward, and retorted with a still more tremendous stroke. His attack was better than that of his opponent. The Suevian turned pale; the blow had shattered his sword and so severely wounded his right-hand, that it seemed impossible that he should defend himself any longer; he flung away his shield without more ado. A roar of mocking laughter from eighty thousand throats rent the air. He stretched out his arm and held up his thumb, in token that he acknowledged himself beaten and implored for mercy. Fresh shouts of laughter! What, a man, whose clumsiness had so shamefully shortened their entertainment, could hope for mercy! How little he knew the Roman mob. All the spectators' thumbs were turned down,[148] as if at a preconcerted signal; there was not a single exception, and Leaina even put out both her fat little hands glittering with rings, to give emphasis to her demonstration. Thumbs downwards, that meant death. The hapless gladiator glanced despairingly upwards, as though to call on Heaven and the future to avenge his miserable fate. He panted for breath, and terrible anguish was depicted in his face. His thoughts flashed back perhaps, in that instant, far away to his German home, where a yellow-haired maiden sat sadly by the hearth, and his blind old mother wept for his return; away to the hills of the Black Forest, where in the happy days of his freedom, he had hunted the chamois and the wild goat, or gathered the alpine rose for a wreath for that golden head. He clenched his fist and his lips quivered. Then suddenly his expression settled into dull resignation; he bent his head and silently awaited his death-blow. He was too well schooled as a gladiator, not to know that, by all the rules of the art, he must yield and die. Tumelicus came up to do the office of executioner; he drove his knife in just below the shoulder blade, into his antagonist’s heart. The Suevian fell on his knees, gazing fixedly at the ground. The Cheruscan slowly drew out his weapon, and a gush of blood sprinkled the victor with its red flood.