The vast multitude were greatly gratified in their feeling of the sensational. Yet a few were stirred to better thoughts and high resolves, who would never otherwise be influenced. Thus in the providence of God does the wrath of man work out His purpose and praise. The applause was at its height. But, strange to say, Tharsos moved not. The officials that had gone to his aid removed the huge dead lion from his body. Still Tharsos moved not. Something appeared to be wrong, and the great noise stopped. The spectators leaned forward and looked anxious. Was the dauntless destroyer himself destroyed? The attendants turned him tenderly over--when, alas! there was a frightful gash in his naked side, from which the blood was flowing freely into the sand. His face and lips were white, with an expression of peace, as if in death. Titanus, deeply anxious, arose and hastened away to get the best physician he could find. As he disappeared he glanced upward to the colonnade, but Coryna, the sister, was gone. Carnion remained to see more of the stricken man, and of the pale woman in the centre, silent, unnoticed, and alone. Promptly but gently the attendants lifted up Tharsos and carried him from the arena. And as he passed from their sight the vast audience was hushed in regret. CHAPTER XII. DISCIPLINE. Pathema also watched their movements and departure, fearing that the wounded youth was dead. Her heart yearned anxiously after him. Who was he that had so valiantly fought and bled for her? His name was Tharsos, and he was a brave, self-sacrificing nobleman--that was all she could tell. It was enough. Self-sacrifice vividly recalled another sacrifice, greater, perfect, and for all. The flood-gate of feeling could not be kept closed. She held the lilies in her drooping hand, she raised them, looked at them tenderly for a moment, then buried her face in them, and wept. A herald now approached Pathema and formally announced that she was free, at the same time pointing to the open door through which they had borne the bleeding hero. But to the sensual undiscerning multitude, Pathema was no heroine. She was only a woman; and in those days when heathenism prevailed, women were not honoured as they are now. Besides, Pathema was to them a fanatic, a detested Christian, and at best but a stubborn, unbending, young woman. They knew not her supreme gentleness and modesty, which shrank from publicity like a sensitive plant from touch. They did not know that it was intense love and loyalty to her Head which gave her strength to dare even cruel death. Pathema turned to leave the arena, but the tension and turmoil and reaction were now telling fast upon her fragile frame. As she walked away, her weakness was so great that she had the utmost difficulty to keep from falling, and it was only too visible; but she struggled on.