Oil was poured on the faggots and straw, and a torch held to the far edge near the pools of water. The flame shot up, illumining the dark bloodthirsty faces, tier on tier of seats to mid-heaven. Again the crash of trumpets! The white figure of the victim was seen to raise her hands as if to Heaven and whether from the flame or the lightning of the gathering storm, her face shone radiant and fearless as dawn. Clouds of dust and sand blew through the arena in a tornado. Neighbor could not see neighbor on the stone seats and all the assembly began drawing cloaks over heads to protect them from the stifle of dust till the gust had passed. There was a terrible and sudden lull, when sand and rain came down in a deluge. Then the lightning bolts came—came in forks, and spears, and javelins of dazzling blinding light. There was a reverberating crash that rocked the templed columns of the theater as though they had been reeds in a wind. Women rose with screams. Men dashed up in panic. Was the earthquake feared more in the cities of the Roman Road than vengeance of God or man? A sharp ricocheting splintering as of the theater falling, and the lightning struck—struck the brass-tipped pole in the middle of the arena and the deluge burst from mid-heaven in rods of rain—torrential rains in a hurricane of wind and lightning. The pole fell. Some one shouted that the Lady Trefina had fainted. The Roman, who had stood above Thamyris’ dead body, saw an attendant run across the arena through the flashes of lurid lightning, snatch an unconscious white prone figure from the pile of quenched faggots, and dash to the royal enclosure of the Lady Trefina with the naked Greek girl over his shoulder. The rest was lost in the darkness and the deluge of rain. When Iconium awakened to cloudless skies the next morning, the city of the Roman Road was again agog with gossip. Had the Greek maid perished of the lightning stroke, or the fire? Had any one seen her body? No one knew. The great fête had ended in fiasco, and the commandant was in testy mood not to be questioned. Certainly one rumor proved true—Thamyris was dead; but whether he had died of grief for the loss of his promised bride, or been stabbed in a brawl on the upper tier of seats, newsmongers did not know; for his body had been found all blood-spattered from blue jacket to silken breeches. Thecla’s mother could not be seen; for she was ill abed of heartbreak. And certainly, the Lady Trefina from Rome had departed at day dawn ill pleased with the fête; for she had not waited for the caravan. She had gone ahead at break of day in a litter chair with no attendant but the Roman Commander, a Greek page boy, who looked like a girl, mounted on a fleet horse, and an old colored woman bent astride over a mule, hanging to the saddle pummel as though she were frightened out of her wits. * * * * * The record of Thecla must now jump forward some twenty years.