Without so much as a sponging down or a mouthful of wine Almo was faced by a seventh fresh swordsman in complete armor. This time there were no caterwaulings or groans. Even the upper gallery had recognized Almo or been told who he was, even the populace had remembered or had been informed of the relation between Almo and Brinnaria. Everybody had recalled or been reminded of her rescue of the retiarius. The audience collectively comprehended that Aurelius meant Almo to be defeated and put at an adversary’s mercy before Brinnaria, that he was testing her. The habitual hubbub, hum, and buzz of undertones was checked to a very unusual degree, the Amphitheatre became almost still. But when Almo fairly duplicated his first bout and neatly, almost without effort, cut his victim’s throat, the audience cheered him vociferously. Louder, if possible did they acclaim his calm and adequate strategy against his eighth antagonist. A ninth and a tenth were promptly put beyond power to hurt him by wounds ingeniously disabling, but far from deadly. The eleventh bout was more tedious than the sixth. Almo divined some greater strength or skill in this adversary and played him warily. When the audience was bored to the point of being almost ready to call for something diverting Almo slaughtered his man with a terrible wound between his corselet and kilt. The twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth antagonists Almo plainly despised. He stood almost still, hardly altering the position of his feet except to turn as the huge barbarians circled ponderously about him. Each he brought down with his first lunge. As the fifteenth bout began the audience was manifestly impatient and restive. But they were not bored. That one Thracian, almost without rest, should successively dispose of fourteen antagonists, in the fullest armor, was a notable feat. The perfect form of Almo’s fighting was even more notable. At each victory the audience cheered him till they were hoarse. They seemed to cheer quite spontaneously and to need the relief for their feelings. But also they seemed to mean to give him as long a rest as was in their power. They were all for him. But no man could go on fighting continually without fatigue. In his fifteenth bout Almo moved heavily. The other man was unusually quick for a big man. He handled his big sword deftly. After much sparring he was too quick for Almo, and the point of his slender blade scratched Almo’s splay vizor, nicked his chin, and tore a long shallow slash in the skin of his right breast. Blood welling through it stained the green of Almo’s tunic; blood dropping from his chin spotted the bright green. The populace groaned. Manlia prayed. Brinnaria, under scrutiny of two hundred thousand eyes, sat erect, fanned herself steadily, and gazed straight before her. To all appearance she was as indifferent to Almo as if he did not exist. After that Alma moved like a sleep-walker or a man in a dream, dully and dazedly.