was then the eyes of the vestals lighted; artistic death was their
chiefest joy, and in a moment, when the spectacle began and the
first gladiator fell, above the din you could hear their cry "Hic
habet!" and watch their delicate thumbs reverse.

There was no cowardice in that arena. If by chance any hesitation
were discernible, instantly there were hot irons, the sear of
which revivified courage at once. But that was rare. The
gladiators fought for applause, for liberty, for death; fought
manfully, skilfully, terribly, too, and received the point of the
sword or the palm of the victor, their expression unchanged, the
face unmoved. Among them, some provided with a net and
prodigiously agile, pursued their adversaries hither and thither,
trying to entangle them first and kill them later. Others,
protected by oblong shields and armed with short, sharp swords,
fought hand-to-hand. There were still others, mailed horsemen, who
fought with the lance, and charioteers that dealt death from high
Briton cars.

As a spectacle it was unique; one that the Romans, or more
exactly, their predecessors, the Etruscans, had devised to train
their children for war and allay the fear of blood. It had been
serviceable, indeed, and though the need of it had gone, still the
institution endured, and in enduring constituted the chief delight
of the vestals and of Rome. By means of it a bankrupt became
consul and an emperor beloved. It had stayed revolutions, it was
the tax of the proletariat on the rich. Silver and bread were for
the individual, but these things were for the crowd.

During the pauses of the combats the dead were removed by men