her lover and her father: a refusal would discover the secret of her soul, and if Lausus were suspected to be dear to her, he were undone. It was in this cruel agitation that Lydia awaited the day. The terrible day arrived. Lydia, dismayed and trembling, saw herself decked out not as a bride to be presented at the altar of Love and Hymen, but as one of those innocent victims that a barbarous piety crowned with flowers before it sacrificed them.

They led her to the place where the spectacle was to be exhibited; the people assembled there in multitudes, and the sports began. I shall not stop to describe the engagements at the cestus, at wrestling, at the sword: a more dreadful object engages our attention.

An enormous lion advances. At first, with a calm pride, he traverses the arena, throwing his dreadful looks round the amphitheater that environs him; a confused murmur announces the terror that he inspires. In a short time the sound of clarions animates him; he replies by his roarings; his shaggy mane is erected around his monstrous head; he lashes his loins with his tail, and the fire begins to issue from his sparkling eyeballs. The affrighted populace wish and dread to see the wretch appear who is to be delivered up to the rage of this monster. Terror and pity seize on every breast. The combatant, whom Mezentius’ guards themselves had taken for Phanor, presents himself. Lydia could not distinguish him. The horror with which she was seized obliged her to turn away her eyes from this spectacle, which shocks the sensibility of her tender soul. Alas! what would she feel if she knew that Phanor, the dear friend of Lausus, was the criminal whom they have selected; if she knew that Lausus himself had taken his friend’s place, and that it was he who was going to fight!

Half-naked, his hair disheveled, he walked with an intrepid air; a poniard for the attack, a buckler for defense, are the only arms by which he was protected. Mezentius, prepossessed, sees in him only the guilty Phanor. His own blood is drunk, Nature is blind; it is his own son whom he delivers up to death, and his bowels are not moved. Resentment and revenge stifle every other sentiment. He saw with a barbarous joy the fury of the lion rising by degrees. Lausus, impatient, provoked the monster and urged him to the combat. He advanced toward him; the lion sprang forward. Lausus avoided him. Thrice the enraged animal made toward him with his foaming jaws, and thrice Lausus escaped his murderous fangs.

In the meantime Phanor learned what was happening. He ran up, bearing down the multitude before him, while his piercing cries made the amphitheater resound. “Stop, Mezentius! Save your son, for it is he! It is Lausus who is engaged!” Mezentius looked and knew Phanor, who hastened toward him. “Oh, ye gods, what do I see! My people, assist me! Throw yourselves on the arena, save my son from the jaws of death!” At the name of Lausus, Lydia fell down dead on the steps of the amphitheater: her heart cold, her eyes covered with darkness. Mezentius saw only his son, now in imminent danger. A thousand hands strive in vain for his defense: the monster pursued him and would have devoured him before they could have come to his assistance. But, oh, incredible wonder! Unlooked-for happiness! Lausus, eluding the bounds of the furious animal, struck him a mortal wound and his sword was drawn reeking from the lion’s heart. He fell amid torrents of blood spat forth from the foaming jaws. The universal alarm now changed into triumph, and the people replied to Mezentius’ doleful cries only by shouts of admiration and joy. These shouts recalled Lydia to life: she opened her eyes and saw Lausus at Mezentius’ feet, holding in one hand the bloody dagger, and in the other his dear and faithful Phanor. “It is I,” said he to his father, “I alone who am culpable. Phanor’s crime was mine: it was my duty to explain it. I forced him to resign his place, and was about to kill myself if he refused. I live, I owe my life to him, and if your son be still dear to you, you owe your son to him, but if your vengeance is not appeased, our days are in your hands. Strike, we will perish together, our hearts have sworn it.” Lydia, trembling at this discourse, viewed Mezentius with suppliant eyes, overflowing with tears. The tyrant’s cruelty could not withstand this trial. The cries of Nature and the voice of remorse put to silence jealousy and revenge. He remained for a long time immovable and dumb, casting by turns looks of trouble and confusion on the culprits before him, looks in which love, hatred, indignation, and pity succeeded to one another. All trembled around the tyrant. Lausus, Phanor, Lydia, and a multitude innumerable waited with terror the first words that he was to pronounce. He submitted at last, in spite of himself, to that virtue whose ascendancy overpowered him, and passing of a sudden with impetuous violence from rage to tenderness, he threw