THE door of Diomed's house stood open, and Medon, the old slave, sat at the bottom of the steps by which you to the . That mansion of the rich merchant of Pompeii is still to be seen just without the gates of the city, at the commencement of the Street of Tombs; it was a gay neighborhood, despite the dead. On the opposite side, but at some yards nearer the gate, was a hostelry, at which those brought by business or by pleasure to Pompeii often stopped to refresh themselves. In the space before the entrance of the inn now stood , and carts, and chariots, some just arrived, some just quitting, in all the of an and popular resort of public entertainment. Before the door, some farmers, seated on a bench by a small circular table, were talking over their morning cups, on the affairs of their calling. On the side of the door itself was painted and freshly the eternal sign of the chequers. By the roof of the inn stretched a terrace, on which some females, wives of the farmers above mentioned, were, some seated, some leaning over the railing, and with their friends below. In a deep , at a little distance, was a covered seat, in which some two or three poorer travellers were resting themselves, and shaking the dust from their garments. On the other side stretched a wide space, originally the burial-ground of a more ancient race than the present of Pompeii, and now converted into the Ustrinum, or place for the burning of the dead. Above this rose the terraces of a gay , half hid by trees. The tombs themselves, with their and shapes, the flowers and the that surrounded them, made no feature in the . Hard by the gate of the city, in a small , stood the still form of the well-disciplined Roman , the sun shining brightly on his polished , and the lance on which he leaned. The gate itself was divided into three arches, the centre one for vehicles, the others for the foot-passengers; and on either side rose the massive walls which girt the city, composed, patched, repaired at a thousand different epochs, according as war, time, or the earthquake had shattered that vain protection. At frequent rose square towers, whose summits broke in rudeness the regular line of the wall, and contrasted well with the modern buildings gleaming whitely by.  
The curving road, which in that direction leads from Pompeii to Herculaneum, wound out of sight amidst hanging vines, above which frowned the of Vesuvius.
 
'Hast thou heard the news, old Medon?' said a young woman, with a in her hand, as she paused by Diomed's door to gossip a moment with the slave, ere she repaired to the neighboring inn to fill the , and coquet with the travellers.
 
'The news! what news?' said the slave, raising his eyes from the ground.
 
'Why, there passed through the gate this morning, no doubt ere thou wert well awake, such a visitor to Pompeii!'
 
'Ay,' said the slave, indifferently.
 
'Yes, a present from the noble Pomponianus.'
 
'A present! I thought thou saidst a visitor?'
 
'It is both visitor and present. Know, O dull and stupid! that it is a most beautiful young tiger, for our approaching games in the amphitheatre. Hear you that, Medon? Oh, what pleasure! I declare I shall not sleep a till I see it; they say it has such a roar!'
 
'Poor fool!' said Medon, sadly and .
 
'Fool me no fool, old ! It is a pretty thing, a tiger, especially if we could but find somebody for him to eat. We have now a lion and a tiger; only consider that, Medon! and for want of two good criminals perhaps we shall be forced to see them eat each other. By-the-by, your son is a gladiator, a handsome man and a strong, can you not persuade him to fight the tiger? Do now, you would oblige me ; , you would be a to the whole town.'
 
'Vah! vah!' said the slave, with great ; 'think of thine own danger ere thou thus pratest of my poor boy's death.'
 
'My own danger!' said the girl, frightened and looking hastily around—'Avert the ! let thy words fall on thine own head!' And the girl, as she , touched a suspended round her neck. '"Thine own danger!" what danger threatens me?'
 
'Had the earthquake but a few nights since no warning?' said Medon. 'Has it not a voice? Did it not say to us all, "Prepare for death; the end of all things is at hand?"'
 
'Bah, stuff!' said the young woman, settling the folds of her . 'Now thou talkest as they say the Nazarenes talked—methinks thou art one of them. Well, I can with thee, grey croaker, no more: thou growest worse and worse—Vale! O Hercules, send us a man for the lion—and another for the tiger!'
 
            Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show,
            With a forest of faces in every row!
            Lo, the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmena,
            Sweep, side by side, o'er the hushed ;
            Talk while you may—you will hold your breath
            When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death.
            Tramp, tramp, how gaily they go!
            Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show!
Chanting in a silver and clear voice this feminine ditty, and holding up her tunic from the dusty road, the young woman stepped lightly across to the crowded hostelry.
 
'My poor son!' said the slave, half aloud, 'is it for things like this thou art to be butchered? Oh! faith of Christ, I could worship thee in all , were it but for the horror which thou inspirest for these lists.'
 
The old man's head sank dejectedly on his breast. He remained silent and absorbed, but every now and then with the corner of his sleeve he wiped his eyes. His heart was with his son; he did not see the figure that now approached from the gate with a quick step, and a somewhat fierce and reckless gait and carriage. He did not lift his eyes till the figure paused opposite the place where he sat, and with a soft voice addressed him by the name of:
 
'Father!'
 
'My boy! my Lydon! is it indeed thou?' said the old man, . 'Ah, thou wert present to my thoughts.'
 
'I am glad to hear it, my father,' said the gladiator, respectfully the knees and beard of the slave; 'and soon may I be always present with thee, not in thought only.'
 
'Yes, my son—but not in this world,' replied the slave, mournfully.
 
'Talk not thus, O my sire! look cheerfully, for I feel so—I am sure that I shall win the day; and then, the gold I gain buys thy freedom. Oh! my father, it was but a few days since that I was , by one, too, whom I would gladly have undeceived, for he is more generous than the rest of his equals. He is not Roman—he is of Athens—by him I was taunted with the of gain—when I demanded what su............