say that my wish was that she should be happy with her next, poor
fellow! Caesar: go to your box and see how a tailor can die. Make
way for number twelve there. (He marches out along the passage).

The vast audience in the amphitheatre now sees the Emperor
re-enter his box and take his place as Androcles, desperately
frightened, but still marching with piteous devotion, emerges
from the other end of the passage, and finds himself at the focus
of thousands of eager eyes. The lion's cage, with a heavy
portcullis grating, is on his left. The Emperor gives a signal. A
gong sounds. Androcles shivers at the sound; then falls on his
knees and prays.

The grating rises with a clash. The lion bounds into the arena.
He rushes round frisking in his freedom. He sees Androcles. He
stops; rises stiffly by straightening his legs; stretches out his
nose forward and his tail in a horizontal line behind, like a
pointer, and utters an appalling roar. Androcles crouches and
hides his face in his hands. The lion gathers himself for a
spring, swishing his tail to and fro through the dust in an
ecstasy of anticipation. Androcles throws up his hands in
supplication to heaven. The lion checks at the sight of
Androcles's face. He then steals towards him; smells him; arches
his back; purrs like a motor car; finally rubs himself against
Androcles, knocking him over. Androcles, supporting himself on
his wrist, looks affrightedly at the lion. The lion limps on
three paws, holding up the other as if it was wounded. A flash of
recognition lights up the face of Androcles. He flaps his hand as
if it had a thorn in it, and pretends to pull the thorn out and
to hurt himself. The lion nods repeatedly. Androcles holds out