A wave of sound seemed to sweep round in a circle inside
and spend itself about us, of faint multitudinous clappings. Conviction
descended upon us suddenly, and as we stumbled after the others we
shared one classic moment of anticipation, hurrying and curious in 1895
as the Romans hurried and were curious in 110, a little late for the
show in the Arena. They were all there before us, they had taken the
best places, and sat, as we emerged in our astonishment, tier above tier
to the row where the wall stopped and the sky began, intent,
enthusiastic. The wall threw a new moon of shadow on the west, and there
the sun struck down sharply and made splendid the dyes in the women's
clothes, and turned the Italian soldiers' buttons into flaming jewels.
And again, as we stared, the applause went round and up, from the yellow
sand below to the blue sky above, and when we looked bewildered down
into the Arena for the victorious gladiator, and saw a tumbling clown
with a painted face instead, the illusion was only half destroyed. We
climbed and struggled for better places, treading, I fear, in our
absorption on a great many Veronese toes.
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