Half the lamps are out and the light rapidly failing as Antipater rushes through the door.

He falls beside the arena, rises and opens the gate.
"A lance," he whispers, and it is quickly put in his hands.

"Come, come quickly, son of Varro," he whispers again.

"The light is failing.
He will tear you into shreds.

Come through the gate here." Vergilius had stopped, facing the leopard with lance raised.
"Not unless I have the wager," says he, calmly.
"You have won it," Antipater answers.