Читать книгу No. XIII; or, The Story of the Lost Vestal онлайн

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Hyacintha would ask her mother many questions about this temple, and the beautiful city so far away, and when her mother complained of the chilling winds and dark skies of the northern climate, she would ask—

“Why do we not return to Rome?”

The British slave-girl, Ebba, could tell her nothing of that distant city; but of late, when she spoke of it, she would speak of another city fairer and more beautiful than Rome could be, and when Hyacintha asked how people reached it, she would clasp her hands and say—

“By a rough and terrible way, from which the timid shrank, but the brave of heart went forth boldly to tread.”

Several times in the course of that long summer’s day did little Hyacintha mount to the balcony and look out on the crowd which covered the hill-side.

Now and then a few stragglers returned, or a chariot with prancing steeds rolled along the great Watling Street.

Women, tired of carrying their children, came back to the city, and by the evening there were knots of people in the city all talking of what had happened on the hill above the river. Just at sunset the servants of Severus’s household returned, and the evening meal was laid in the inner hall or banqueting-room. Very soon the wheels of chariots were heard rolling up, and Hyacintha ran down to meet her father and brother, and hear the news.