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

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Severus had several officers and gentlemen with him, and was scarcely conscious of his little daughter’s presence till she pulled the sleeve of his robe.

“Tell me, father, is the man dead?”

“Ay, little one, and so may all the enemies of the gods perish. But such a story is not for thy ears, my Hyacintha. See, take thy lute and play to us while we sup. These fellows have had enough of freedom for one day, and the supper is late. How now, slaves!” Severus exclaimed, clapping his hands, “let the guests be served.”

The couches were soon filled by the company, and Cæcilia reclined at the head of the board, dressed in the richest violet silk, with gold trimmings, a long veil floating at the back of her head.

Ebba was in attendance, and a seat at the end of the sofa or couch was reserved for Hyacintha.

“Where have you left Casca? Where is my son?” Cæcilia asked.

“The boy is weary, and the day has been too much for him. He has not the nerve and muscle of a Spartan,” was the reply; “not so much as our little maiden here, I verily believe.”