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

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“I will pray my father,” Hyacintha thought “that I may go to Rome, and be trained for a priestess, in the temple of Vesta. Yes, I will pray him that I may do this, then I shall be happier far, for it will be doing something grand and noble.”

Her meditations were a second time broken in upon by her brother’s voice.

“Hark! I think I hear Claudius’s footstep. Yes; run, Hyacintha, and admit him.”

But Claudius did not wait to be admitted. He came springing in with a light step, and a cheery voice, a voice that had laughter in it, like the ripple of a brook hidden amongst moss and stones.

“So, here you are, hiding and moping! Wherefore such dolorous looks, young Casca? I am in the highest spirits. What think you? I am chosen for the race to-morrow, and I will win, too. Your pardon, fair Hyacintha. I did not perceive you in the shadow of the curtain. What ails you, Casca?”

“Weariness of myself and life, that is all,” the boy said; “you are in its full zest and enjoyment, while I——”

“Pish! what folly! The best time is coming. Why, as soon as you wear the toga virilis you will feel the man. Were you on the hill to-day?”