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

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“Aye, that is like nectar,” he said. Then he threw his large muscular limbs upon some cushions piled up in a corner near the window, where Hyacintha sat, her figure a little bent forward, and her eyes fastened upon the boy, as he began his tale.

“Only a few months ago, Alban was one of the most devoted worshippers in the temple of Apollo. He spent large sums on sacrifices, and if he poured out a libation, it was of the purest wine. There was no stint with him, as you know, or ought to know. A man who professed to teach and preach this new superstition was fleeing from his pursuers. Walking along Watling Street, Alban, noticing his breathless condition, inquired what ailed him. He said the Governor’s minions were upon him. Alban, struck with the man’s agony, hastily conducted him to his house, and harboured him there in secret.

“It is said that the miserable fugitive prayed night and day to his God, asking for help, and also that Alban should be turned from the old faith to believe these lies.”