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

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“Are you—is any one—sure they are lies?” Casca asked.

“Look you, Casca,” said Claudius, “it is not for any one here to ask that question. Suffice it, that they are lies, base lies.”

Casca sighed heavily, and Claudius continued—

“The fugitive, whose name was Amphibalus, at last succeeded in his base designs. Alban, whom every one respected and honoured here, professed himself a Christian, and then the scene changed. So well had Alban hidden this fellow, that it was not for many days that suspicion was directed to his house. When at least it was searched, he, the stranger, had fled. Alban had give him one of his best robes, and wearing that, he escaped suspicion, and passed through the gates. But Alban himself, clothed in the Caracalla, which is the robe the fellow wore, was now under suspicion. ‘You will suffer in his stead, unless you at once sacrifice to the images of the gods,’ the judge said.”

“To tell the truth,” said Claudius, “there was something noble in the fellow, for no tortures could make him give in. Hush! what is that?”