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

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A low voice was heard to say—

“Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

“It is Ebba’s voice,” Hyacintha exclaimed, and running towards the door, she found Ebba standing there.

“It is Ebba,” Hyacintha repeated. “Permit her to enter and hear the story to the end.” Casca nodded his head by way of assent, and Ebba, leaning against the wall over which a curtain hung, listened intently while Claudius finished his story.

“No tortures,” he continued, “would make the fellow give in. The scourge ploughed his back pretty well. He had thirty-nine stripes, and we expected to see him fall down dead.”

“Were you in the hall?” Casca exclaimed.

“Yes, I have seen the whole play played out,” the boy said carelessly. “The grand climax was to-day, when the executioner threw himself at Alban’s feet, and begged to die with him, or for him. And then there was an uproar indeed. A great multitude pressed round Alban, who was praying and calling upon his God, and crying to Jesus to have mercy, and turn the hearts of the people to himself.