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

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“Do not tell father, dear brother,” she said, “about Ebba. I pray you, do not. It might end in her death. And, oh!” exclaimed Hyacintha passionately, “I do dread death, the darkness whither we must go, before we reach the Elysian fields.”

“Do not fret, little sister. You are too grave for your tender years; come, sing to me and Claudius the good-night song you refused to sing to the guests below.”

“Ah! sing to us, and then I must seek for my sister, and conduct her home. The guests are leaving the hall, some of them are hilarious enough.”

As he spoke, loud laughter ascended from the atrium, and the torches which the attendants and slaves lifted flashed through the street. There was not much need of their light this evening. The days of our northern climate were at their longest, and almost before daylight faded from the west, streaks of dawn brightened the east.

The people of Verulam had gone through a tiring day, and the city was wrapt earlier than usual in repose.

It was just between midnight and the first hour of the coming day that a figure, veiled closely, glided across the square, which lay on one side of the villa Severus, and following the course of the river crossed it towards the hill, where the great spectacle of the day before had been witnessed by so many thousands. These were for the most part sleeping peacefully in Verulam, but some were yet watching on the spot where the martyrs had shed their blood.