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

29 страница из 55

One of them was the priest whose life Alban had saved at the expense of his own, and as the dark-veiled figure crept up the hill-side he advanced to meet it.

“Is it thou, my daughter, Ebba, the slave of the Roman house?”

“Yes, father, and I would fain follow thee. I am not afraid now. I will confess Christ before men. If I am to die, He will be with me, and I cannot—I dare not—tarry any longer. Baptise me; I am ready.”

“Art thou sure thou art in truth ready to leave all for Christ, to dare to confess thy faith?”

The girl’s lips faltered, and she said—

“I would fain remain with my mistress if it were possible. I love her little daughter so well.”

“Ah! I see, thou art not ready to leave all for Christ. There must be no halting between two opinions. My daughter, he who was done to a cruel death on this spot to-day, and whose blessed body we have buried here in silence and darkness, did not halt. Never can I forget the decision he showed. In the very hour that he believed, he confessed, and gave up all. Think what a renunciation it was: his fine house, whither the noblest and the most learned scholars amongst the Romans resorted; the honour paid him when he went to the temple to sacrifice to the false gods; the respect also felt for his gifts and talents. Yet he never faltered, and when the great trial-hour came he sent me forth in his robe, with a face as glad as if, when he arrayed himself in my Caracalla,[A] he had donned his wedding garment.