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

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“That robe was the signal for his death. He did not fear to die for Christ, and he stood before the Governor, so those tell me who saw him, with a face shining like that of an angel. I have been in hiding near by, and have remained under cover of the darkness, to make known to the faithful whither I am gone, that they may perchance follow me, and in the fastnesses of Wales, we may add daily to our number such as shall be saved. Say, Ebba, wilt thou follow? See, there are signs of dawn in the east. I may not tarry. That group yonder seen in dark, dim, outline, is composed of those who are following me to a meeting-place I have indicated. Wilt thou join thyself to them?”

The poor British slave bowed her head, and clasping her hands, said, “I will follow thee.”

Then the priest led her to a spring, and baptised the heathen Ebba by the name “Anna.”

The morning star was shining brightly, and the summer dawn breaking over the hills, when, by the grave of the two martyrs, the cross was signed upon the forehead of the British slave.