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

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Anna’s was not a strong, heroic soul; she was, as she had told her little mistress, a coward. “Yet He giveth strength to the weak” was a promise to be fulfilled in her case, as in that of the thousands who have learned to “count all things but loss for the love of Christ.”

Agatha was of a very different nature. She was sleeping as soundly and quietly as a child, while her young companion tossed and turned with wide-open eyes and restless limbs till noonday was near. The outer caves were getting full, and the whispers of the fugitives awoke Agatha.

“Have you slept, my daughter?” she said.

“Nay, I cannot sleep. I do not feel any peace, though I would not go back if I could.” Then she added hastily, and in a weak, low voice, “I am hungry.”

Agatha smiled.

“Ah!” she said, “hunger and weariness are a part of the cross we must bear after Christ; but thou art young, my child, and I will see whether I can find thee some food. We have had but scant measure here.”

Agatha disappeared within the outer cave, and presently returned, beckoning Anna to follow her.