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

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It was too late now.

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There was a good deal of consternation in the household of the noble Severus when Ebba’s flight was discovered.

An ominous frown upon Severus’s brow, as he entered his wife’s chamber, showed that a storm was brewing.

His lady had just had her morning bath, and was crying in a very undignified way for Ebba, declaring that the attendant, who was doing her best to supply her place, scorched her head with the crimping iron; that no one could plait her hair as Ebba did; that no one could twist into it the gold threads, or place the plait in the right position, but Ebba.

“Silence!” exclaimed Severus; “what mean you, to chide and wail like a weakling infant? Begone, all of you,” he said, clapping his hands; “begone, slaves, nor return till I bid you.”

The attendants, frightened by their master’s threatening air, took flight like a flock of pigeons, and only Hyacintha remained.

“Didst hear my order, child?”

But Hyacintha, whose eyes were swollen with weeping, said—