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

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“Father, do not send me hence, I pray you.”

Severus seldom said a harsh word to his little daughter, and it was not often that she witnessed his outbursts of passion.

He offered no opposition when Hyacintha nestled closer to her mother on the couch, merely saying—

“Then hold your peace if you stay, nor make a single objection to what I have to say. This slave, Ebba, has, it seems, been in league with the poor reptiles whom, by order of the Emperor, we are to do our best to crush out of this land. By the gods! it is no pleasant thing for me to have cold and scornful looks turned on me in the Governor’s hall to-day; to be suspected as the master of a household of these creatures. ‘Forsooth,’ one said in my ear, ‘the runaway slave is not the only tainted one in thy house.’ I swear by the gods, that if he referred to my own son, I will not spare him, no, I will deliver him up.”

Hyacintha, who buried her face in her mother’s mantle, gave a low cry of terror.

“Peace, child,” said her father; “I do not know if Casca is infected, but I will take care to stop the infection if it be so. I have set a price on Ebba’s head, and do not doubt I shall scent her out; but it is of this daughter of ours I wish to speak. I propose to send her to Rome without delay, to begin her training under our kinswoman, Terentia Rufilla. It is time—high time—and I shall proceed at once.”