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

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Junia now threw herself down by Cæcilia’s side, and tossing back the broad red ribbon which confined her hair, she exclaimed, “So the faithful Ebba, the paragon of perfection, is gone. What will you do without her services, fair Cæcilia?”

“I have other maidens at hand,” said Cæcilia, coldly. “They are skilful.”

“Yes, doubtless,” Junia said, laughing, and showing a row of white teeth. “Yes, let her go, I say; but I know the noble Severus will have her head. I only hope it will not come in alone, but have company.” And again there was a ringing laugh.

“And tell me, beautiful Cæcilia, is it true that Hyacintha is to be sent to Rome?”

“Yes, Hyacintha is to go to Rome without delay,” Cæcilia answered.

“To be trained for a priestess to the goddess Vesta?”

“I think it may be so.”

“Alas! What a doleful life for the lovely maiden—a priestess—no marriage for her, no love, no freedom. I would rather be buried at once in one of the subterranean places they tell us so much of.”

“My daughter is of tender years,” said Cæcilia. “She will at present only be educated under the care of her father’s aunt—the noble Terentia Rufilla. The hall of the Vestals is no mean home. They have everything that is meet for the children of noble Romans. And,” continued Cæcilia, with a languid air of pride, “be it remembered that Vestals can only be chosen from the noblest houses of pure, unmixed descent.”