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

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Junia laughed.

“I see,” she exclaimed, “no poor maiden whose father is a son of the conquered race could hope for the honour. Ah! well, she courts it not. Here comes my warlike brother. Well, Claudius, how fares it to-day in the wrestling? Hast thou thrown down Casca?”

“Casca!” he exclaimed. “Casca was not in the course at all.”

“What, noble Cæcilia,” the boy said, “is it really true that you part with Casca and Hyacintha? The arena and the schools are full of rumours to-day. Some say one thing, some another, but all agree that Christian superstition has laid an egg in the house of the noble Severus, and that a brood has been hatched.”

“I am sick of questions,” exclaimed Cæcilia, shrinking, as we all do, from the knowledge that our private affairs are made food for hungry gossips. So many of us are like the ostrich, and, hiding our heads in the sand, persuade ourselves that we are unseen and unnoticed. It was really very troublesome and fatiguing to be cross-examined by this boy and girl about private matters, Cæcilia thought! She clapped her hands, and the maidens in attendance, who had retired to a quarter of the hall where they and other slaves and attendants were congregated, signified her desire that her chariot should be ordered for an airing on the wide, smooth road known as Watling Street.