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

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“Have you heard my fate?” Casca asked.

“Fate! I hear you are to depart to Rome with Burrhus: a very pleasant fate, by Apollo! I would I were to accompany you. But, for the sake of all that is holy, try to wear a brighter face. Half the young Romans in Verulam will envy you, to say nothing of a hybrid like me, your humble servant. Nay, now, Casca, be not a woman,” Claudius exclaimed, with some contempt in his tone; “it is womanish to give in and moan.”

Casca had hidden his face in his long, thin hands, and tears trickled through his fingers.

“If you had a father like mine,” Casca murmured, “you would not wonder at my condition. He came up hither this morning, raving like a beast in the arena. He seized me by the robe, and poured forth a string of epithets I will not repeat. He accused me of conniving at the poor slave’s flight, of contaminating my sister, of being the laughing-stock of all Verulam, a poltroon, a fool, and I know not what beside. He swore by all the gods that I should be placed under Burrhus to fight as a true Roman should if the Emperor sends out a legion to one of the insubordinate provinces. And I, oh! Claudius, I loathe fighting. I hate bloodshed. I crave for peace.”