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

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The early sunshine had not yet come into the court, and the lady said, shuddering—

“Another scarf, Ebba, it is so cold. Ah, me! how I long for the warmth of my own country.”

Ebba placed the salver on a shelf which was just behind the couch, and taking a rich violet mantle from a carved chest threw it round her mistress.

“Is thy master gone with the multitude, and has he taken Casca with him?”

“Yes, lady, there is no one left in the house but myself and the child Hyacintha.”

At the sound of her name the young girl looked up. She had been so engrossed with a chain of Venetian shells she was threading upon gold silk, that she had apparently no thought for anything besides.

“Mother!” she exclaimed, “tell me about the sight every one has gone forth to see. Why could I not go? My father might have taken me with Casca.”

“Nay, Hyacintha, the crowd would have been too great. I dare not expose thee to its dangers.”

“The man who is to die is a very evil man, is he not, mother?”

“Nay, child, I have not heard so much said.”