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

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“Nay,” Casca said, “you misjudge me, Claudius. I would that thou were to accompany me to Rome, and then I could take heart, but as it is——”

“As it is, you must be like a man, and determine to win good opinions and make a name; fight for Rome if so it be ordered, and end at last in continuing the noble race to which you belong, and then——”

“Ah!” said Casca, “and then die, and be remembered no more. Claudius, I think often of all the great dead, the old Greeks, their brave soldiers, their wise philosophers, Socrates and Plato, Aristides and Themistocles. Their poets and their heroes, all alike gone—gone as the man yesterday went on the hill-top—gone, and whither? If it be true that there is another life, what is that life? I torture myself with questions, and I know that if I were led out to die as Alban was, I should shiver and tremble, aye, and pray for mercy. While he—there was light in his eye, there was a ring of victory in his voice, and no wonder that the executioner refused to perform his office, and died with Alban rather than see him die by his hand. I say, there must be something grand and noble in the faith which can give a man courage not only to meet death, but to welcome it, to court it, and to see beyond it, instead of darkness, light.”