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

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“Yes,” said Claudius, “but remember, my good Casca, that thousands of Romans, tens of thousands of Greeks, aye, and of our own poor Britons also, have met death as bravely as this man Alban did. There is a difference in our bodies—thine and mine, to wit”—and Claudius stretched out his young, muscular arm, bronzed and bare, from under the loose sleeve of his toga virilis, which was indeed a contrast to the white, slender arm of his companion. “There is a difference, my good Casca, in the make and build of men, aye, and of women too, and it is the same with their natures. Some are brave as lions, others as timid as sheep. Christian or Roman, Greek or Briton, it is the same.”

“No,” said Casca, starting up, “but it is not all the same. Poor Ebba was as timid and shy as any sheep, and yet she has gone to meet death, for I feel sure they will track her out. May I be gone hence ere that time comes! But I say it is something more than what we call nature, which is at work with those who meet death as Alban did.”