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

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“Beautiful Hyacintha,” Claudius said, “I would serve you to my last breath. Yes, I swear if I can find any trace of Ebba, I will strive to save her life and put her in a place of safety till the storm has passed over.”

“They have been talking of getting her head, and that of Amphibalus, the man Alban hid in his house, and they have missed another woman, who was aunt or mother to the soldier who would not kill Alban. There is a boy who dresses the flowers and shrubs in the atrium, and he has told me that it is said in Verulam that the Christians have hidden themselves not far off, and a watch is set on the hills to hinder their escape to Wales. That is what is said. I know not if it be true.”

“True or false, I will obey thy bidding. Say, Hyacintha, what shall we do without thee.”

“Without me!” the child repeated. “Ah! I do not think any one wants me here. My mother will have the little Livia from the nurse. She is the child of my uncle Fabius, and the adopted daughter of my father. She is very beautiful, and my mother can pet her, and toy with her, and will love to hear the praises which her loveliness will win. And when my father’s service is over in Britain they will all return to Rome, and I shall greet them there, when I am a priestess, and I shall greet thee also, Claudius.”