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

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“Nay,” said the boy, “thou wilt forget the poor half-Briton, half-Roman, when thou art a grand priestess, wearing the white stole.”

“Forget! nay, I shall never forget—how can I forget? And when I have to tend the fire in the great temple at night, and the stars look down at me, and the wind whispers low, I shall pray that the goddess may bless thee, Claudius, and keep ever in thy heart a pure bright flame of love to the city of Verulam first, and of Rome after, and that thou wilt remember little Hyacintha.”

“I will remember thee through life till death,” the young man said. “I will worship thee from afar, and, perchance, I may come to Rome only to behold thee, as I behold a star in the heavens, who blesses me with its beams, though I can never attain to it.”

He took one of the child’s hands in his, bent his face over it for a moment, and when Hyacintha withdrew it, it was wetted by the tear which had fallen from Claudius’s eyes.

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