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

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Then the fair-haired British Ebba turned towards the child.

“The man is a good man,” she said. “He gave bread to the hungry, he clothed the naked, and he has perished because he would fain save the life of his friend.”

“Ah, that is noble!” said the little maiden with a light of interest kindled in her clear eyes. “Ah! that is noble; why should he die?”

“Thou art too young, my daughter, to understand the reason why a man like this Alban should die. But the reason is good, nevertheless. The old faith must be protected and defended, if it be possible.”

Ebba’s lips were seen to move, but no sound passed them.

“These Christians,” the lady continued, “are trying to upset, and pull down, and destroy our religion and our worship; it is only meet that they should be hindered from further mischief.”

Again Ebba’s lips moved, and the child, looking up, thought she caught the words—

“They cannot be hindered, for God is for them.”

“Ebba is murmuring to herself, mother,” Hyacintha said. “Bid her to speak so that we may hear.”