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

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Ebba was on the gallery that ran round the atrium, and when she saw Hyacintha pull aside the curtain she came to the head of the marble stairs, and beckoned to her.

The child went up to her, saying—

“What is it you said, Ebba?”

“Come hither and look from the gallery over the country, and you will see.”

As she spoke, Ebba mounted still higher to the square opening in the roof, on one side of which was a small covered gallery, whence an extensive view was spread out, of the town and river and country beyond. The child gazed upon the view before her with wistful, questioning eyes.

The throng of people spread over the fields, which were smiling in the June sunshine; and along the great Watling Street, and across the bridge, there was a continuous stream of all ages and sexes.

The low murmur of the moving multitude reached the place where the Briton slave and her little mistress stood, and upon a hill rising on the opposite bank by the river there was an erection, round which the glittering helmets of soldiers were shining in the sun. Hyacintha drew closer to Ebba, and said, in a low tone—