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

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“Tell me, Ebba, are they going to see the man killed? I wish you would speak, and,” she murmured, “tell me all you know.”

“If I were to tell you that,” the young Briton said, “I should be seized and tortured; and I am not ready to confess my faith.”

“Thy faith? Is not thy faith to believe that the gods are above, and watch over men; and that if men and women submit to their decrees they are protected and safe.”

Ebba shook her head.

“I know not if the Romans are safe under the care of their gods. I know they have enslaved us and are stern masters.”

“Am I not kind to thee, Ebba?” said Hyacintha; “I would fain be kind; but of late thou hast been so strange and sad. Never can I win a laugh from thee. Never wilt thou play the harp for me to dance and sing. Tell me all that is in thy heart.”

Ebba clasped her hands, and leaning upon the balustrade she said—

“If I were brave, and not a coward, I should tell thee all. Nay, I should tell the world; but I am a coward, and I durst not.”

Hyacintha seated herself on one of the cushioned seats on the balcony, while Ebba continued to look out on the moving multitude and the distant hill, the shining river and the sunny slopes around it, silently and sadly.