The Project Gutenberg EBook of No. XIII; or, The Story of the Lost Vestal, by Emma Marshall This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: No. XIII; or, The Story of the Lost Vestal Author: Emma Marshall Release Date: July 3, 2020 [EBook #62548] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORY OF THE LOST VESTAL *** Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) COLLECTION OF BRITISH AUTHORS TAUCHNITZ EDITION. VOL. 2388. No. XIII; OR, THE STORY OF THE LOST VESTAL BY EMMA MARSHALL. IN ONE VOLUME. TAUCHNITZ EDITION. By the same Author, MRS. MAINWARING’S JOURNAL 1 vol. BENVENUTA 1 vol. LADY ALICE 1 vol. DAYSPRING 1 vol. LIFE’S AFTERMATH 1 vol. IN THE EAST COUNTRY 1 vol. IN FOUR REIGNS 1 vol. ON THE BANKS OF THE OUSE 1 vol. IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS 1 vol. ALMA 1 vol. UNDER SALISBURY SPIRE 1 vol. THE END CROWNS ALL 1 vol. WINCHESTER MEADS 1 vol. EVENTIDE LIGHT 1 vol. WINIFREDE’S JOURNAL 1 vol. BRISTOL BELLS 1 vol. IN THE SERVICE OF RACHEL LADY RUSSELL 1 vol. A LILY AMONG THORNS 1 vol. PENSHURST CASTLE 1 vol. KENSINGTON PALACE IN THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY II. 1 vol. THE WHITE KING’S DAUGHTER 1 vol. THE MASTER OF THE MUSICIANS 1 vol. AN ESCAPE FROM THE TOWER 1 vol. A HAUNT OF ANCIENT PEACE 1 vol. CASTLE MEADOW 1 vol. IN THE CHOIR OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY 1 vol. THE YOUNG QUEEN OF HEARTS 1 vol. UNDER THE DOME OF ST. PAUL’S 1 vol. THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER 1 vol. NO. XIII; OR, THE STORY OF THE LOST VESTAL. BY EMMA MARSHALL, AUTHOR OF “LIFE’S AFTERMATH,” “DAYSPRING,” “IN THE EAST COUNTRY,” ETC. COPYRIGHT EDITION. LEIPZIG BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 1886. The Right of Translation is reserved. “The darkness is past, And the True Light now shineth.” “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works.” INTRODUCTION. Recent discoveries in the Roman Forum have brought to light many interesting relics. Amongst these are the statues of the Vestales Maximæ, of which, in spite of the efforts of the lime-burners and stone-cutters of the Middle Ages, who were distinguished for their work of wholesale destruction, thirty-six inscriptions, and fourteen statues, have been discovered. The pedestals on which the statues were placed bear inscriptions, and the names of the Vestales Maximæ whose virtues are recorded. There is one exception—the name is carefully erased—and we can know her of whom so much is said in praise, only as Number Thirteen. An attempt has been made to clothe the memory of this Vestal with some probable, though of course wholly fictitious, incidents; and to assume as a certainty the idea, which has been thrown out as a possibility, that her conversion to Christianity was discovered, and that one in authority desired to leave no trace of her family or her name to future generations. But, though her name has perished, her virtues remain engraven on the imperishable stone, and these help us to call her before us, in all the grace and dignity of a beautiful life, passed in the cloisters of the Vestals’ home. The incidents which have gathered round her supposed history, are more or less connected with the persecution and martyrdom of the Early Church in Britain, and afterwards in Rome. A glance like this into the past may be made useful to the young reader, if it should quicken a desire for the intelligent study of history, and help the student to look upon the events of bygone ages as they affected real men and women, who had the same hopes and fears, and aims and ends, as we have, who are living so long after them. We are, naturally perhaps, too apt to think of those of whom we read in these distant ages, as myths rather than as the brothers and sisters of the one great family of God, to which we all belong. Their human hearts beat with the same affections as ours, and through the mists of superstition and ignorance the lamp of an undying love shines out here and there, as a light in a dark place. Thus, through the symbol of the sacred fire, which the Vestals vowed to keep for ever burning, we may see the foreshadowing of the mission of every Christian woman, matron or maiden, whose high vocation it is to keep the light of truth, purity, and love, for ever burning in her daily life, and by giving light to those around fulfil the command of her Master, when He said— “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” [5] [6] CONTENTS. Page Chapter I. A silent City 9 — II. Night 21 — III. The missing Slave 39 — IV. Capture and Death 55 — V. Claudius fulfils his Vow 72 — VI. By Land and Sea 92 — VII. Rome 105 — VIII. Discipleship 122 — IX. Dayspring 142 — X. Sunset 161 — XI. June, 313—The Festival of Vesta 177 — XII. Vanishing 198 — XIII. A.D. 333—Alexandria 211 — XIV. The Cross 227 — XV. The Crown of Light 240 — XVI. Onward and Upward 248 — XVII. Triumph 266 [7] [8] No. XIII; OR, THE STORY OF THE LOST VESTAL. CHAPTER I. A SILENT CITY. There was silence in the city of Verulam on a bright summer day now nearly sixteen hundred years ago. It was a strange silence which reigned in the deserted streets of the old Roman city, which, with its baths and public buildings, was reckoned one of the finest in that sea-girt island, which the mistress of the world had made her own. A vast crowd had left the city gates at dawn on that cloudless morning of early summer; women and children, stately matrons and tender maidens, all poured out of the town towards a river, some in chariots, many on foot, but all eager to get a good position on a flower-covered hill where a scene which would fill their hearts with an unhealthful excitement was to be enacted. For many of the Roman ladies, who wore costly robes, and fared delicately, and were at once the envy and admiration of the Britons, had inherited for the most part the passion for a sight which would now blanch the cheeks of their descendants, and fill their hearts with horror and shame. There are exceptions to every rule, and though at a first glance the city looked entirely deserted, business and pleasure alike stopped, and the forum and temples empty, yet from one or two of the houses of the higher class of Roman nobility the inhabitants had not gone forth with the multitude, but had preferred remaining at home. The villa of the noble Roman, Severus, was one of these; it was built, like all Roman houses, round a square, which was open to the sky above. A fountain played in the centre, and round the marble basin were planted the golden iris with its long-pointed leaves, and palms with their fan-like foliage; while the water-lilies, just opening their rounded buds, were rocking on the water, as it rose and fell with a gentle splash, pleasant to the ear and soothing to the spirit. Couches covered with rich stuffs were arranged round this outer hall or “atrium,” and on one of them a lady was reclining; a little maiden of eleven years old at her feet, and a slave standing by her side, with a cup in one hand and a cloth in the other, fringed with gold lace, with which she wiped the lips of her mistress when she sipped the draught offered her, after nibbling at a sweet hard cake which she held in her hand. The early sunshine had not yet come into the court, and the lady said, shuddering— “Another scarf, Ebba, it is so cold. Ah, me! how I long for the warmth of my own country.” Ebba placed the salver on a shelf which was just behind the couch, and taking a rich violet mantle from a carved chest threw it round her mistress. “Is thy master gone with the multitude, and has he taken Casca with him?” “Yes, lady, there is no one left in the house but myself and the child Hyacintha.” At the sound of her name the young girl looked up. She had been so engrossed with a chain of Venetian shells she was threading upon gold silk, that she had apparently no thought for anything besides. “Mother!” she exclaimed, “tell me about the sight every one has gone forth to see. Why could I not go? My father might have taken me with Casca.” “Nay, Hyacintha, the crowd would have been too great. I dare not expose thee to its dangers.” “The man who is to die is a very evil man, is he not, mother?” “Nay, child, I have not heard so much said.” 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.” [9] [10] [11] [12] But the curtain which fell over the entrance to the dining-hall was seen to quiver as the British slave-girl disappeared behind it. Then the lady exclaimed, “I wish Ebba would take more heed of her ways, for if she is defiled with the foreign superstitions, there will be trouble for us. There is enough trouble as it is. Ah! me, why do people make so much of religion? Jupiter or Apollo, or the Christian’s God, it is all the same to me!” And the lady leaned back upon her pillow, and very soon the dark lashes were resting on her cheeks, and she was wrapt in a gentle slumber. There are always people in all ages of the world of the same easy temperament as this wife of the noble Severus. The city might be deserted; the rage of a tyrannical governor might vent itself on the brave and loyal-hearted Alban, by torture and death, but what did it concern Cæcilia? As I said, many other ladies of her rank had gone out that day to see the cruel sight, and to feast their eyes on a scene from which delicately nurtured women might have been supposed to turn with loathing. But Cæcilia, the wife of Severus, hated trouble, and looking on life as one long festival, disliked to think of anything which seemed to point to the probability, that to many it was a season of trial and suffering. So, lulled by the fountain in the atrium of her husband’s beautiful villa, she enjoyed a dreamy repose, and was unconscious of all that was passing about her, and that her little daughter had put aside the shells and also disappeared behind the curtain. 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— “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. Ebba was a large, strongly-built maiden of some eighteen or twenty years. She had been born a slave in the Roman’s household, and had never known any other life. Her complexion was florid, and her hair the richest auburn. She wore the badge of her master on her arm; and her dress was of woollen material, girt in at the waist by a band, but falling loosely to her ankles. Ebba was skilful and clever, and was a favourite with her mistress, who had many attendants, but always gave Ebba the preference. Time had been when Ebba had been foremost in providing amusement, for she could dance to the tambourine, and her broad face was generally lighted by a smile. She was quick in arranging flowers, in plaiting her lady’s hair, and weaving into it coins and gold ornaments with a skill which few could rival. Of late a change had passed over her, and instead of a merry girl, who had a light jest and a sally for every one, she [13] [14] [15] [16] was a grave, sad woman, often speaking to herself in low tones, and taking no part in the festive revelries of Severus’s household. The child Hyacintha was, even at eleven years old, most unusually beautiful. She was born of a patrician race on both sides, and fulfilled all the conditions of her noble birth in her form and features. Her figure, even now, when childhood was passing into girlhood, was lithe and supple, and the Roman maiden developed early, for fourteen was considered as the entrance into womanhood. Hyacintha’s eyes were of that dusky hue which, taking a new colour with every varying light, defies description. Her hair was of a deep golden brown; and though she had every distinctive feature of her race in the well-cut features, and curved, short upper lip, with rather a massive chin, her complexion was fair. Hyacintha had been born in the north during her father’s first year of office about the person of the Governor; thus the Italian sunshine had not given her complexion the rich dark hue which characterised her mother. No one could look at Hyacintha, even at that early age, without seeing that there was in her something beyond the ordinary type of girlhood. Her mother might dream away life, and know no higher pleasures than the acquisition of beautiful dresses and ornaments, and in the entertainment of guests, and driving along the level Watling Street in her well-appointed chariot, but Hyacintha had already other aims and views. The child had heard from her father that maidens of their house had been chosen to keep the sacred fire burning in the temple of Vesta—that fire which was never to be quenched—that light which, coming from heaven, was to keep the sacred flame alive in every Roman’s hearth and heart! Hyacintha would ask her mother many questions about this temple, and the beautiful city so far away, and when her mother complained of the chilling winds and dark skies of the northern climate, she would ask— “Why do we not return to Rome?” The British slave-girl, Ebba, could tell her nothing of that distant city; but of late, when she spoke of it, she would speak of another city fairer and more beautiful than Rome could be, and when Hyacintha asked how people reached it, she would clasp her hands and say— “By a rough and terrible way, from which the timid shrank, but the brave of heart went forth boldly to tread.” Several times in the course of that long summer’s day did little Hyacintha mount to the balcony and look out on the crowd which covered the hill-side. Now and then a few stragglers returned, or a chariot with prancing steeds rolled along the great Watling Street. Women, tired of carrying their children, came back to the city, and by the evening there were knots of people in the city all talking of what had happened on the hill above the river. Just at sunset the servants of Severus’s household returned, and the evening meal was laid in the inner hall or banqueting-room. Very soon the wheels of chariots were heard rolling up, and Hyacintha ran down to meet her father and brother, and hear the news. Severus had several officers and gentlemen with him, and was scarcely conscious of his little daughter’s presence till she pulled the sleeve of his robe. “Tell me, father, is the man dead?” “Ay, little one, and so may all the enemies of the gods perish. But such a story is not for thy ears, my Hyacintha. See, take thy lute and play to us while we sup. These fellows have had enough of freedom for one day, and the supper is late. How now, slaves!” Severus exclaimed, clapping his hands, “let the guests be served.” The couches were soon filled by the company, and Cæcilia reclined at the head of the board, dressed in the richest violet silk, with gold trimmings, a long veil floating at the back of her head. Ebba was in attendance, and a seat at the end of the sofa or couch was reserved for Hyacintha. “Where have you left Casca? Where is my son?” Cæcilia asked. “The boy is weary, and the day has been too much for him. He has not the nerve and muscle of a Spartan,” was the reply; “not so much as our little maiden here, I verily believe.” “And, indeed,” said a grave man, who was one of the guests, “it was a sight to affect a boy of your son’s tender years.” The Roman father laughed. “Nay, may he never see worse sights than that we have witnessed to-day. There was not enough terror in it; these miserable Christians need stronger discipline; they are so stubborn. When the beasts spring on them in the arena, and a huge leopard plays with one like a ball, then it is somewhat thrilling, I grant, but to-day! Fill the cups, and let us drink to the health of the Governor, and pour out a libation to the gods in token of gratitude that it has been given to us to crush out another at least of these reptiles.” “Nay, now,” said a young man, “you forget the executioner.” “Aye, so I did, that was a fine addition to the scene. I could laugh now to think of it!” Severus saw that his little daughter was following every word that was said with extreme earnestness, and that Ebba, who was standing with a scent-bottle and a large fan close to her mistress, was scanning the face of the last speaker eagerly. [17] [18] [19] “Bid the musicians strike up,” Severus said; “our talk is scarcely pleasant for ladies to hear. And then, when we have had a good stirring melody, my little daughter shall sing us a good-night strain on her lute. Eh, my pretty one?” “Father, I pray you to excuse me to-night,” Hyacintha said; “I am weary, and I have no heart to sing.” She stepped down from her place on her mother’s couch, and with a curtsey, and graceful wave of her hand to the guests at the table, disappeared. [20] CHAPTER II. NIGHT. Although Casca and Hyacintha were their parents’ only children, there were no very intimate relations existing between them. Casca was almost entirely at the schools, where he was preparing for active service, and receiving such training as was deemed needful for a young Roman. His father was disappointed that his only boy should be pale and delicate, that his arms should not be muscular, and that he was always at fault in any game, or trial of strength. Severus did his best to harden his only son, and it was with that idea that he had taken him with him that morning to see the execution of Alban. Severus was in attendance on the Governor, and, shrinking and frightened, the boy stood by his father’s side, hiding his face in his short toga, when the martyr was scourged till the ground was moistened with his blood. Judge and Governor alike were pitiless, and, believing they were performing an act of service to their gods by crushing out the confessors of the Christian faith in Verulam, they were determined to make the whole scene as impressive as possible. Alban was no common man: it was necessary that his execution should be conducted in no ordinary fashion. He had lived in one of the finest villas in the city, he was a learned scholar, and had unquestioned taste in the fine arts which the Romans were introducing into Britain. Although born at Verulam, Alban had, in his youth, travelled to Rome, and when he returned had been looked upon with veneration and respect. Although a Pagan, and scrupulous in his attendance on all high ceremonies in the temple of the gods, Alban had always been charitable and compassionate, and the poor found in him a friend. Thus, full of kindness, when the Emperor’s edict published against the Christians at Rome and in all Roman provinces was issued, Alban opened his house to a man who was fleeing from his persecutors, and a minister of the religion of Christ. This was the turning-point of Alban’s life; this was the first step to the martyrdom which he had suffered gladly on this summer day for the faith of Christ crucified. It is hard for us to realise, or grasp as facts, the terrible persecutions of those distant times. Perhaps nothing is a stronger testimony to the Christian faith than that the more it was attacked, and the fiercer the persecution of its disciples, the more it grew and strengthened. It has been so in all times; it will be so in all future ages, “for the Lord remaineth a King for ever.” Hyacintha went to find her brother. The child’s head was filled with a strange yearning curiosity to know all particulars of what had passed. She went up the marble staircase once more, and again looked out from the balcony over the city and the country. The western sky was still aglow, and the outline of the hill was marked against it in purple lines. The river caught a reflection from a crescent moon which hung above it, and rippled in the silvery light. The country beyond the city was asleep, but the city, which had been so quiet in the morning, was now astir. The buzz and murmur of voices rose on the still air, and slaves were seen conducting Roman citizens of note to their homes. Torches were lighted, silver lamps burning in the “Halls,” while strains of music and the voices of singing girls were borne on the breath of the evening air. But Hyacintha did not stay on the balcony long; she turned from it to a room on the opposite side of the square opening, where she knew she should find her brother. She went softly round to the doorway, and gently clapped her hands. “Enter!” was said in a low voice; “is that you, Claudius?” “No, Casca, it is only Hyacintha;” and Hyacintha pushed back the curtain and stood half shyly by her brother’s side. He had thrown himself down on a couch, his hands folded behind his head, and his whole attitude one of extreme weariness. “What do you want, Hyacintha?” “I want news,” she replied; “tell me what you have seen to-day. Do tell me all the truth about the death of the evil man.” Casca sprang up. “Hush! Do not speak of that you know not, child. Evil, forsooth! he was good, not evil.” “That is what I want to be sure of. Be kind, brother, be kind, and tell me the story.” But Casca sank back again upon his cushion, and said— “Not to-night. I shall never sleep if I rehearse it. I could not go over it again. Who are below?” he asked, as the sounds of music and singing came from the atrium. “A few guests, some that my father brought home; no ladies but my mother.” “Is not Junia there, the sister of Claudius?” [21] [22] [23] [24] “No, unless she has arrived since I left the banqueting-hall. I would not stay, though father prayed me to sing to the lute. I could not stay, because I wanted to find thee.” “Dear little sister,” Casca said, “I would not be rough to thee.” “Thou art never rough, brother,” was the answer, “and I love thee dearly. I only wish I knew more of thy secrets. May I stay with thee?” “Yes, draw that stool to the window, and pull the curtain aside. I like to see the sky and the stars.” Hyacintha obeyed, and waited for what her brother would say next; he was contemplating the graceful outline of her head against the sky, as, with her elbow on the deep stone ledge of the window, her cheek resting upon her hand, she made a study any artist might long to put on canvas. Hyacintha waited patiently for her brother to speak, and at last he broke the silence, though not in the way she expected. “I am a bitter disappointment to our father, Hyacintha, a poor, puny weakling like me; there are times when I long for death, to be free of this life. It may be that the gods would be merciful to me and give me the strength hereafter I lack here. But to-day, when I saw death, I shuddered and swooned. I am a wretched coward, with no power to live, and no power to die.” Hyacintha’s eyes filled with tears. What comfort had a heathen to offer in all these exigencies of life and death? What could Hyacintha say to throw any light or hope over her brother’s darkness? Though but a child, she had heard much, from the grown-up people with whom she associated, of the world, and the pleasures of dance and song, and the games and all the luxuries and refinements of life, which were supposed to be a cure for heart-aches and trials. But Ebba had talked of feeding the hungry, nursing the sick, and clothing the naked, as a way to be happy. She said this man, Alban, had done these things, and that there was always a light on his face which was not shed there by any of the pleasures in which others indulged. Poor Hyacintha’s mind was all confused and bewildered; she almost wished she could be gay and careless like Junia, whose voice, singing a familiar song, now sounded from the atrium. She began dimly to grasp the fact that something was wanted to make life different from the life her mother led, and many ladies, who frequented the atrium and lay on the luxurious couches there, and toyed with their bracelets and ornaments. “I will pray my father,” Hyacintha thought “that I may go to Rome, and be trained for a priestess, in the temple of Vesta. Yes, I will pray him that I may do this, then I shall be happier far, for it will be doing something grand and noble.” Her meditations were a second time broken in upon by her brother’s voice. “Hark! I think I hear Claudius’s footstep. Yes; run, Hyacintha, and admit him.” But Claudius did not wait to be admitted. He came springing in with a light step, and a cheery voice, a voice that had laughter in it, like the ripple of a brook hidden amongst moss and stones. “So, here you are, hiding and moping! Wherefore such dolorous looks, young Casca? I am in the highest spirits. What think you? I am chosen for the race to-morrow, and I will win, too. Your pardon, fair Hyacintha. I did not perceive you in the shadow of the curtain. What ails you, Casca?” “Weariness of myself and life, that is all,” the boy said; “you are in its full zest and enjoyment, while I——” “Pish! what folly! The best time is coming. Why, as soon as you wear the toga virilis you will feel the man. Were you on the hill to-day?” “Yes, I was forced to be there by my father.” “Forced! Well, it was a fine spectacle; though to say the truth, there’s many a worse fellow than Alban about the city. Those sly Christians are doing secretly here in Verulam what Alban did openly, there’s the difference. They may be unearthed any day, and the sooner the better.” “I do not know the whole story,” Hyacintha said. “I pray you, Claudius, tell it to me. If I ask my father he puts me off; and my mother says it is only that some wicked men should be got rid of. And Ebba is full of mystery, and sighs and mutters, but will not speak.” “I will speak, if so it pleases you, little Hyacintha,” said Claudius, “and tell what there is to be told, always providing that I agree with your lady mother, the sooner the reptiles are crushed out the better.” “You will find a draught in yonder cup,” Casca said, raising himself lazily on one arm; “that will refresh you before you begin.” Claudius soon trained the contents of the cup, and then replenished it from a flagon which stood by it. “Aye, that is like nectar,” he said. Then he threw his large muscular limbs upon some cushions piled up in a corner near the window, where Hyacintha sat, her figure a little bent forward, and her eyes fastened upon the boy, as he began his tale. “Only a few months ago, Alban was one of the most devoted worshippers in the temple of Apollo. He spent large sums on sacrifices, and if he poured out a libation, it was of the purest wine. There was no stint with him, as you know, or ought to know. A man who professed to teach and preach this new superstition was fleeing from his pursuers. Walking along Watling Street, Alban, noticing his breathless condition, inquired what ailed him. He said the Governor’s minions were upon him. Alban, struck with the man’s agony, hastily conducted him to his house, and harboured him there in secret. [25] [26] [27] [28] “It is said that the miserable fugitive prayed night and day to his God, asking for help, and also that Alban should be turned from the old faith to believe these lies.” “Are you—is any one—sure they are lies?” Casca asked. “Look you, Casca,” said Claudius, “it is not for any one here to ask that question. Suffice it, that they are lies, base lies.” Casca sighed heavily, and Claudius continued— “The fugitive, whose name was Amphibalus, at last succeeded in his base designs. Alban, whom every one respected and honoured here, professed himself a Christian, and then the scene changed. So well had Alban hidden this fellow, that it was not for many days that suspicion was directed to his house. When at least it was searched, he, the stranger, had fled. Alban had give him one of his best robes, and wearing that, he escaped suspicion, and passed through the gates. But Alban himself, clothed in the Caracalla, which is the robe the fellow wore, was now under suspicion. ‘You will suffer in his stead, unless you at once sacrifice to the images of the gods,’ the judge said.” “To tell the truth,” said Claudius, “there was something noble in the fellow, for no tortures could make him give in. Hush! what is that?” A low voice was heard to say— “Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.” “It is Ebba’s voice,” Hyacintha exclaimed, and running towards the door, she found Ebba standing there. “It is Ebba,” Hyacintha repeated. “Permit her to enter and hear the story to the end.” Casca nodded his head by way of assent, and Ebba, leaning against the wall over which a curtain hung, listened intently while Claudius finished his story. “No tortures,” he continued, “would make the fellow give in. The scourge ploughed his back pretty well. He had thirty- nine stripes, and we expected to see him fall down dead.” “Were you in the hall?” Casca exclaimed. “Yes, I have seen the whole play played out,” the boy said carelessly. “The grand climax was to-day, when the executioner threw himself at Alban’s feet, and begged to die with him, or for him. And then there was an uproar indeed. A great multitude pressed round Alban, who was praying and calling upon his God, and crying to Jesus to have mercy, and turn the hearts of the people to himself. “The governor and judge, however, made short work. A new executioner, one of the soldiers, was easily found, and it was not long before the heads of both Alban and Heraclius were rolling on the turf, and their blood sprinkled on the flowers. But they say in the city to-night that there are many who are full of this superstition, and that there will be many more. Thank the gods I am not one!” Ebba, who had been standing motionless by the door, murmured something, which was not distinctly heard, and then vanished. “I believe Ebba is one of them,” Casca said. “If it is so, it will bring us all into trouble, and my father ought to know.” “Well, a truce to the poor wretches. Now,” said Claudius, “let us talk of other things. Ah! here is Ebba with the light. She will not leave us in darkness.” Ebba did not speak, but lighted the two hanging lamps, which cast a soft radiance on the room, and on those who were in it. The beautiful childlike face of Hyacintha was brought out from the shadows, and large tears were seen upon her cheeks. “Do not tell father, dear brother,” she said, “about Ebba. I pray you, do not. It might end in her death. And, oh!” exclaimed Hyacintha passionately, “I do dread death, the darkness whither we must go, before we reach the Elysian fields.” “Do not fret, little sister. You are too grave for your tender years; come, sing to me and Claudius the good-night song you refused to sing to the guests below.” “Ah! sing to us, and then I must seek for my sister, and conduct her home. The guests are leaving the hall, some of them are hilarious enough.” As he spoke, loud laughter ascended from the atrium, and the torches which the attendants and slaves lifted flashed through the street. There was not much need of their light this evening. The days of our northern climate were at their longest, and almost before daylight faded from the west, streaks of dawn brightened the east. The people of Verulam had gone through a tiring day, and the city was wrapt earlier than usual in repose. It was just between midnight and the first hour of the coming day that a figure, veiled closely, glided across the square, which lay on one side of the villa Severus, and following the course of the river crossed it towards the hill, where the great spectacle of the day before had been witnessed by so many thousands. These were for the most part sleeping peacefully in Verulam, but some were yet watching on the spot where the martyrs had shed their blood. One of them was the priest whose life Alban had saved at the expense of his own, and as the dark-veiled figure crept up the hill-side he advanced to meet it. [29] [30] [31] [32] “Is it thou, my daughter, Ebba, the slave of the Roman house?” “Yes, father, and I would fain follow thee. I am not afraid now. I will confess Christ before men. If I am to die, He will be with me, and I cannot—I dare not—tarry any longer. Baptise me; I am ready.” “Art thou sure thou art in truth ready to leave all for Christ, to dare to confess thy faith?” The girl’s lips faltered, and she said— “I would fain remain with my mistress if it were possible. I love her little daughter so well.” “Ah! I see, thou art not ready to leave all for Christ. There must be no halting between two opinions. My daughter, he who was done to a cruel death on this spot to-day, and whose blessed body we have buried here in silence and darkness, did not halt. Never can I forget the decision he showed. In the very hour that he believed, he confessed, and gave up all. Think what a renunciation it was: his fine house, whither the noblest and the most learned scholars amongst the Romans resorted; the honour paid him when he went to the temple to sacrifice to the false gods; the respect also felt for his gifts and talents. Yet he never faltered, and when the great trial-hour came he sent me forth in his robe, with a face as glad as if, when he arrayed himself in my Caracalla,[A] he had donned his wedding garment. “That robe was the signal for his death. He did not fear to die for Christ, and he stood before the Governor, so those tell me who saw him, with a face shining like that of an angel. I have been in hiding near by, and have remained under cover of the darkness, to make known to the faithful whither I am gone, that they may perchance follow me, and in the fastnesses of Wales, we may add daily to our number such as shall be saved. Say, Ebba, wilt thou follow? See, there are signs of dawn in the east. I may not tarry. That group yonder seen in dark, dim, outline, is composed of those who are following me to a meeting-place I have indicated. Wilt thou join thyself to them?” The poor British slave bowed her head, and clasping her hands, said, “I will follow thee.” Then the priest led her to a spring, and baptised the heathen Ebba by the name “Anna.” The morning star was shining brightly, and the summer dawn breaking over the hills, when, by the grave of the two martyrs, the cross was signed upon the forehead of the British slave. The ceremony was performed in haste, and then the little band dispersed, to escape observation, some in one direction, some in another, but all to meet in a thick wood, near a place called Radburn, three miles distant from the city of Verulam. Ebba, or Anna, as we must now call her, was committed to the care of a recent convert, named Agatha, who had concealed a little band of Christians in her house in the city, and who was an aunt to the soldier who had thrown away his sword and died rather than execute the savage commands of the Governor and Judge. There was no time for many words. Agatha kissed Anna on the forehead and said— “I welcome thee, my daughter, to the inheritance of the saints, be it death or be it life.” And then in silence the two women pursued their way through the flower-scented meadow-land, and reached the shelter of the tangled wood at Radburn before the sun rose. A cave in this wood, the mouth of which was covered with brushwood, was the appointed meeting-place. Here Amphibalus the priest had been hiding since Alban had permitted him to escape. And here, worn out with the events of the previous day, on beds made of dry leaves and heather, Anna lay down with her new friend to rest. The cave was of some extent, and had several divisions. A fissure in the rock above lighted the inner part, which was allotted to the women. Even in summer it was a cold habitation, and only when the sun was high in the heavens could any warmth and cheerfulness penetrate it. As Anna lay gazing up into the roof, she could see the blue sky far above her through the interlacing boughs of brambles, and low-growing maples which grew over the opening. The thrushes were singing their morning song, and there was innumerable chirping of newly-fledged birds, while the lowing of distant cattle and the nearer humming of bees, kept up a continuous low murmur. Poor Anna could not sleep; she was thinking over the life in the Roman villa, of all the little offices it would soon be time to perform for her mistress and for Hyacintha. She knew full well that she would be missed before long, and perhaps pursued and found. That punishment, if not death, was the doom of the escaped slave, she knew well. The band, the badge of that slavery, was still on her arm, and could only be taken off by the hand of a smith. It would betray her as the runaway slave of the noble Severus, though the cross, the sign of her new faith, was invisible to all eyes but the angels. Anna’s was not a strong, heroic soul; she was, as she had told her little mistress, a coward. “Yet He giveth strength to the weak” was a promise to be fulfilled in her case, as in that of the thousands who have learned to “count all things but loss for the love of Christ.” Agatha was of a very different nature. She was sleeping as soundly and quietly as a child, while her young companion tossed and turned with wide-open eyes and restless limbs till noonday was near. The outer caves were getting full, and the whispers of the fugitives awoke Agatha. “Have you slept, my daughter?” she said. “Nay, I cannot sleep. I do not feel any peace, though I would not go back if I could.” Then she added hastily, and in a weak, low voice, “I am hungry.” [33] [34] [35] [36]