Terentia Rufilla was silent. The young maiden, standing at the eve of her full profession as a priestess of the goddess Vesta, had only given words to thoughts which seemed to crave for expression within her own heart.
It must often have been so. The multitude, who knew nothing beyond the old faith, and who were content with the outside show and splendid pageantry that marked a festival like that to be celebrated the next day but one, in honour of Vesta, might be content. But not the earnest, cultivated, highborn woman like Terentia Rufilla, who had read much, and thought much, and had put aside as beneath her consideration the story of the Cross of Christ.
Now that the Church of the Catacombs had been able to lift her head, and openly practise the rites and celebrate the worship of the religion of Christ, it was impossible that women like Terentia should fail to consider what was forced upon their attention. For the vestals did not lead a secluded life—the seniors amongst them were well acquainted with what passed in Rome, and it was impossible for them to be ignorant of the rapid advances which Christianity was making. It was all very well for the careless and idle to ignore the fact, and deny that the old temple was in danger, and the old ceremonies growing effete and languishing. To the thoughtful observer, the base and mean, the low and contemptible religion, was growing apace, and its branches were casting their shadows on every side.
“Yes,” Terentia said, “at least the delusion is apparently no delusion in the eyes of the poor misguided ones who follow it. As a child may try to reach the horizon line which meets the wide-spread Campagna, the sky seeming to touch the earth, and the child believes it does touch it, and runs fast and faster, and lies down at last exhausted, after a fruitless chase. Let us say no more of the Christians now, Hyacintha, but tell me if thy robe is ready for the morrow, and thy two-eared pitcher prepared for the first mission thou hast to perform?”
“Yes, dearest lady. I am to go alone to the fountain unattended, and bring the fresh water to the goddess’s shrine.”
“The lictor must attend thee to the gate of the garden, and await thy return. Then follows the choice of a new disciple. They become less and less numerous every year. I can recall the time when twice twenty young children were waiting to be chosen, and how those who were rejected were often sent away weeping. For the last two years the number has been small, and the noble houses have sent but few aspirants. I remember when thou first camest, dear child, a little wayworn maiden clinging to the hand of Clœlia, who brought thee to the atrium, timidly, and uncertain of thy reception. The daughter of Severus needed no introduction to me in any case, but how gladly I welcomed thee, my fair and lovely one!”
Hyacintha pressed her lips upon the hand which was wound round her neck, and then the two were silent—that silence of perfect sympathy and affection which is so sweet, sweeter far than any words.
The shadows deepened in the house of the vestals early in the evening of the glorious June day. Even at noontide the light in the atrium and state apartments was dim, for the Palatine cliff was behind them, and the wall really supported the road above it. The Imperial palace rose to the height of a hundred and fifty feet in the air; and it is not surprising that sunshine, even at midsummer, only touched the upper floor, and left the vast area below chill and dim with a mysterious light.
Damp must have been an enemy to the health of the vestals; but the recent discoveries have brought to light some curious devices by which the enemy was combated.
Double walls have been unearthed, and double floors, with skilfully diverted currents of hot air which flowed through the interstices, must have in some measure warmed and dried the atmosphere.