“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.
“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.