Hermione kissed the child fervently, and then turned away, waving her hands in token of farewell, saying, “Remember your promise, little Cynthia.”
“What has she asked of thee, little one?” Claudius said, when the child had returned to him.
“She bade me write to her, and never forget her,” Cynthia said. “I shall make haste to learn to write; and father says already I am a little scholar. You will help me to write, good Claudius.”
“Nay, then, little one, this hand of mine is not skilled in using the pen or scribbling in parchment; but there are many others who will teach thee.”
“You are going to Alexandria with us? You will not leave us, good Claudius?”
“Nay, we will not speak of parting yet—not yet.”
“Never!” exclaimed Cynthia, emphatically; “never!” And Claudius evaded a direct answer, but promised that he would at least take care of her on the coming return voyage, for the season was late, and they would probably meet with storms in the inland sea through which they must sail to the fair city of Alexandria.
Claudius found the attractions at Alexandria, where he shared the home of Casca and his little daughter, too great to be withstood. He vibrated, it is true, between the two cities for a year or two, but as age sapped his strength, and brought low the once athletic and vigorous frame, he became less inclined for action, and was content to live the quiet life in which his friend Casca delighted, and to enjoy with him the society of the little daughter who, as she grew in years, grew in all the graces and attractions which had distinguished the aunt whose name she bore, and whom she so strongly resembled.
“Good Claudius,” the commander of many brave troops of soldiers, the noble, valiant, and courageous warrior, became in his old age gentle and subdued; but his deeds of valour had not died out of the remembrance of some who had shared in them; and in his retirement at Alexandria he was sometimes visited by those who had some connection with him as a leader or companion in arms.
One day, when Cynthia was about fifteen, eight or nine years after the voyage to Rome and the death of the Vestal Maxima, Claudius was walking slowly and feebly along the smooth walks of the Museum gardens, waiting for Cynthia to return from one of the academies, where, attended by one of her maids, she studied with several young maidens, under a lady who lectured upon the Greek poets and the Greek authors of a bygone time.