It was in the stillness of the night, when all the Vestals but the one who watched in the temple were sleeping, some fifteen years after the death of Hyacintha, that the tall commanding figure of Cœlia Concordia passed between the columns of the atrium, bearing a lamp in her hand.
She threaded her way cautiously in the darkness, her silver lamp casting a ray of bright light before her. She paused at last before the statue of Hyacintha Severa, and, waving her lamp up and down, examined the clearly-cut noble features with a triumphant smile.
“Shall thy name live?” she asked, as if addressing the statue, “nay, thy name shall perish; if I am powerless for aught else, I am powerful for this.” Then she put down the lamp, and drew from the folds of her pallium a sharp instrument. She examined the blade carefully, and kneeling so that she was on a level with the pedestal, she began to scrape out the letters of the name she hated.
It was no easy task, but at last it was accomplished, and nothing but the number remained:—
“No. XIII.” Which signified simply the order in which the statues stood in the atrium.
“Thy name has perished,” she said, rising and addressing the noble face, which seemed to answer her bitter smile with a quiet calm beauty.
“Thy name has perished, thy praises shall remain, but when future generations shall ask to whom their false flattery refers, there shall be but one answer:—
“No. XIII.”
When the erasure of the name was discovered in the light of the next morning, inquiries were made, but without success. Various opinions were expressed, and it was generally supposed that some one, through wanton mischief, had erased the name.
At first there was a talk of re-inscribing it, but the Vestal Maxima always found some excuses for delay, and at length, as all who had loved her had passed away, the subject dropped out of memory, and Hyacintha was forgotten.