“Methinks,” said the Vestal, grimly enough, “thou art altogether dreaming. There is one Campia Severina here, but I know of no Severa whose name is recorded on the pedestals: but,” with a stately bow, “you are free to search; the statues are all collected here. There are duplicates of many, but I do not know the name of which you speak.”
Then the Vestal disappeared, and Cynthia, disappointed and sad, continued her search.
At last one of her ladies exclaimed:—
“Here is a beautiful statue, with no name; only a number—
“No. XIII.”
Cynthia gazed up at the statue for a few moments intensely and lovingly.
“I think that must be my aunt Hyacintha,” she said; “but oh! how dull and dismal it is here; no sunshine, no warmth. Come, let us depart; it makes me sad to stay.”
The ladies obeyed her not unwillingly. Rome might be grand, and had its ancient temples and noble statues, and its yellow, slowly-rolling Tiber; but life was sweeter and brighter far in sunny Alexandria, where the waves of the blue Mediterranean danced and sparkled, and the air and light of heaven were free to come and go.
As they ascended from the House of the Vestals, and climbed the Cælian Hill, Cynthia spoke for the first time.
The prospect before them was the same over which Hyacintha Severa had so often looked, as child, and fair maiden, and mature woman.