Hyacintha did not reply. She was looking down upon the sapphire water which rippled against the low, cumbrous vessel, and her eyes were scanning a dark object which floated slowly past.
“See, Casca!” she said, “see! There are dead women in that boat, drifting whither?”
“As we drift,” said the boy, raising himself on his elbow, “as we drift. But I heard some one say that the people of these parts place their dead that they love best in boats, that they may reach Arles—the holy city—with money to pay for their burial.”
Hyacintha did not answer, but continued to gaze down upon the boat till it was carried beyond her sight.
Death everywhere, the child thought. Death by sword, and fire, and tempest, and sickness. Death! and she had heard Ebba say something about One who was the Life. Life was so beautiful, and so sweet, and yet the shadow of death was everywhere.
“I shall be beyond the sights and sounds of woe and trouble in the temple,” she thought. “I shall have so many beautiful things about me, and I shall forget all that is dark and dreadful.”
As the sun went down, a cool brisk breeze sprang up, and the little convoy, of which the ship in which the brother and sister were sailing was the middle one, began to dance merrily on the water.
The galley on board of which were Burrhus and the chief officers of the maniple was the scene of feasting and merriment.
There were sounds of music, and of voices singing, and nothing seemed to depress or sadden the rest of the party.
“How different they are from me,” Casca said. “Do not you wish to join them in the other vessel?”