The little congregation were to separate at dawn, and Casca was led by Anna through the long and tortuous galleries to another entrance than that by which they had come in.
It was scarcely more than a hole in the hill-side, and concealed by the immense profusion of the rare yellow-berried ivy, which still hangs upon the Walls of the Appian Way.
When they reached the opening, Anna said—
“We must part here, dear master. I counsel you to conceal the manuscript carefully, and read it with prayer in secret. We may meet no more; for you pass now to the grand life of Antonius, and I must remain in the Jews’ quarter, and you must run into no danger in seeking me out. But I am often to be found here at dark after sunset, and before sunrise, and it may be that the desire of my heart may be granted, and you will seek baptism at the hands of the Father in Christ who spoke to us this night. Ah! it is morning now; speed on your way.” Then Anna swept the overhanging branches of ivy over the opening with her hand, and disappeared, while Casca turned towards the city along the Appian Way.
The first faint pallor of the dawn was touching the colossal figures on the tombs, as Casca passed along.
In the dim and shadowy light these monuments of the past seemed even more majestic than in the broad glare of the noonday sun. The boy’s heart was filled with a yearning longing after some certainty about the future life which was almost pain.
All the great warriors who had fallen in battle for their country covered with glory, whom these monuments commemorated—where had they gone? That dim region of the dead, whence the old traditions said some favoured ones had been snatched by the strong arm of the gods, and returned to those who loved them—where was it? Had it, indeed—as many thought in Rome—no existence but in the songs of the poet and in the marble of the sculptor?
If the great multitude of whom nothing remained but their ashes in the urns which were deposited in the grand monuments were utterly gone; if the life which had ended on the battle-field, or by their own hand was over—quite over—how short it was! All hopes and fears, and learning and culture, at an end. Death! which must then mean nothingness?
But a voice in the boy’s soul told him of immortality; that living witness within seemed to call on him to believe that the spirit within him could not die. With what certainty had the priest spoken of the cloud of living witnesses—living, caring for those on earth—loving them still! Surely, if this were true, it was a grander and nobler thought than the consignment to the depth of Hades, or the utter passing away and annihilation of which so many orators he had lately heard declare was the fate of every man! Casca thought of his beautiful young sister in the temple of Vesta, and remembered all their sweet converse at home in the Villa of Severus, and on the long and perilous journey to Rome. But she had gained her heart’s desire, and she was satisfied. Surely her sweet young face, as he had seen it in the garden on the Cælian Hill, had a happy and satisfied halo shed over it!
He had never seen her look so happy before. She had left the luxurious frivolous life behind her, and had entered upon her training for what was considered the very highest vocation for a Roman maiden. She had the privileges and honours of a vestal virgin before her—possibly she might reach the highest office of all, and her father’s rank made this probable; and then, as Vestal Maxima, Hyacintha would have fulfilled the most sanguine desires which any one who knew her could cherish.