COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 2388.

No. XIII; OR, THE STORY OF THE LOST VESTAL
BY
EMMA MARSHALL.

IN ONE VOLUME.

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

By the same Author,

NO. XIII;
OR, THE
STORY OF THE LOST VESTAL.

BY
EMMA MARSHALL,
AUTHOR OF “LIFE’S AFTERMATH,” “DAYSPRING,”
“IN THE EAST COUNTRY,” ETC.

COPYRIGHT EDITION.

LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1886.

The Right of Translation is reserved.

“The darkness is past,

And the True Light now shineth.”

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works.”

INTRODUCTION.

Recent discoveries in the Roman Forum have brought to light many interesting relics. Amongst these are the statues of the Vestales Maximæ, of which, in spite of the efforts of the lime-burners and stone-cutters of the Middle Ages, who were distinguished for their work of wholesale destruction, thirty-six inscriptions, and fourteen statues, have been discovered.

The pedestals on which the statues were placed bear inscriptions, and the names of the Vestales Maximæ whose virtues are recorded.

There is one exception—the name is carefully erased—and we can know her of whom so much is said in praise, only as Number Thirteen.

An attempt has been made to clothe the memory of this Vestal with some probable, though of course wholly fictitious, incidents; and to assume as a certainty the idea, which has been thrown out as a possibility, that her conversion to Christianity was discovered, and that one in authority desired to leave no trace of her family or her name to future generations.

But, though her name has perished, her virtues remain engraven on the imperishable stone, and these help us to call her before us, in all the grace and dignity of a beautiful life, passed in the cloisters of the Vestals’ home.

The incidents which have gathered round her supposed history, are more or less connected with the persecution and martyrdom of the Early Church in Britain, and afterwards in Rome.

A glance like this into the past may be made useful to the young reader, if it should quicken a desire for the intelligent study of history, and help the student to look upon the events of bygone ages as they affected real men and women, who had the same hopes and fears, and aims and ends, as we have, who are living so long after them.

We are, naturally perhaps, too apt to think of those of whom we read in these distant ages, as myths rather than as the brothers and sisters of the one great family of God, to which we all belong. Their human hearts beat with the same affections as ours, and through the mists of superstition and ignorance the lamp of an undying love shines out here and there, as a light in a dark place.

Thus, through the symbol of the sacred fire, which the Vestals vowed to keep for ever burning, we may see the foreshadowing of the mission of every Christian woman, matron or maiden, whose high vocation it is to keep the light of truth, purity, and love, for ever burning in her daily life, and by giving light to those around fulfil the command of her Master, when He said—

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”

CONTENTS.

No. XIII;
OR,
THE STORY OF THE LOST VESTAL.

CHAPTER I.
A SILENT CITY.

There was silence in the city of Verulam on a bright summer day now nearly sixteen hundred years ago. It was a strange silence which reigned in the deserted streets of the old Roman city, which, with its baths and public buildings, was reckoned one of the finest in that sea-girt island, which the mistress of the world had made her own.

A vast crowd had left the city gates at dawn on that cloudless morning of early summer; women and children, stately matrons and tender maidens, all poured out of the town towards a river, some in chariots, many on foot, but all eager to get a good position on a flower-covered hill where a scene which would fill their hearts with an unhealthful excitement was to be enacted. For many of the Roman ladies, who wore costly robes, and fared delicately, and were at once the envy and admiration of the Britons, had inherited for the most part the passion for a sight which would now blanch the cheeks of their descendants, and fill their hearts with horror and shame.

There are exceptions to every rule, and though at a first glance the city looked entirely deserted, business and pleasure alike stopped, and the forum and temples empty, yet from one or two of the houses of the higher class of Roman nobility the inhabitants had not gone forth with the multitude, but had preferred remaining at home.

The villa of the noble Roman, Severus, was one of these; it was built, like all Roman houses, round a square, which was open to the sky above. A fountain played in the centre, and round the marble basin were planted the golden iris with its long-pointed leaves, and palms with their fan-like foliage; while the water-lilies, just opening their rounded buds, were rocking on the water, as it rose and fell with a gentle splash, pleasant to the ear and soothing to the spirit.

Couches covered with rich stuffs were arranged round this outer hall or “atrium,” and on one of them a lady was reclining; a little maiden of eleven years old at her feet, and a slave standing by her side, with a cup in one hand and a cloth in the other, fringed with gold lace, with which she wiped the lips of her mistress when she sipped the draught offered her, after nibbling at a sweet hard cake which she held in her hand.

The early sunshine had not yet come into the court, and the lady said, shuddering—

“Another scarf, Ebba, it is so cold. Ah, me! how I long for the warmth of my own country.”

Ebba placed the salver on a shelf which was just behind the couch, and taking a rich violet mantle from a carved chest threw it round her mistress.

“Is thy master gone with the multitude, and has he taken Casca with him?”

“Yes, lady, there is no one left in the house but myself and the child Hyacintha.”

At the sound of her name the young girl looked up. She had been so engrossed with a chain of Venetian shells she was threading upon gold silk, that she had apparently no thought for anything besides.

“Mother!” she exclaimed, “tell me about the sight every one has gone forth to see. Why could I not go? My father might have taken me with Casca.”

“Nay, Hyacintha, the crowd would have been too great. I dare not expose thee to its dangers.”

“The man who is to die is a very evil man, is he not, mother?”

“Nay, child, I have not heard so much said.”

Then the fair-haired British Ebba turned towards the child.

“The man is a good man,” she said. “He gave bread to the hungry, he clothed the naked, and he has perished because he would fain save the life of his friend.”

“Ah, that is noble!” said the little maiden with a light of interest kindled in her clear eyes. “Ah! that is noble; why should he die?”

“Thou art too young, my daughter, to understand the reason why a man like this Alban should die. But the reason is good, nevertheless. The old faith must be protected and defended, if it be possible.”

Ebba’s lips were seen to move, but no sound passed them.

“These Christians,” the lady continued, “are trying to upset, and pull down, and destroy our religion and our worship; it is only meet that they should be hindered from further mischief.”

Again Ebba’s lips moved, and the child, looking up, thought she caught the words—

“They cannot be hindered, for God is for them.”

“Ebba is murmuring to herself, mother,” Hyacintha said. “Bid her to speak so that we may hear.”

But the curtain which fell over the entrance to the dining-hall was seen to quiver as the British slave-girl disappeared behind it.

Then the lady exclaimed, “I wish Ebba would take more heed of her ways, for if she is defiled with the foreign superstitions, there will be trouble for us. There is enough trouble as it is. Ah! me, why do people make so much of religion? Jupiter or Apollo, or the Christian’s God, it is all the same to me!”

And the lady leaned back upon her pillow, and very soon the dark lashes were resting on her cheeks, and she was wrapt in a gentle slumber.

There are always people in all ages of the world of the same easy temperament as this wife of the noble Severus. The city might be deserted; the rage of a tyrannical governor might vent itself on the brave and loyal-hearted Alban, by torture and death, but what did it concern Cæcilia?

As I said, many other ladies of her rank had gone out that day to see the cruel sight, and to feast their eyes on a scene from which delicately nurtured women might have been supposed to turn with loathing. But Cæcilia, the wife of Severus, hated trouble, and looking on life as one long festival, disliked to think of anything which seemed to point to the probability, that to many it was a season of trial and suffering. So, lulled by the fountain in the atrium of her husband’s beautiful villa, she enjoyed a dreamy repose, and was unconscious of all that was passing about her, and that her little daughter had put aside the shells and also disappeared behind the curtain.

Ebba was on the gallery that ran round the atrium, and when she saw Hyacintha pull aside the curtain she came to the head of the marble stairs, and beckoned to her.

The child went up to her, saying—

“What is it you said, Ebba?”

“Come hither and look from the gallery over the country, and you will see.”

As she spoke, Ebba mounted still higher to the square opening in the roof, on one side of which was a small covered gallery, whence an extensive view was spread out, of the town and river and country beyond. The child gazed upon the view before her with wistful, questioning eyes.

The throng of people spread over the fields, which were smiling in the June sunshine; and along the great Watling Street, and across the bridge, there was a continuous stream of all ages and sexes.

The low murmur of the moving multitude reached the place where the Briton slave and her little mistress stood, and upon a hill rising on the opposite bank by the river there was an erection, round which the glittering helmets of soldiers were shining in the sun. Hyacintha drew closer to Ebba, and said, in a low tone—

“Tell me, Ebba, are they going to see the man killed? I wish you would speak, and,” she murmured, “tell me all you know.”

“If I were to tell you that,” the young Briton said, “I should be seized and tortured; and I am not ready to confess my faith.”

“Thy faith? Is not thy faith to believe that the gods are above, and watch over men; and that if men and women submit to their decrees they are protected and safe.”

Ebba shook her head.

“I know not if the Romans are safe under the care of their gods. I know they have enslaved us and are stern masters.”

“Am I not kind to thee, Ebba?” said Hyacintha; “I would fain be kind; but of late thou hast been so strange and sad. Never can I win a laugh from thee. Never wilt thou play the harp for me to dance and sing. Tell me all that is in thy heart.”

Ebba clasped her hands, and leaning upon the balustrade she said—

“If I were brave, and not a coward, I should tell thee all. Nay, I should tell the world; but I am a coward, and I durst not.”

Hyacintha seated herself on one of the cushioned seats on the balcony, while Ebba continued to look out on the moving multitude and the distant hill, the shining river and the sunny slopes around it, silently and sadly.

Ebba was a large, strongly-built maiden of some eighteen or twenty years. She had been born a slave in the Roman’s household, and had never known any other life. Her complexion was florid, and her hair the richest auburn. She wore the badge of her master on her arm; and her dress was of woollen material, girt in at the waist by a band, but falling loosely to her ankles.

Ebba was skilful and clever, and was a favourite with her mistress, who had many attendants, but always gave Ebba the preference. Time had been when Ebba had been foremost in providing amusement, for she could dance to the tambourine, and her broad face was generally lighted by a smile.

She was quick in arranging flowers, in plaiting her lady’s hair, and weaving into it coins and gold ornaments with a skill which few could rival.

Of late a change had passed over her, and instead of a merry girl, who had a light jest and a sally for every one, she was a grave, sad woman, often speaking to herself in low tones, and taking no part in the festive revelries of Severus’s household. The child Hyacintha was, even at eleven years old, most unusually beautiful. She was born of a patrician race on both sides, and fulfilled all the conditions of her noble birth in her form and features. Her figure, even now, when childhood was passing into girlhood, was lithe and supple, and the Roman maiden developed early, for fourteen was considered as the entrance into womanhood.

Hyacintha’s eyes were of that dusky hue which, taking a new colour with every varying light, defies description. Her hair was of a deep golden brown; and though she had every distinctive feature of her race in the well-cut features, and curved, short upper lip, with rather a massive chin, her complexion was fair.

Hyacintha had been born in the north during her father’s first year of office about the person of the Governor; thus the Italian sunshine had not given her complexion the rich dark hue which characterised her mother.

No one could look at Hyacintha, even at that early age, without seeing that there was in her something beyond the ordinary type of girlhood. Her mother might dream away life, and know no higher pleasures than the acquisition of beautiful dresses and ornaments, and in the entertainment of guests, and driving along the level Watling Street in her well-appointed chariot, but Hyacintha had already other aims and views. The child had heard from her father that maidens of their house had been chosen to keep the sacred fire burning in the temple of Vesta—that fire which was never to be quenched—that light which, coming from heaven, was to keep the sacred flame alive in every Roman’s hearth and heart!

Hyacintha would ask her mother many questions about this temple, and the beautiful city so far away, and when her mother complained of the chilling winds and dark skies of the northern climate, she would ask—

“Why do we not return to Rome?”

The British slave-girl, Ebba, could tell her nothing of that distant city; but of late, when she spoke of it, she would speak of another city fairer and more beautiful than Rome could be, and when Hyacintha asked how people reached it, she would clasp her hands and say—

“By a rough and terrible way, from which the timid shrank, but the brave of heart went forth boldly to tread.”

Several times in the course of that long summer’s day did little Hyacintha mount to the balcony and look out on the crowd which covered the hill-side.

Now and then a few stragglers returned, or a chariot with prancing steeds rolled along the great Watling Street.

Women, tired of carrying their children, came back to the city, and by the evening there were knots of people in the city all talking of what had happened on the hill above the river. Just at sunset the servants of Severus’s household returned, and the evening meal was laid in the inner hall or banqueting-room. Very soon the wheels of chariots were heard rolling up, and Hyacintha ran down to meet her father and brother, and hear the news.

Severus had several officers and gentlemen with him, and was scarcely conscious of his little daughter’s presence till she pulled the sleeve of his robe.

“Tell me, father, is the man dead?”

“Ay, little one, and so may all the enemies of the gods perish. But such a story is not for thy ears, my Hyacintha. See, take thy lute and play to us while we sup. These fellows have had enough of freedom for one day, and the supper is late. How now, slaves!” Severus exclaimed, clapping his hands, “let the guests be served.”

The couches were soon filled by the company, and Cæcilia reclined at the head of the board, dressed in the richest violet silk, with gold trimmings, a long veil floating at the back of her head.

Ebba was in attendance, and a seat at the end of the sofa or couch was reserved for Hyacintha.

“Where have you left Casca? Where is my son?” Cæcilia asked.

“The boy is weary, and the day has been too much for him. He has not the nerve and muscle of a Spartan,” was the reply; “not so much as our little maiden here, I verily believe.”

“And, indeed,” said a grave man, who was one of the guests, “it was a sight to affect a boy of your son’s tender years.”

The Roman father laughed.

“Nay, may he never see worse sights than that we have witnessed to-day. There was not enough terror in it; these miserable Christians need stronger discipline; they are so stubborn. When the beasts spring on them in the arena, and a huge leopard plays with one like a ball, then it is somewhat thrilling, I grant, but to-day! Fill the cups, and let us drink to the health of the Governor, and pour out a libation to the gods in token of gratitude that it has been given to us to crush out another at least of these reptiles.”

“Nay, now,” said a young man, “you forget the executioner.”

“Aye, so I did, that was a fine addition to the scene. I could laugh now to think of it!”

Severus saw that his little daughter was following every word that was said with extreme earnestness, and that Ebba, who was standing with a scent-bottle and a large fan close to her mistress, was scanning the face of the last speaker eagerly.

“Bid the musicians strike up,” Severus said; “our talk is scarcely pleasant for ladies to hear. And then, when we have had a good stirring melody, my little daughter shall sing us a good-night strain on her lute. Eh, my pretty one?”

“Father, I pray you to excuse me to-night,” Hyacintha said; “I am weary, and I have no heart to sing.”

She stepped down from her place on her mother’s couch, and with a curtsey, and graceful wave of her hand to the guests at the table, disappeared.

CHAPTER II.
NIGHT.

Although Casca and Hyacintha were their parents’ only children, there were no very intimate relations existing between them.

Casca was almost entirely at the schools, where he was preparing for active service, and receiving such training as was deemed needful for a young Roman. His father was disappointed that his only boy should be pale and delicate, that his arms should not be muscular, and that he was always at fault in any game, or trial of strength. Severus did his best to harden his only son, and it was with that idea that he had taken him with him that morning to see the execution of Alban.

Severus was in attendance on the Governor, and, shrinking and frightened, the boy stood by his father’s side, hiding his face in his short toga, when the martyr was scourged till the ground was moistened with his blood. Judge and Governor alike were pitiless, and, believing they were performing an act of service to their gods by crushing out the confessors of the Christian faith in Verulam, they were determined to make the whole scene as impressive as possible.

Alban was no common man: it was necessary that his execution should be conducted in no ordinary fashion.

He had lived in one of the finest villas in the city, he was a learned scholar, and had unquestioned taste in the fine arts which the Romans were introducing into Britain.

Although born at Verulam, Alban had, in his youth, travelled to Rome, and when he returned had been looked upon with veneration and respect. Although a Pagan, and scrupulous in his attendance on all high ceremonies in the temple of the gods, Alban had always been charitable and compassionate, and the poor found in him a friend.

Thus, full of kindness, when the Emperor’s edict published against the Christians at Rome and in all Roman provinces was issued, Alban opened his house to a man who was fleeing from his persecutors, and a minister of the religion of Christ. This was the turning-point of Alban’s life; this was the first step to the martyrdom which he had suffered gladly on this summer day for the faith of Christ crucified.

It is hard for us to realise, or grasp as facts, the terrible persecutions of those distant times.

Perhaps nothing is a stronger testimony to the Christian faith than that the more it was attacked, and the fiercer the persecution of its disciples, the more it grew and strengthened.

It has been so in all times; it will be so in all future ages, “for the Lord remaineth a King for ever.”

Hyacintha went to find her brother. The child’s head was filled with a strange yearning curiosity to know all particulars of what had passed.

She went up the marble staircase once more, and again looked out from the balcony over the city and the country.

The western sky was still aglow, and the outline of the hill was marked against it in purple lines. The river caught a reflection from a crescent moon which hung above it, and rippled in the silvery light.

The country beyond the city was asleep, but the city, which had been so quiet in the morning, was now astir. The buzz and murmur of voices rose on the still air, and slaves were seen conducting Roman citizens of note to their homes. Torches were lighted, silver lamps burning in the “Halls,” while strains of music and the voices of singing girls were borne on the breath of the evening air.

But Hyacintha did not stay on the balcony long; she turned from it to a room on the opposite side of the square opening, where she knew she should find her brother.

She went softly round to the doorway, and gently clapped her hands.

“Enter!” was said in a low voice; “is that you, Claudius?”

“No, Casca, it is only Hyacintha;” and Hyacintha pushed back the curtain and stood half shyly by her brother’s side.

He had thrown himself down on a couch, his hands folded behind his head, and his whole attitude one of extreme weariness.

“What do you want, Hyacintha?”

“I want news,” she replied; “tell me what you have seen to-day. Do tell me all the truth about the death of the evil man.”

Casca sprang up.

“Hush! Do not speak of that you know not, child. Evil, forsooth! he was good, not evil.”

“That is what I want to be sure of. Be kind, brother, be kind, and tell me the story.”

But Casca sank back again upon his cushion, and said—

“Not to-night. I shall never sleep if I rehearse it. I could not go over it again. Who are below?” he asked, as the sounds of music and singing came from the atrium.

“A few guests, some that my father brought home; no ladies but my mother.”

“Is not Junia there, the sister of Claudius?”

“No, unless she has arrived since I left the banqueting-hall. I would not stay, though father prayed me to sing to the lute. I could not stay, because I wanted to find thee.”

“Dear little sister,” Casca said, “I would not be rough to thee.”

“Thou art never rough, brother,” was the answer, “and I love thee dearly. I only wish I knew more of thy secrets. May I stay with thee?”

“Yes, draw that stool to the window, and pull the curtain aside. I like to see the sky and the stars.”

Hyacintha obeyed, and waited for what her brother would say next; he was contemplating the graceful outline of her head against the sky, as, with her elbow on the deep stone ledge of the window, her cheek resting upon her hand, she made a study any artist might long to put on canvas. Hyacintha waited patiently for her brother to speak, and at last he broke the silence, though not in the way she expected.

“I am a bitter disappointment to our father, Hyacintha, a poor, puny weakling like me; there are times when I long for death, to be free of this life. It may be that the gods would be merciful to me and give me the strength hereafter I lack here. But to-day, when I saw death, I shuddered and swooned. I am a wretched coward, with no power to live, and no power to die.”

Hyacintha’s eyes filled with tears. What comfort had a heathen to offer in all these exigencies of life and death? What could Hyacintha say to throw any light or hope over her brother’s darkness? Though but a child, she had heard much, from the grown-up people with whom she associated, of the world, and the pleasures of dance and song, and the games and all the luxuries and refinements of life, which were supposed to be a cure for heart-aches and trials. But Ebba had talked of feeding the hungry, nursing the sick, and clothing the naked, as a way to be happy. She said this man, Alban, had done these things, and that there was always a light on his face which was not shed there by any of the pleasures in which others indulged. Poor Hyacintha’s mind was all confused and bewildered; she almost wished she could be gay and careless like Junia, whose voice, singing a familiar song, now sounded from the atrium.

She began dimly to grasp the fact that something was wanted to make life different from the life her mother led, and many ladies, who frequented the atrium and lay on the luxurious couches there, and toyed with their bracelets and ornaments.

“I will pray my father,” Hyacintha thought “that I may go to Rome, and be trained for a priestess, in the temple of Vesta. Yes, I will pray him that I may do this, then I shall be happier far, for it will be doing something grand and noble.”

Her meditations were a second time broken in upon by her brother’s voice.

“Hark! I think I hear Claudius’s footstep. Yes; run, Hyacintha, and admit him.”

But Claudius did not wait to be admitted. He came springing in with a light step, and a cheery voice, a voice that had laughter in it, like the ripple of a brook hidden amongst moss and stones.

“So, here you are, hiding and moping! Wherefore such dolorous looks, young Casca? I am in the highest spirits. What think you? I am chosen for the race to-morrow, and I will win, too. Your pardon, fair Hyacintha. I did not perceive you in the shadow of the curtain. What ails you, Casca?”

“Weariness of myself and life, that is all,” the boy said; “you are in its full zest and enjoyment, while I——”

“Pish! what folly! The best time is coming. Why, as soon as you wear the toga virilis you will feel the man. Were you on the hill to-day?”

“Yes, I was forced to be there by my father.”

“Forced! Well, it was a fine spectacle; though to say the truth, there’s many a worse fellow than Alban about the city. Those sly Christians are doing secretly here in Verulam what Alban did openly, there’s the difference. They may be unearthed any day, and the sooner the better.”

“I do not know the whole story,” Hyacintha said. “I pray you, Claudius, tell it to me. If I ask my father he puts me off; and my mother says it is only that some wicked men should be got rid of. And Ebba is full of mystery, and sighs and mutters, but will not speak.”

“I will speak, if so it pleases you, little Hyacintha,” said Claudius, “and tell what there is to be told, always providing that I agree with your lady mother, the sooner the reptiles are crushed out the better.”

“You will find a draught in yonder cup,” Casca said, raising himself lazily on one arm; “that will refresh you before you begin.” Claudius soon trained the contents of the cup, and then replenished it from a flagon which stood by it.

“Aye, that is like nectar,” he said. Then he threw his large muscular limbs upon some cushions piled up in a corner near the window, where Hyacintha sat, her figure a little bent forward, and her eyes fastened upon the boy, as he began his tale.

“Only a few months ago, Alban was one of the most devoted worshippers in the temple of Apollo. He spent large sums on sacrifices, and if he poured out a libation, it was of the purest wine. There was no stint with him, as you know, or ought to know. A man who professed to teach and preach this new superstition was fleeing from his pursuers. Walking along Watling Street, Alban, noticing his breathless condition, inquired what ailed him. He said the Governor’s minions were upon him. Alban, struck with the man’s agony, hastily conducted him to his house, and harboured him there in secret.

“It is said that the miserable fugitive prayed night and day to his God, asking for help, and also that Alban should be turned from the old faith to believe these lies.”

“Are you—is any one—sure they are lies?” Casca asked.

“Look you, Casca,” said Claudius, “it is not for any one here to ask that question. Suffice it, that they are lies, base lies.”

Casca sighed heavily, and Claudius continued—

“The fugitive, whose name was Amphibalus, at last succeeded in his base designs. Alban, whom every one respected and honoured here, professed himself a Christian, and then the scene changed. So well had Alban hidden this fellow, that it was not for many days that suspicion was directed to his house. When at least it was searched, he, the stranger, had fled. Alban had give him one of his best robes, and wearing that, he escaped suspicion, and passed through the gates. But Alban himself, clothed in the Caracalla, which is the robe the fellow wore, was now under suspicion. ‘You will suffer in his stead, unless you at once sacrifice to the images of the gods,’ the judge said.”

“To tell the truth,” said Claudius, “there was something noble in the fellow, for no tortures could make him give in. Hush! what is that?”

A low voice was heard to say—

“Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

“It is Ebba’s voice,” Hyacintha exclaimed, and running towards the door, she found Ebba standing there.

“It is Ebba,” Hyacintha repeated. “Permit her to enter and hear the story to the end.” Casca nodded his head by way of assent, and Ebba, leaning against the wall over which a curtain hung, listened intently while Claudius finished his story.

“No tortures,” he continued, “would make the fellow give in. The scourge ploughed his back pretty well. He had thirty-nine stripes, and we expected to see him fall down dead.”

“Were you in the hall?” Casca exclaimed.

“Yes, I have seen the whole play played out,” the boy said carelessly. “The grand climax was to-day, when the executioner threw himself at Alban’s feet, and begged to die with him, or for him. And then there was an uproar indeed. A great multitude pressed round Alban, who was praying and calling upon his God, and crying to Jesus to have mercy, and turn the hearts of the people to himself.

“The governor and judge, however, made short work. A new executioner, one of the soldiers, was easily found, and it was not long before the heads of both Alban and Heraclius were rolling on the turf, and their blood sprinkled on the flowers. But they say in the city to-night that there are many who are full of this superstition, and that there will be many more. Thank the gods I am not one!”

Ebba, who had been standing motionless by the door, murmured something, which was not distinctly heard, and then vanished.

“I believe Ebba is one of them,” Casca said. “If it is so, it will bring us all into trouble, and my father ought to know.”

“Well, a truce to the poor wretches. Now,” said Claudius, “let us talk of other things. Ah! here is Ebba with the light. She will not leave us in darkness.”

Ebba did not speak, but lighted the two hanging lamps, which cast a soft radiance on the room, and on those who were in it. The beautiful childlike face of Hyacintha was brought out from the shadows, and large tears were seen upon her cheeks.

“Do not tell father, dear brother,” she said, “about Ebba. I pray you, do not. It might end in her death. And, oh!” exclaimed Hyacintha passionately, “I do dread death, the darkness whither we must go, before we reach the Elysian fields.”

“Do not fret, little sister. You are too grave for your tender years; come, sing to me and Claudius the good-night song you refused to sing to the guests below.”

“Ah! sing to us, and then I must seek for my sister, and conduct her home. The guests are leaving the hall, some of them are hilarious enough.”

As he spoke, loud laughter ascended from the atrium, and the torches which the attendants and slaves lifted flashed through the street. There was not much need of their light this evening. The days of our northern climate were at their longest, and almost before daylight faded from the west, streaks of dawn brightened the east.

The people of Verulam had gone through a tiring day, and the city was wrapt earlier than usual in repose.

It was just between midnight and the first hour of the coming day that a figure, veiled closely, glided across the square, which lay on one side of the villa Severus, and following the course of the river crossed it towards the hill, where the great spectacle of the day before had been witnessed by so many thousands. These were for the most part sleeping peacefully in Verulam, but some were yet watching on the spot where the martyrs had shed their blood.

One of them was the priest whose life Alban had saved at the expense of his own, and as the dark-veiled figure crept up the hill-side he advanced to meet it.

“Is it thou, my daughter, Ebba, the slave of the Roman house?”

“Yes, father, and I would fain follow thee. I am not afraid now. I will confess Christ before men. If I am to die, He will be with me, and I cannot—I dare not—tarry any longer. Baptise me; I am ready.”

“Art thou sure thou art in truth ready to leave all for Christ, to dare to confess thy faith?”

The girl’s lips faltered, and she said—

“I would fain remain with my mistress if it were possible. I love her little daughter so well.”

“Ah! I see, thou art not ready to leave all for Christ. There must be no halting between two opinions. My daughter, he who was done to a cruel death on this spot to-day, and whose blessed body we have buried here in silence and darkness, did not halt. Never can I forget the decision he showed. In the very hour that he believed, he confessed, and gave up all. Think what a renunciation it was: his fine house, whither the noblest and the most learned scholars amongst the Romans resorted; the honour paid him when he went to the temple to sacrifice to the false gods; the respect also felt for his gifts and talents. Yet he never faltered, and when the great trial-hour came he sent me forth in his robe, with a face as glad as if, when he arrayed himself in my Caracalla,[A] he had donned his wedding garment.

“That robe was the signal for his death. He did not fear to die for Christ, and he stood before the Governor, so those tell me who saw him, with a face shining like that of an angel. I have been in hiding near by, and have remained under cover of the darkness, to make known to the faithful whither I am gone, that they may perchance follow me, and in the fastnesses of Wales, we may add daily to our number such as shall be saved. Say, Ebba, wilt thou follow? See, there are signs of dawn in the east. I may not tarry. That group yonder seen in dark, dim, outline, is composed of those who are following me to a meeting-place I have indicated. Wilt thou join thyself to them?”

The poor British slave bowed her head, and clasping her hands, said, “I will follow thee.”

Then the priest led her to a spring, and baptised the heathen Ebba by the name “Anna.”

The morning star was shining brightly, and the summer dawn breaking over the hills, when, by the grave of the two martyrs, the cross was signed upon the forehead of the British slave.

The ceremony was performed in haste, and then the little band dispersed, to escape observation, some in one direction, some in another, but all to meet in a thick wood, near a place called Radburn, three miles distant from the city of Verulam.

Ebba, or Anna, as we must now call her, was committed to the care of a recent convert, named Agatha, who had concealed a little band of Christians in her house in the city, and who was an aunt to the soldier who had thrown away his sword and died rather than execute the savage commands of the Governor and Judge. There was no time for many words. Agatha kissed Anna on the forehead and said—

“I welcome thee, my daughter, to the inheritance of the saints, be it death or be it life.” And then in silence the two women pursued their way through the flower-scented meadow-land, and reached the shelter of the tangled wood at Radburn before the sun rose.

A cave in this wood, the mouth of which was covered with brushwood, was the appointed meeting-place. Here Amphibalus the priest had been hiding since Alban had permitted him to escape. And here, worn out with the events of the previous day, on beds made of dry leaves and heather, Anna lay down with her new friend to rest.

The cave was of some extent, and had several divisions. A fissure in the rock above lighted the inner part, which was allotted to the women. Even in summer it was a cold habitation, and only when the sun was high in the heavens could any warmth and cheerfulness penetrate it. As Anna lay gazing up into the roof, she could see the blue sky far above her through the interlacing boughs of brambles, and low-growing maples which grew over the opening.

The thrushes were singing their morning song, and there was innumerable chirping of newly-fledged birds, while the lowing of distant cattle and the nearer humming of bees, kept up a continuous low murmur.

Poor Anna could not sleep; she was thinking over the life in the Roman villa, of all the little offices it would soon be time to perform for her mistress and for Hyacintha. She knew full well that she would be missed before long, and perhaps pursued and found. That punishment, if not death, was the doom of the escaped slave, she knew well. The band, the badge of that slavery, was still on her arm, and could only be taken off by the hand of a smith. It would betray her as the runaway slave of the noble Severus, though the cross, the sign of her new faith, was invisible to all eyes but the angels.

Anna’s was not a strong, heroic soul; she was, as she had told her little mistress, a coward. “Yet He giveth strength to the weak” was a promise to be fulfilled in her case, as in that of the thousands who have learned to “count all things but loss for the love of Christ.”

Agatha was of a very different nature. She was sleeping as soundly and quietly as a child, while her young companion tossed and turned with wide-open eyes and restless limbs till noonday was near. The outer caves were getting full, and the whispers of the fugitives awoke Agatha.

“Have you slept, my daughter?” she said.

“Nay, I cannot sleep. I do not feel any peace, though I would not go back if I could.” Then she added hastily, and in a weak, low voice, “I am hungry.”

Agatha smiled.

“Ah!” she said, “hunger and weariness are a part of the cross we must bear after Christ; but thou art young, my child, and I will see whether I can find thee some food. We have had but scant measure here.”

Agatha disappeared within the outer cave, and presently returned, beckoning Anna to follow her.

Awe-struck, the girl obeyed, and there, in the outer cave, a little congregation was gathered round Amphibalus, who was kneeling at a rude table formed by a fragment of rock which blocked up the entrance to the cavern.

At a sign from Agatha, Anna knelt with the rest, and then Amphibalus rising, turned to the people, and bade them draw near and receive the sign of the love of the Crucified One, the bread and the wine which He had commanded. In a few short words, he rehearsed the story of the Cross to those poor trembling converts who at any moment might be discovered and dragged off to a cruel death. He told of the life which now is, and that hope of the life to come, as the blessed experience of the Christian, and his anchor. For life here without Him is darkness, and life there without Him is a dread void. What did stripes and persecution weigh in the balance, when the future exceeding glory and joy were on the other side! Then he went on to speak of Alban, and the soldier who died with him, rather than live without him, and to bid all those present to encourage each other in steadfastness and courage.

The Communion was then celebrated; the water from a neighbouring spring, being coloured with wine which Amphibalus had preserved in a small leathern flask in a secret pocket of his robe, filled the rude cup which was offered to the little band, and small fragments of wheaten bread were eaten.

The command thus obeyed in all simplicity of faith brought its blessing with it. Surely the strengthening and refreshing of these fugitives were a great reality, and poor Anna, rising from her knees with a smile on her lips, whispered—

“I will feed on Thee in my heart, O Saviour, and I shall know neither hunger nor thirst.”

There was need of faith, for the bodies of the little band were nearly exhausted before food came. It was not till darkness covered the face of the country that a messenger was sent to Radburn to buy bread. He returned about midnight, with loaves concealed in his clothes, and a pewter flagon or cup, that could be filled from the spring, and was handed round.

When the bread was divided every one of the fainting converts received the right share, and then Amphibalus prayed for a blessing, and that this food might support the bodies of those who partook of it till more bountiful provision was vouchsafed.

A consultation was held as to the future, and it was decided that the small band should remain in hiding in the cave to await the coming in of any more fugitives from the city.

Agatha, who was a strong and active woman, busied herself in making the three caves more habitable, by heaping up the heather and dried leaves for beds, and plaiting some of it into small baskets, which might be useful for exchanging for food whenever there was any obtainable in their wanderings.

Wales was the probable destination of the little community, where it was hoped they might find employment as keepers of pigs and cattle, and in the fastnesses of that district make converts from the scanty population, and by degrees found a church there.

Agatha’s cheerful, bright spirit infected Anna, and she began to take heart, and as the Gospel story was told her by her friend her soul expanded under its influence, and she only longed that her dear little mistress could have the same good news, and bitterly repented that through fear and terror of the consequences she had kept silence, and that she had not answered many earnest questions that the child had asked her.

It was too late now.

CHAPTER III.
THE MISSING SLAVE.

There was a good deal of consternation in the household of the noble Severus when Ebba’s flight was discovered.

An ominous frown upon Severus’s brow, as he entered his wife’s chamber, showed that a storm was brewing.

His lady had just had her morning bath, and was crying in a very undignified way for Ebba, declaring that the attendant, who was doing her best to supply her place, scorched her head with the crimping iron; that no one could plait her hair as Ebba did; that no one could twist into it the gold threads, or place the plait in the right position, but Ebba.

“Silence!” exclaimed Severus; “what mean you, to chide and wail like a weakling infant? Begone, all of you,” he said, clapping his hands; “begone, slaves, nor return till I bid you.”

The attendants, frightened by their master’s threatening air, took flight like a flock of pigeons, and only Hyacintha remained.

“Didst hear my order, child?”

But Hyacintha, whose eyes were swollen with weeping, said—

“Father, do not send me hence, I pray you.”

Severus seldom said a harsh word to his little daughter, and it was not often that she witnessed his outbursts of passion.

He offered no opposition when Hyacintha nestled closer to her mother on the couch, merely saying—

“Then hold your peace if you stay, nor make a single objection to what I have to say. This slave, Ebba, has, it seems, been in league with the poor reptiles whom, by order of the Emperor, we are to do our best to crush out of this land. By the gods! it is no pleasant thing for me to have cold and scornful looks turned on me in the Governor’s hall to-day; to be suspected as the master of a household of these creatures. ‘Forsooth,’ one said in my ear, ‘the runaway slave is not the only tainted one in thy house.’ I swear by the gods, that if he referred to my own son, I will not spare him, no, I will deliver him up.”

Hyacintha, who buried her face in her mother’s mantle, gave a low cry of terror.

“Peace, child,” said her father; “I do not know if Casca is infected, but I will take care to stop the infection if it be so. I have set a price on Ebba’s head, and do not doubt I shall scent her out; but it is of this daughter of ours I wish to speak. I propose to send her to Rome without delay, to begin her training under our kinswoman, Terentia Rufilla. It is time—high time—and I shall proceed at once.”

Cæcilia was not a mother to be too much concerned about her child’s future. The loss of Ebba, which entailed personal inconvenience, really distressed her more than this proposed separation from her only daughter. Hyacintha had for some time heard a rumour that this office in the temple of the goddess Vesta was to be her appointed lot. As, in later times, the daughters of noble families were consigned to the convent, and given no choice in the matter by their parents, but compelled to take the veil, so, in the era of which I write, there was no question as to the propriety of devoting them to the service of Vesta, which was considered the most honourable of all services connected with the temples of the gods.

There were often difficulties in the way, as many requirements had to be satisfied before a candidate for the office was accepted, but Hyacintha could fulfil these. She was of noble birth, and fair to look upon; her disposition was gentle, and her temper sweet. She had never rebelled against her parents’ wishes in her short life, and she was not likely to do so now. Indeed, of late she had been herself looking forward to the temple service; child as she was, she hungered for service, to do some great and noble deed, and know some higher life than that which the ladies about her led, of feasting and song, of excessive ornaments and luxurious plenty on the board of food and wine.

“Yes,” Severus continued, “I can obtain an excellent convoy for Hyacintha in the course of a few days, and Casca shall accompany her. The family of Burrhus are returning thither by way of Gaul with a maniple. The Emperor has ordered their return, as Burrhus’s services are needed about Diocletian. His wife will care for our little one, and she will be safe. What sayest thou, Hyacintha, my fair blossom?”

The stern brow relaxed now, and the child saw it. She stepped down from her mother’s couch, and going to her father said—

“I say, I will go to be trained to serve in the temple, though I grieve to leave thee and my mother.”

“Ah! Hyacintha,” exclaimed her mother, “thou wert always strange in thy tastes. Even thy foster-mother said thou never didst care for toys, and such things as infants love. It will run through thy life, methinks.”

“If I had but Ebba. If I had——”

“Peace! no more of thy hankering for the slave. I will let thee see her head when it is brought in. A meek-faced hypocrite! I know her well,” said her father.

“She was ever a helpful maiden to me, and I shall want her sorely,” complained Cæcilia. “I pray she may escape thy wrath. And be patient with Casca. The boy has——”

“The boy has no strength of mind or body,” was the answer, as Severus left the room.

Hyacintha summoned back the attendants at her mother’s order, and listened for some time to a succession of complaints and regrets for Ebba, which apparently took as little effect on the other maidens as the dropping of the water on the marble of the atrium had upon the smooth polished surface.

At length the toilette was completed, and the lady, richly dressed, repaired to the public bath, which was as much frequented in Verulam as in Rome. The baths of these times answered to the fashionable clubs and resorts of to-day. Acquaintances and friends met there, discussed the news, expressed surprise at the slow arrival of the post from Rome, one of the chief stations for news being placed at Verulam, talked gossip and scandal, as is the custom with unoccupied women of every rank and every nation, in that time, as in our own.

Cæcilia was accounted beautiful, and a person of distinction. She was one of the leaders of fashion, and her cosmetics and perfumes were the admiration of her friends, and the envy of her enemies.

Perhaps the word “enemy” is too strong a word to use. Cæcilia had scarcely enough character to provoke an enemy. Her colourless nature knew no strong shadows and no bright lights. She lived for herself and the passing hour, and the maternal instinct was dead within her—dead, so far as any trouble about her children was concerned. She could love them till they needed anything at her hands, but if that point were reached, her love could not show itself in taking any trouble on their behalf. From all we can gather in contemporary records, the atmosphere in which the fashionable Roman lady of these times lived and moved was a deadening one. A few sprang out of it, who read and studied their own Latin authors and the Greek tongue, and with a wonderful persistency of purpose mastered many abstruse questions, and hungered after higher and better things, and nobler aims.

But Cæcilia, the wife of Severus, was content to be ignorant; she thought this Christianity, which had cost her the services of her slave, low and vulgar, too low and vulgar for her to give it a thought, if she had one to give. And when she had settled herself on a couch in the public baths with her three attendants, she was not well pleased to find Junia, the sister of Claudius, next her, and intent on asking questions and getting them answered.

Junia was the daughter of a British chief, or noble, as the Romans preferred that title, who had married an Italian girl, previously attached to the person of one of the ladies brought by a former governor from Rome.

The stern and rough old Briton had become enslaved by the beauty and fascination of the young Cornelia, and had laid himself and all he possessed at her feet.

She had withered under the cold breath of the north country, and the rude luxury of the Briton’s home had been little in harmony with the early life Cornelia had spent in Italy. She had died and left her husband disconsolate, with two children on his hands, whom he found it hard to manage. They united the bold daring of the Briton with the quick, hot passions of the Italian, and before Junia was fifteen she had thrust a stiletto, in a fit of rage, into the breast of a slave, and killed her!

To our notions this dreadful act would have brought upon the girl a lifelong misery, and she would have been for ever withdrawn from the society of her friends and relations. But it was widely different then. The sharp and highly-polished stiletto was always at hand, and a prick from it, which drew blood, was frequently administered to a careless or idle slave.

If the wound had by chance been deeper than was intended—well, it was only the loss of a piece of property, and the master would bear it!

One slave, more or less, was not of very great moment to a wealthy proprietor. And the slave herself, unless, as in the case of Ebba, who had suited the whims of her mistress, was scarcely missed.

Junia was a bold, dark-eyed girl, with the free and confident manner which was sufficiently dangerous in a society like that in which she moved. She was conscious that her British extraction on one side placed her on a lower level than the proud Roman ladies of Verulam, but if conscious of it, she never showed it, and was perfectly unabashed and self confident.

Junia now threw herself down by Cæcilia’s side, and tossing back the broad red ribbon which confined her hair, she exclaimed, “So the faithful Ebba, the paragon of perfection, is gone. What will you do without her services, fair Cæcilia?”

“I have other maidens at hand,” said Cæcilia, coldly. “They are skilful.”

“Yes, doubtless,” Junia said, laughing, and showing a row of white teeth. “Yes, let her go, I say; but I know the noble Severus will have her head. I only hope it will not come in alone, but have company.” And again there was a ringing laugh.

“And tell me, beautiful Cæcilia, is it true that Hyacintha is to be sent to Rome?”

“Yes, Hyacintha is to go to Rome without delay,” Cæcilia answered.

“To be trained for a priestess to the goddess Vesta?”

“I think it may be so.”

“Alas! What a doleful life for the lovely maiden—a priestess—no marriage for her, no love, no freedom. I would rather be buried at once in one of the subterranean places they tell us so much of.”

“My daughter is of tender years,” said Cæcilia. “She will at present only be educated under the care of her father’s aunt—the noble Terentia Rufilla. The hall of the Vestals is no mean home. They have everything that is meet for the children of noble Romans. And,” continued Cæcilia, with a languid air of pride, “be it remembered that Vestals can only be chosen from the noblest houses of pure, unmixed descent.”

Junia laughed.

“I see,” she exclaimed, “no poor maiden whose father is a son of the conquered race could hope for the honour. Ah! well, she courts it not. Here comes my warlike brother. Well, Claudius, how fares it to-day in the wrestling? Hast thou thrown down Casca?”

“Casca!” he exclaimed. “Casca was not in the course at all.”

“What, noble Cæcilia,” the boy said, “is it really true that you part with Casca and Hyacintha? The arena and the schools are full of rumours to-day. Some say one thing, some another, but all agree that Christian superstition has laid an egg in the house of the noble Severus, and that a brood has been hatched.”

“I am sick of questions,” exclaimed Cæcilia, shrinking, as we all do, from the knowledge that our private affairs are made food for hungry gossips. So many of us are like the ostrich, and, hiding our heads in the sand, persuade ourselves that we are unseen and unnoticed. It was really very troublesome and fatiguing to be cross-examined by this boy and girl about private matters, Cæcilia thought! She clapped her hands, and the maidens in attendance, who had retired to a quarter of the hall where they and other slaves and attendants were congregated, signified her desire that her chariot should be ordered for an airing on the wide, smooth road known as Watling Street.

Claudius conducted her to the chariot with an easy grace which he inherited from his mother.

He had been quick to notice the cloud which he had called up on the lady’s face, and Junia’s laugh reached his ear, as, turning to some young associates with whom she was popular, he heard her repeating the news of the day to them.

“I crave pardon if I have seemed to fail in respect, lady,” he said. “I must ask leave to visit Casca before sunset.”

Cæcilia bowed, and smiled graciously.

“We shall see you at supper-time,” she said. “My husband has bidden the Greek dancing-girls to perform before us, and one of them plays the lute with uncommon skill. This will afford amusement for you and Casca.”

Claudius thought truly that Casca was in no mood for dancing-girls and music, but scarcely expected to find him in the state of melancholy prostration in his chamber, which at first seemed almost like despair.

Claudius had a warm heart, and was sincerely attached to his friend.

He took his accustomed place opposite him, and rallied him on his sad looks.

“Have you heard my fate?” Casca asked.

“Fate! I hear you are to depart to Rome with Burrhus: a very pleasant fate, by Apollo! I would I were to accompany you. But, for the sake of all that is holy, try to wear a brighter face. Half the young Romans in Verulam will envy you, to say nothing of a hybrid like me, your humble servant. Nay, now, Casca, be not a woman,” Claudius exclaimed, with some contempt in his tone; “it is womanish to give in and moan.”

Casca had hidden his face in his long, thin hands, and tears trickled through his fingers.

“If you had a father like mine,” Casca murmured, “you would not wonder at my condition. He came up hither this morning, raving like a beast in the arena. He seized me by the robe, and poured forth a string of epithets I will not repeat. He accused me of conniving at the poor slave’s flight, of contaminating my sister, of being the laughing-stock of all Verulam, a poltroon, a fool, and I know not what beside. He swore by all the gods that I should be placed under Burrhus to fight as a true Roman should if the Emperor sends out a legion to one of the insubordinate provinces. And I, oh! Claudius, I loathe fighting. I hate bloodshed. I crave for peace.”

“I would I could take your place,” said Claudius, “but my old father would not hear of it if your father agreed thereto. He looks upon me as the guardian of Junia, though, forsooth, I am but a poor guardian. She springs like a tigress if I attempt to check her in any wild course,” Claudius sighed. “Now, you have a sister who is like a daughter of the gods. You may well be ready to lay down your life for her. How can her parents send her hence?”

“It is all from the same cause, the dread of the Christian superstition,” Casca said. “They dread her being infected by poor Ebba’s teachers. The poor wretch seldom spoke of her new religion; until the day of Alban’s execution she kept silence. I trust we shall be spared the sickening spectacle of her head brought back. I can never forget the horror when the ghastly head of the runaway Syra was brought into the atrium,” and Casca shuddered.

“Nay, Casca, thou wert surely not designed by the gods for a Roman. Thou shouldst have been born in one of those far-off islands in the south, where the effete Greeks lie in flower-wreathed bowers, and, chewing the leaves of the lotus, pass away life in alternate slumber and song. Especially, good Casca, wert thou never designed by the gods to live in our own rude country and associate with us poor Britons.”