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!