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.