As the last fully-consecrated Vestal, she walked a little in front of the five who followed her, and then came the noble and stately form of Terentia Rufilla. She had lost, of course, all the charms of youth, but her features were finely cut, and her carriage stately and imposing. There were many gorgeously-dressed Roman ladies behind her, whose splendid crimson and violet robes, glistening with jewels and sparkling with pearls, contrasted well with the long train of white-robed maidens which wound slowly on before them through crowds of spectators, the lictors clearing the road which was in many places strewn with flowers as they walked. Claudius was amongst the outside crowd which moved along with the procession. His high rank as Commander of the Forces under the Emperor Constantine ensured him respect, and he and a few of his officers who were with him, drew up in martial array before the temple, as the Vestals passed in to the great sacrifice. Some of his officers crossed the threshold and stood gazing at the high ceremonial with curiosity, prostrating themselves in that mechanical way which characterised the religious services of the temple in those the last days of the worship of the heathen gods. Claudius’s great height placed him on a vantage-ground, and he could see over the heads of the dense crowd before him. He had never once lost sight of Hyacintha, but she was utterly unconscious of his presence. All the enthusiasm of her nature was awakened by this public acknowledgment of the service to which she had devoted her life. As the priest in his gorgeous vestments sacrificed before the goddess, and the clouds of smoke rose and ascended to the sky through the impluvium or open space in the roof, Hyacintha’s heart went up to One whom she “ignorantly worshipped;” and if the desire of her soul could have been put into words, it would have been that she might be kept pure in her temple ministry, and that the fire of devotion might be ever burning clear and bright in her heart, as she had vowed to keep the sacred flame burning on the altar of Vesta. While many of her companions were looking around them, to see what friends and acquaintances were in the crowd, Hyacintha was lifted far above the throng of worshippers, and gazers on the spectacle, and thought only of the joy of service, and the happiness of being at last a fully-consecrated priestess, one of a long line which reached back a thousand years, and reached forward, as she believed, to a future age.