The Count of the Saxon Shore; or The Villa in Vectis.: A Tale of the Departure of the Romans from BritainChurch, Alfred John
History
The Count of the Saxon Shore; or The Villa in Vectis.: A Tale of the Departure of the Romans from Britain
Church, Alfred John
Great Britain -- History -- Roman period, 55 B.C.-449 A.D. -- Fiction; Historical fiction; Romans -- Great Britain -- Fiction
Still they struggled on, leaving one
or two of the strugglers to make the best of their way back, or, it might
well be, to perish in the snow, till about half the distance was
traversed. They had now reached a little hamlet,(38) on the outskirts of
which there happened to be a small villa. It was shut up, the proprietor
chancing to be absent, but it was put at the disposal of the party by the
person who was in charge. Fires were hastily lighted, and the travellers,
most of whom had almost reached the end of their powers of endurance, were
refreshed with warmth and food.
The Count held a council of war. The situation indeed seemed nothing less
than desperate. Two out of the party of twenty-five—their numbers had been
increased by a contingent taken from the crew of the galley—were missing.
They had fallen out on the march, and it was too probable that they had
perished in the snow. Of the remainder but four or five seemed fit for any
further exertion. By far the freshest and most vigorous of them was the
Saxon. The fatigues of the night had scarcely told on his gigantic
strength. The Italians, and even the Britons, natives of the southern
parts of the island, and little accustomed to heavy falls of snow, looked
at him with astonishment. As for him, he was full of impatience at the
delay.
The Count was in an agony of doubt and distress. His own strength had
failed so completely that all his spirit—and there was no braver man in
the armies of Rome—could not have dragged him a hundred yards further. And
he saw that many of his followers were in little better case. And yet to
give up the pursuit! to leave Carna, the sweetest, gentlest of women, dear
to him as a daughter of his own, to this hideous death! The thought was
too dreadful.
“When do they perform their horrible rites?” said the Count to the
peddler.
“When the full moon shines through the great south entrance of the
Temple,” was the answer.
“And when will that be?”
“To-night, and about an hour before midnight, as far as I can guess.”
“And what must be done? What is your advice?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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