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Programming
Pearls
Second Edition
This page intentionally left blank
 Programming
Pearls
Second Edition

JON BENTLEY
Bell Labs, Lucent Technologies
Murray Hill, New Jersey

ACM Press
New York, New York

AAddison-Wesley
Boston • San Francisco • New York • Toronto • Montreal
London • Munich • Paris • Madrid
Capetown • Sydney • Tokyo • Singapore • Mexico City
Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed
as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Addison-Wesley was aware of a trade-
mark claim, the designations have been printed in initial caps or all caps.

The author and publishers have taken care in the preparation of this book, but make no expressed
or implied warranty of any kind and assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. No liability is as-
sumed for incidental or consequential damages in connection with or arising out of the use of the infor-
mation or programs contained herein.

This book is published as part of ACM Press Books—a collaboration between the Association for Com-
puting (ACM) and Addison-Wesley. ACM is the oldest and largest educational and scientific society in
the information technology field. Through its high-quality publications and services, ACM is a major
force in advancing the skills and knowledge of IT professionals throughout the world. For further infor-
mation about ACM, contact:

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Copyright © 2000 by Lucent Technologies. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form,
or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior con-
sent of the publisher. Printed in the United States of America. Published simultaneously in Canada.

This book was typeset in Times Roman and Lucida Sans Typewriter by the author.

Text printed on recycled and acid-free paper.

ISBN 0-201-65788-0
ISBN 0-201-65788-0
Text printed
Text printedin
inthe
theUnited
UnitedStates
Statesononrecycled
recycled paper
paper at at
RRRR Donnelley
Donnelley in Crawfordsville,
in Crawfordsville, Indiana.
Indiana.
Twenty-Fifth printing,
Twenty-Fifth printing, January
January 2015
2015
 PREFACE

Computer programming has many faces. Fred Brooks paints the big picture in
The Mythical Man Month] his essays underscore the crucial role of management in
large software projects. At a finer grain, Steve McConnell teaches good programming
style in Code Complete. The topics in those books are the key to good software and
the hallmark of the professional programmer. Unfortunately, though, the workman-
like application of those sound engineering principles isn't always thrilling — until
the software is completed on time and works without surprise.

About the Book

The columns in this book are about a more glamorous aspect of the profession:
programming pearls whose origins lie beyond solid engineering, in the realm of
insight and creativity. Just as natural pearls grow from grains of sand that have
irritated oysters, these programming pearls have grown from real problems that have
irritated real programmers. The programs are fun, and they teach important program-
ming techniques and fundamental design principles.
Most of these essays originally appeared in my "Programming Pearls" column in
Communications of the Association for Computing Machinery. They were collected,
revised and published as the first edition of this book in 1986. Twelve of the thirteen
pieces in the first edition have been edited substantially for this edition, and three new
columns have been added.
The only background the book assumes is programming experience in a high-level
language. Advanced techniques (such as templates in C++) show up now and then,
but the reader unfamiliar with such topics will be able to skip to the next section with
impunity.
Although each column may be read by itself, there is a logical grouping to the
complete set. Columns 1 through 5 form Part I of the book. They review program-
ming fundamentals: problem definition, algorithms, data structures and program veri-
fication and testing. Part II is built around the theme of efficiency, which is some-
times important in itself and is always a fine springboard into interesting program-
ming problems. Part III applies those techniques to several substantial problems in
sorting, searching and strings.
VI PROGRAMMING PEARLS

One hint about reading the essays: don't go too fast. Read them carefully, one per
sitting. Try the problems as they are posed — some of them look easy until you've
butted your head against them for an hour or two. Afterwards, work hard on the prob-
lems at the end of each column: most of what you learn from this book will come out
the end of your pencil as you scribble down your solutions. If possible, discuss your
ideas with friends and colleagues before peeking at the hints and solutions in the back
of the book. The further reading at the end of each chapter isn't intended as a schol-
arly reference list; I've recommended some good books that are an important part of
my personal library.
This book is written for programmers. I hope that the problems, hints, solutions,
and further reading make it useful for individuals. The book has been used in classes
including Algorithms, Program Verification and Software Engineering. The catalog
of algorithms in Appendix 1 is a reference for practicing programmers, and also
shows how the book can be integrated into classes on algorithms and data structures.

The Code
The pseudocode programs in the first edition of the book were all implemented,
but I was the only person to see the real code. For this edition, I have rewritten all the
old programs and written about the same amount of new code. The programs are
available at
www. prog ramrrri ngpearl s. com
The code includes much of the scaffolding for testing, debugging and timing the func-
tions. The site also contains other relevant material. Because so much software is
now available online, a new theme in this edition is how to evaluate and use software
components.
The programs use a terse coding style: short variable names, few blank lines, and
little or no error checking. This is inappropriate in large software projects, but it is
useful to convey the key ideas of algorithms. Solution 5.1 gives more background on
this style.
The text includes a few real C and C++ programs, but most functions are
expressed in a pseudocode that takes less space and avoids inelegant syntax. The
notation for i = [0, n) iterates / from 0 through n-l. In these for loops, left and
right parentheses denote open ranges (which do not include the end values), and left
and right square brackets denote closed ranges (which do include the end values).
The phrase function(i, j) still calls a function with parameters i and7, and array [/, j]
still accesses an array element.
This edition reports the run times of many programs on "my computer", a
400MHz Pentium II with 128 megabytes of RAM running Windows NT 4.0. I timed
the programs on several other machines, and the book reports the few substantial dif-
ferences that I observed. All experiments used the highest available level of compiler
optimization. I encourage you to time the programs on your machine; I bet that you'll
find similar ratios of run times.
 PREFACE Vll

To Readers of the First Edition

I hope that your first response as you thumb through this edition of the book is,
"This sure looks familiar." A few minutes later, I hope that you'll observe, "I've
never seen that before."
This version has the same focus as the first edition, but is set in a larger context.
Computing has grown substantially in important areas such as databases, networking
and user interfaces. Most programmers should be familiar users of such technologies.
At the center of each of those areas, though, is a hard core of programming problems.
Those programs remain the theme of this book. This edition of the book is a slightly
larger fish in a much larger pond.
One section from old Column 4 on implementing binary search grew into new
Column 5 on testing, debugging and timing. Old Column 11 grew and split into new
Columns 12 (on the original problem) and 13 (on set representations). Old Column
13 described a spelling checker that ran in a 64-kilobyte address space; it has been
deleted, but its heart lives on in Section 13.8. New Column 15 is about string prob-
lems. Many sections have been inserted into the old columns, and other sections were
deleted along the way. With new problems, new solutions, and four new appendices,
this edition of the book is 25 percent longer.
Many of the old case studies in this edition are unchanged, for their historical
interest. A few old stories have been recast in modern terms.

Acknowledgments for the First Edition

I am grateful for much support from many people. The idea for a
Communications of the ACM column was originally conceived by Peter Denning and
Stuart Lynn. Peter worked diligently within ACM to make the column possible and
recruited me for the job. ACM Headquarters staff, particularly Roz Steier and Nancy
Adriance, have been very supportive as these columns were published in their original
form. I am especially indebted to the ACM for encouraging publication of the
columns in their present form, and to the many CACM readers who made this
expanded version necessary and possible by their comments on the original columns.
Al Aho, Peter Denning, Mike Garey, David Johnson, Brian Kernighan, John Lin-
derman, Doug Mcllroy and Don Stanat have all read each column with great care,
often under extreme time pressure. I am also grateful for the particularly helpful com-
ments of Henry Baird, Bill Cleveland, David Gries, Eric Grosse, Lynn Jelinski, Steve
Johnson, Bob Melville, Bob Martin, Arno Penzias, Marilyn Roper, Chris Van Wyk,
Vic Vyssotsky and Pamela Zave. Al Aho, Andrew Hume, Brian Kernighan, Ravi
Sethi, Laura Skinger and Bjarne Stroustrup provided invaluable help in bookmaking,
and West Point cadets in EF 485 field tested the penultimate draft of the manuscript.
Thanks, all.
Vlll PROGRAMMING PEARLS

Acknowledgments for the Second Edition

Dan Bentley, Russ Cox, Brian Kernighan, Mark Kernighan, John Linderman,
Steve McConnell, Doug Mcllroy, Rob Pike, Howard Trickey and Chris Van Wyk
have all read this edition with great care. I am also grateful for the particularly helpful
comments of Paul Abrahams, Glenda Childress, Eric Grosse, Ann Martin, Peter Mcll-
roy, Peter Memishian, Sundar Narasimhan, Lisa Ricker, Dennis Ritchie, Ravi Sethi,
Carol Smith, Tom Szymanski and Kentaro Toyama. I thank Peter Gordon and his
colleagues at Addison-Wesley for their help in preparing this edition.

Murray Hill, New Jersey J. B.

December, 1985
August, 1999
 CONTENTS

Parti: PRELIMINARIES 1

Column 1: Cracking the Oyster 3

A Friendly Conversation • Precise Problem Statement • Program Design •
Implementation Sketch . Principles • Problems • Further Reading

Column 2: Aha! Algorithms 11

Three Problems • Ubiquitous Binary Search . The Power of Primitives •
Getting It Together: Sorting • Principles . Problems • Further Reading •
Implementing an Anagram Program

Column 3: Data Structures Programs 21

A Survey Program • Form-Letter Programming . An Array of Examples •
Structuring Data • Powerful Tools for Specialized Data • Principles • Prob-
lems • Further Reading

Column 4: Writing Correct Programs 33

The Challenge of Binary Search • Writing the Program • Understanding the
Program . Principles • The Roles of Program Verification • Problems •
Further Reading

Column 5: A Small Matter of Programming 45

From Pseudocode to C • A Test Harness • The Art of Assertion . Auto-
mated Testing . Timing . The Complete Program • Principles • Problems
. Further Reading • Debugging

Part II: PERFORMANCE 59

Column 6: Perspective on Performance 61

A Case Study . Design Levels • Principles • Problems • Further Reading

Column 7: The Back of the Envelope 67

Basic Skills • Performance Estimates • Safety Factors • Little's Law •
Principles • Problems • Further Reading • Quick Calculations in Everyday
Life

ix
 PROGRAMMING PEARLS

Column 8: Algorithm Design Techniques 77

The Problem and a Simple Algorithm • Two Quadratic Algorithms • A
Divide-and-Conquer Algorithm • A Scanning Algorithm • What Does It
Matter? • Principles . Problems . Further Reading

Column 9: Code Tuning 87

A Typical Story • A First Aid Sampler • Major Surgery — Binary Search .
Principles • Problems • Further Reading

Column 10: Squeezing Space 99

The Key — Simplicity . An Illustrative Problem . Techniques for Data
Space • Techniques for Code Space • Principles . Problems • Further
Reading • A Big Squeeze

Part III: THE PRODUCT 113

Column 11: Sorting 115

Insertion Sort • A Simple Quicksort • Better Quicksorts • Principles •
Problems • Further Reading

Column 12: A Sample Problem 125

The Problem • One Solution • The Design Space • Principles . Problems
• Further Reading

Column 13: Searching 133

The Interface • Linear Structures • Binary Search Trees • Structures for
Integers • Principles • Problems • Further Reading . A Real Searching
Problem

Column 14: Heaps 147

The Data Structure . Two Critical Functions • Priority Queues . A Sorting
Algorithm • Principles • Problems • Further Reading

Column 15: Strings of Pearls 161

Words • Phrases • Generating Text • Principles • Problems . Further
Reading

Epilog to the First Edition 175

Epilog to the Second Edition 177

Appendix 1: A Catalog of Algorithms 179

Appendix 2: An Estimation Quiz 183

Appendix 3: Cost Models for Time and Space 185

 CONTENTS XI

Appendix 4: Rules for Code Tuning 191

Appendix 5: C++ Classes for Searching 197

Hints for Selected Problems 201

Solutions to Selected Problems 205

Index 233
This page intentionally left blank
 PARTI PRELIMINARIES

These five columns review the basics of programming. Column 1 is the history of
a single problem. A combination of careful problem definition and straightforward
programming techniques led to an elegant solution. The column illustrates the central
theme of this book: thinking hard about a real case study can be fun and can also lead
to practical benefits.
Column 2 examines three problems, with an emphasis on how algorithmic insights
can yield simple and effective code. Column 3 surveys the crucial role that the struc-
ture of data can play in software design.
Column 4 introduces program verification as a tool for writing correct code. Veri-
fication techniques are used extensively as we derive subtle (and fast) functions in
Columns 9, 11 and 14. Column 5 shows how we implement those abstract programs
in real code: we use scaffolding to probe a function, to bombard it with test cases, and
to measure its performance.
This page intentionally left blank
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loved her; now she was standing before him in the full beauty of her
womanhood, and he felt his love was nearly worship. He was a
Christian now. He had been won to embrace the faith by the
example of a few who professed Christianity amongst Constantine’s
army. Claudius had been with the Emperor’s force, when he went to
repress an incursion of the Franks, one of the hardy Northern tribes
on the banks of the Rhine. It was just at the time when the
treacherous Maximian had taken advantage of Constantine’s absence
to seize all the treasure at Arles, and dispensing it amongst the
soldiers who were stationed in Southern Gaul, hoped to establish his
authority by gifts and bribes. But before that was done Constantine
had returned with extraordinary quickness, and Claudius had been
with his army when he arrived at the gates of Arles with a force
which it was impossible to resist, and which scarcely gave him time
to take refuge in the nearest city of Marseilles.
Claudius had indeed seen much active service since he had gone out
with Valens to pursue the little band of Christians in the forest near
Radburn, and many a time the cries and tears of that innocent and
inoffensive little band seemed to sound in his ears and reproach him.
“I think,” he said, “the first time I ever felt that the religion of Christ
must be a reality was when I saw that brave woman Agatha quietly
submit to receive the dead Jewish girl in the dark dungeon, and,
faint and exhausted, as it proved, even to death, make no murmur
at the lonely vigil with the dead to which I left her. I would not speak
to you here,” Claudius continued, “of my deeds of prowess. Those
scenes in which I have taken part are no theme for your ear, most
beautiful Hyacintha, but I would fain tell you, that face to face with
death a hundred times, I have felt the power of God within me was
mighty to save.
“In the last great fight at Saxa Rubra, where we came unawares
upon the army of Maxentius, I fought side by side with the friend
who has so deeply influenced me. He was a Christian indeed, and
though he defended himself valiantly, he indulged in no barbaric
cruelty, such as we soldiers have often witnessed, and—I say it with
shame—indulged in.”
“The story of that battle is well known amongst us,” Hyacintha said.
“We have been rid of the tyrant Maxentius, and Rome may have
rest.”
“There can be but little rest,” said Claudius. “I, for one, am weary of
the clang of arms and fighting. Methinks I shall resign my high post,
and try to find Casca in the far-off city where you say he is gone.
The roar of the vanquished ones as they rushed to meet their fate in
the swift-flowing Tiber sounds in my ear many a time and oft, and I
would fain lay down my arms. I have had a glut of battles, and could
almost take up Casca’s cry of—‘Anything but bloodshed.’ I am a
rough fellow, I know, but Christianity can tame the roughest, and
subdue the most ferocious nature. It would lift you,” he continued, in
a voice faltering from deep emotion, “to the very height of the
angelic host.”
A smile broke over Hyacintha’s face.
“Good Claudius,” she said; “I am in no need of exaltation, neither of
humiliation. For when I think of all the great privileges which lie
before me to-day—of the lonely watch before the altar of Vesta, and
of the part which I shall take to-morrow in the great festival, I feel,
methinks, as if my heart swelled with proud thankfulness.
“The time is come for me,” she continued, “to return, for the sun is
getting high above the horizon.
“Ah!” she said, stretching out her arms to the lovely view before her.
“How beautiful the city is! how grand! how like a queen! and surely I
am highly favoured to be allowed to minister at the sacred altar, and
keep alive the purifying flame which shall ensure the safety of
thousands in Rome.”
“Little do you dream in your seclusion of all the wickedness that
seethes like a turbid fountain whose waters cast up mire and dirt in
Rome!” Claudius exclaimed. “It may be well that you, in your purity
and innocence, should know but little—nay, nothing—of all that lies
below the surface—greed, and lust, and murder, all those things
which are the signs and token, or, rather, the fruits of the flesh.”
“Do not tell me more,” Hyacintha said. “I cannot amend what is
wrong. I am content to believe, as those higher and nobler than I
am have believed for a thousand years.”
“Are you indeed content to believe?” Claudius asked sadly. “I know
that if I were to draw a picture of all, that after only a short
residence, I see in Rome, you would not be content. The wife and
daughter of Diocletian have been foully murdered. Think you not
that the blood of the Christian matrons and maidens who fell under
the ban of the Emperor did not cry for vengeance, and that the cry
was answered by their destruction?”
“The innocent suffering for the guilty? Nay,” said Hyacintha, with a
light laugh; “if the God whom you worship decrees such judgment,
He is not worthy of love.”
“And yet,” said Claudius, “and yet in the sufferings of Christ, the
pure, the undefiled, for the sinner, rests our safety.”
“Nay! not your safety,” exclaimed Hyacintha; “or why did Christ leave
so many to perish, torn by wild beasts, stoned, and tortured?”
“I am no scholar,” Claudius said. “I am not like Casca, learned in
argument and reasoning, but there is in me a witness to the truth of
what I say. The innocent suffered for the guilty, and there is
salvation in that suffering for all who believe; and I know in whom I
believe!”
Hyacintha was silent. Claudius had always seemed to her in her
childish days a brave and athletic youth, when feats of arms and
success in the games had so often brought her father’s angry and
contemptuous taunts on the head of her brother Casca.
Many a time had she heard him declare that Claudius ought to have
been his son, and that the weakly Casca was scarcely better than a
girl. Hyacintha had often shrunk from Claudius’s roughness, his
boisterous laugh, his loud ringing voice as he rallied Casca on his
depression. Now she could but tell herself there was a change. The
face, bronzed by exposure, and scarred in two places by a sword-
cut, was benign and gentle in its expression. The voice that came
from under that mass of reddish hair was subdued and even
musical. Claudius was changed—what had brought about that
change? She was, I think, unconscious that as she stood there—the
most winning and beautiful picture of womanhood—that she filled
Claudius’s strong and noble heart with longing to possess her—to
take her from this false faith, to bring her to the foot of the Cross,
that she might live in the true light that lighteth every man.
Hyacintha’s was one of those pure and noble natures to whom
service is a necessity, and who can know no selfish and ignoble
aims.
There was never a little disciple in distress about a torn garment or a
neglected lesson but she came to Hyacintha for help. There was not
wanting the mean spirit of jealousies amongst the vestals; bitter
tongues were often in motion; rivalries, and anxieties for the best
places at the games, and for notice from those in power were rife;
the choicest viands at the table were eagerly sought; and the
weariness and lassitude which are born of the service which is not
heart-service, and therefore becomes drudgery, continually produced
ill-temper, which is so often the outcome of discontent. It was rare,
indeed, to find Hyacintha cross or angry; she bore and forbare, and
won her way through all the trials of her surroundings with a
wonderful patience.
Her relationship to Terentia Rufilla, and the close friendship which
existed between them, excited, as was only probable, the envy of
many of her companions. But ill-will could not flourish near her. The
bright serenity of her nature triumphed over every obstacle, and, like
the sun, dispersed the clouds around her, as day by day she rose
higher in the estimation of those with whom she shared the daily
routine of the Vestals’ House.
That these noble characters were by no means uncommon in the
days of which I write is beyond a question. They shine out amongst
the records of those times like stars in the firmament, and many
women like Hyacintha Severa have, when converted to the faith of
Christ, shown that they were true as steel and steadfast as a rock,
and glad to suffer and to die for the name of Christ.
The fountain rippled, and the falling of the water made a low,
monotonous murmur; the sun rising above the hills turned every
dew-drop into a diamond, and lay upon the turf, which was jewelled
with flowers in golden bands.
Hyacintha stood lost in meditation, Claudius watching her.
He drew a step nearer, and she started, as if from a happy dream;
then he spoke in low, earnest tones.
“Hyacintha, would that I could think you knew in whom you believe.
Sweet friend, I will pray for you, and my prayers—rough and
untaught soldier as I am—ascending continually, will be heard. I
would not hurt a hair of your head,” he continued, earnestly. “I
would not even bring the shadow of a cloud over you. I know that
you have vowed to give up all loves of earth, and that the vow you
have taken is the vow for life. Were you other than what you are, I
might tell you of the love I bear you—a love which has kept me in
the thickest onslaught of temptation! As you keep the sacred fire on
the altar, so have I kept this love for you in my heart.
“It will burn there till I die, and after death it will still live on.... Nay,”
he said, as he saw the swift blush mantle Hyacintha’s cheek—“nay, I
would not awaken in you one troubled thought. I shall never possess
you, but the love I bear you is deathless. I seem to see in the future
a land more beautiful than mortal eye has ever looked upon, and
there something tells me I shall find you, my beautiful one, in
garments whiter even than that you now wear, and bought for you
by the Innocent who suffered for the guilty.”
Claudius, like many another man who has loved as a pure, good
man only can love, seemed carried into eloquence by the force of
the feeling within him.
He knelt for a moment at Hyacintha’s feet, took her hand and kissed
it, and the next moment he was gone.
The awakening had come for the Vestal on the very eve of her full
admission to the duties she had so longed for: that awakening
comes to most of us; and there was never a true and good woman
who could lightly esteem the devotion of a noble-hearted man.
Hyacintha stood leaning against the rock whence the fountain
flowed; for a few moments her heart beat fast, and her eyes were
dim with unbidden tears, as she thought over all that Claudius had
said.
He was, indeed, in earnest; truth was written on his fine face; and
truth rang out in the tones of his voice.
For a few minutes a vague longing possessed her—a longing which
could hardly be clothed in words. Then she smiled as she said, softly
—
“Good Claudius! Brave, noble Claudius! May he find all the happiness
he craves for me!”
The two-eared vase was raised by her unfaltering hand, so that not
one crystal drop was spilled as she bore it on her stately head, and
went down to the gate where the lictors had awaited her coming
patiently, wondering much at her long delay.
 CHAPTER XII.
VANISHING.

Throughout that day of preparation for the festival, the new priestess
was continually thinking of her interview with Claudius on the Cælian
Hill. Not even the new dignities which were conferred on her could
entirely banish from her mind the words and bearing of the old
companion of her childish days in Britain.
It was a grand thing to sprinkle with her own hands the sacred
shrine and Palladium, to be consecrated solemnly by the priest for all
the functions of her office, as she had once been dedicated as a
child to be trained to fulfil them.
The beautiful new garments of spotless purity were solemnly placed
upon her, and when the ceremony was over, and she had rested for
a time, Terentia Rufilla led her to her place behind the altar, and
gave into her charge the sacred fire, which was to be replenished
continually during the silent hours of the night.
Then, with a kiss, the Vestal Maxima departed, the temple door was
closed, and Hyacintha was alone.
Through the opening in the roof the deep blue sky of the Italian
night was seen, studded with stars, and from afar came the sound
of the surging multitudes of Rome, like the distant roar of the sea,
growing less and less distinct as the summer night hushed even the
busy throngs of the Roman citizens to rest.
Hyacintha felt a sense of awe, but not of fear. She looked up at the
face of the figure of the goddess, and then beyond it, upwards to
the stars, and she felt as far from the one as from the other.
There was no bond of love between Vesta and her priestess, no sign
that for her she felt any particular care or affection.
It was a high honour to be her priestess; from her childhood she had
craved for it, and now the honour was hers, and yet, surely, there
was a void, a want somewhere, which Vesta could not fill.
It was service for Rome to guard that sacred fire, and as she moved
gently, with a sort of hushed reverence, to the silver vessels where
the fuel was kept, to replenish that clear bright flame, she almost
started at her own movements, and scarcely dared to breathe, as
she gently and reverently fed the sacred fire.
“It is for the good of Rome and her people,” she thought, “it is a
service which many thousands might envy, but there is scarce the
response within my heart of which Claudius spoke; did he not call it
‘a witness.’ I felt a great glow of joy to-day when I took poor little
Pulcheria to my chamber, and consoled her for her grief that she was
not thought fair enough to lead the procession of the children
disciples through Rome to-morrow. Poor little one! how she wept
because Valeria had been elected and she was rejected. As she
threw her arms round my neck and sobbed out that she loved to be
with me, and that she would not care about Valeria’s unkind words if
I were her friend, I felt that sweetness at my heart which I do not
feel here. Here, where I am fulfilling the most beautiful of offices—
the guardian of the Palladium—the replenishing of the sacred flame!
“I ought to be satisfied and happy, with a happiness greater than
that of the pleasure-seeking ladies, whose life is passed in
indulgence, and who die at last, worn out with the search for that, to
judge by many sad faces, they never find.
“I have a higher and nobler destiny to fulfil, and I can never become
like old Lucia or Agrippina, who go through all the service of the
temple with slow unwilling feet, dark sad eyes, and even mutter
words of dissatisfaction.
“Nor can I ever grow into the nearly worn out victim of pleasure, still
less the sorrowful, heavy-hearted priestess, whose service has lost
its charm. Nay, for the twenty years I may spend here my life shall
at least be happier than that of my poor mother, who died, as some
have said, by poison, administered by a slave whom she had hated.
Yet, how beautiful she was in the atrium at Verulam, with Ebba—
dear Ebba—standing at her side. I can see her now, toying with her
lovely hair, when Ebba had plaited into the tresses the gold
ornaments and arranged the long violet ribbons with their gold
fringe. Poor Ebba, and dear Casca! Shall I ever see them again?”
This desultory train of thought flowed on during the watches of the
short night. For the summer morning of the ninth of June soon
broke over the hills, and touched the Forum and the Temple, and the
façades of the Imperial Palace, and the long vista of stately figures
on the Appian Way, with a soft rosy light. The day of the great
festival dawned in exquisite beauty, and everyone within the
precincts of the Temple and the House of the Vestals was astir.
But the great festival did not attract so much attention as in former
years. Even in the early days of her own priesthood, Terentia Rufilla
remembered how far more numerous were the applications from
noble houses for a place in the procession through the streets of
Rome. Nevertheless, the effect was sufficiently imposing, as the long
line flowed past the spectators, with all the garlands and crowns
fluttering gently in the summer air.
The children came first—sweet grave-eyed little maidens—with
offerings in their hands for the altar of Jupiter Pistor, which was
erected expressly for the occasion. Then came the fully-consecrated
vestals, barefooted, in their flowing robes, which became them so
well.
Conspicuous amongst these was Hyacintha Severa. She carried the
folds of her large purple mantle with wonderful grace over her arm,
and her long white robe flowing beneath it to her feet, showed the
outline of her beautifully-proportioned figure to the greatest
advantage.
The close covering on her head, which was to some women far from
becoming, seemed only to enhance the beauty of her slender throat,
upon which her head was set like a flower upon a stalk. Long
ribbons floated at the back, and added to the effect of the picture, of
which the recent discoveries of the figures in the Vestals’ House,
which the sculptors of those days delighted to perpetuate in marble,
have given us some faint idea. But no sculptor or painter could
perpetuate the grave happiness which was shed, like the soft halo of
a summer night upon a lovely landscape, over the face of Hyacintha
Severa.
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.
The young priestess that day entering upon her office had no
presentiment of what was indeed the fact, that the years of the
Vestals were numbered, and that Terentia Rufilla was to have but
two successors as Vestal Maxima, and that one of these was herself.
Terentia, however, knew that many new influences were at work,
which were undermining the old traditions or scattering them to the
winds of heaven. The fear at her heart was as great as the joy which
filled Hyacintha’s, and she could scarcely assume a cheerful aspect
at the banquet, to which many of the highest families in Rome were
bidden.
The whole day was one of feasting, and games were celebrated, and
the Vestals were present in the Circus Maximus, where seats were,
as in the Coliseum, always reserved for them near those allotted to
the Emperor.
It was there that Hyacintha first seemed to be conscious of
Claudius’s presence, and when he saluted her with profound respect,
she turned to Terentia, and said:—
“This is good Claudius, my father’s friend,” and Terentia was not slow
to notice how the soft blush rose to Hyacintha’s cheek, as she
pronounced the few words of introduction.
So the day wore on in feasting and pleasure, and then the shadows
of the evening came down upon the city. Hyacintha, who was
sleeping after the fatigue of the day, was awakened by Terentia’s
voice:—
“It is drawing near the hour for thy watch, dear child,” she said;
“shall I watch to-night, and let thee dream? I have been looking at
thy sleeping face for some minutes,” she said, gently smoothing back
the golden-brown rings of short hair which clustered round
Hyacintha’s brow.
“Happy dreams they must surely have been, for there was a smile
upon thy lips.”
“Yes,” Hyacintha said, “I had a vision, I think. Wait till I recall it,” and
she drew her hand across her eyes, and pressed it on her forehead.
“I remember,” she said,—“yes, I remember now. I thought I was
looking down on Rome from a high place—not the Cælian Hill or the
Quirinal—it was a hill far higher. Indeed, I saw them beneath me,
and I saw the temples beneath me, and our temple most distinctly
of all. Then, as I looked, it vanished. It was not thrown down or
destroyed; it melted into air slowly—very slowly; but soon it was
gone: and then I looked around me, and lo! all the temples were
fading, and a voice spoke to me, and it was the voice of a humble
but true friend—Ebba, or Anna, the British slave. She, too, was
changed. She wore garments like ours, only whiter and more
dazzling, and she held out her hand to me, and asked me to go up
with her to the city to which she pointed. But when I looked I could
see only a golden glory, and nothing distinctly. My eyes were
dazzled, and I turned away. Then Ebba drew me on and told me to
listen, for there was sweet music. But my ears were dull; I could not
hear what she heard. Then she took me in her arms, and I laid my
head upon her breast, as I have often done when I was a child; and
she said:—
“‘Not yet—not yet; but you are coming out of the darkness into the
light.’ And a sweet peace stole over me, and I felt a cool hand on my
brow; and then I awoke, and it was not Ebba at all, but you, dearest
lady—sweet mother—as I love to call you. It was a happy dream;
and it is a happy awakening.”
“It was a vision,” Terentia said, “for I do believe the temples are
vanishing, and soon only the memory will be left. I say soon; it may
not be in my life-time or in yours; but the end is coming, and the
time of our nightly watches yonder is short. I hear a rumour to-day
that an edict establishing Christianity will be published to-morrow,
and then the old faiths will be seen like the phantom of your dream
—vanishing—vanishing, and at last vanish away.”
“And what will be the end?” Hyacintha asked; “what will come
after?”
“Nay, child; it is not given me to know, nor even dimly guess; but if
there be a future at all, that future is not for us.”
The sorrowful tone of Terentia’s voice seemed like the minor chord in
the music of the young priestess’s soul. Vanishing—vanishing—
vanished! Was everything to vanish?—life and youth and hope, and
the sacred fire, and the Palladium, and the goddess herself—all to
pass away, and leave no trace behind? Well, it was not for her to
question, or cavil, or doubt. The daily service of the temple—the
nightly watch—these were marked out for her—these were, at any
rate, real and tangible. She would perform them zealously and
faithfully, and make each day like a pearl, which should prove ere
long a strong chain, uniting her with the Great Past, and so making a
bond with all her predecessors who had kept their vow and their
womanhood pure and undefiled. With that simplicity which is the
outcome of the highest gifts, with that entire absence of self-
consciousness which invariably marks those whose beauty is far
beyond the ordinary type of fair women, Hyacintha Severa stands
forth to command our love and admiration as a light that shone in a
dark place—a star that trembled on the verge of dawn, the dawn of
a holier and purer day, which was even then breaking over the
world.
The festival of the goddess Vesta had scarcely passed when a crowd
assembled in the Forum to hear the proclamation, that henceforth
the Christians were to be allowed freedom to worship their God
without being interfered with; and from that time Christianity might
be said to be established in Rome and the world.
Great were the rejoicings in the Church. The hidden worship of the
Catacombs became now open and to be heard and seen of all men.
The orders of the Christian Church were enlarged, and bishops and
priests and deacons were appointed to minister to the people. The
sun had risen, at last, over the darkness of the heathen world, and
in those early days was as yet but little clouded by the mists of
earth, by those “superstitious vanities” which so grievously eclipsed
the glory of the Church of Rome in succeeding generations.
Now there was purity of life and doctrine, and, like Claudius,
thousands were won over by the example of the converts rather
than by the preaching of the priests.
The witness in every man’s soul who turned to the living God made
itself seen in the life and conversation, and there were dark places
indeed in that year of Christian freedom which made the opening of
the Christian life more beautiful by force of contrast.
In this very year—313—the most shameful life of Maximian, and his
treatment of the unhappy Valeria, the widow of Galerius, had made
even the luxurious Roman shudder with horror. The story of the foul
murders at Nicomedia reached Rome, and filled many hearts with
sorrow. If the religion of Christ showed the way of escape from such
wicked passions and low base deeds, there was safety in it.
And then, on the lower ground of personal security, many professed
themselves to be Christians; many who had not troubled themselves
to inquire into the doctrines of Christ’s disciples, saw that they
practised purity of life and manners, and now that there was no
persecution or torture to dread, Christianity became more widely
accepted, and the churches were thronged, while the temples were
deserted.
It is not possible to take a comprehensive view of the Roman empire
at this time. The few incidents which are thrown together, directly or
indirectly, affect the action of the story, but a careful study of these
early days of Christianity, and the last days of heathenism, will well
repay the student; and the secret of silent advance and growth of
the faith of Christ will be found to be then, as now, more in the
influence of individual character than in fierce controversy or angry
invective.
The Church of Rome, as it sprang to light when the edict of 313 was
published, was indeed different from the Church, many centuries
later, when the Monk of Erfurt entered the city by the Porta del
Popoli, full of enthusiasm, and ready to climb the “Scala Santa” on
his knees in expiation of his sins.
He entered it a devout son of the Church of the Seven Hills; he left it
depressed, disgusted, but determined to do battle, like the valiant
soul that he was, against its corrupt practices. In ten years the
young monk who had saluted the city on his first entrance as Holy
Rome, Rome venerable with the blood of the martyrs, burned the
Pope’s Bull in the square of Wittenberg, and with a loud voice, which
echoed through Christendom, proclaimed that the Church of the
Early Martyrs was so overlaid by the wickedness of a corrupt age,
that she must be utterly purged of defilement, before she could be
resorted to as the mother under whose wings the people might
safely take refuge.
 CHAPTER XIII.
A.D. 333—ALEXANDRIA.

Again many years have passed away, and Casca, the son of Severus,
is leaning back in his old languid fashion on a couch placed near a
window commanding one of the loveliest views upon which the eyes
of man have ever rested.
The house was near that magnificent Museum of Alexandria, which,
with its famous library, was famous beyond all fame of later times, a
fitting treasure-house for its precious manuscripts, and raising a
grand white roof against a sky whence rain seldom fell, and turning
its noble frontage of pillars and fresco toward the sapphire plain of
the tideless Mediterranean.
There were no signs of undue luxury about Casca. The furniture of
his room was simple, and yet suggestive of grace and elegance.
Large piles of manuscripts lay on shelves, ranged on one side of the
room, and in another were the toys of a child, heaped up in
confusion, as they had evidently been left by some little tired fingers
that were weary of play. The room where Casca sat was divided by a
portière from an inner chamber, and a murmur might be heard from
it of a woman’s voice, singing in low monotonous tones.
Below the wide open window there was borne on the soft warm air
the sound of chariot wheels passing in the street; the cry of the
charioteer, the voice of the newsman, and now and then the low
growl, which told that the menagerie was near at hand. The sound
which was “the electric touch” that the Poet speaks of, awoke
memories in Casca’s heart of that day, so many years before, when
the roar of the wild beasts which were to tear the Christians to
pieces, floated to his ear as he passed by the Forum to the schools
at Rome. He remembered the horror he had always felt at such
sounds, and how once when Antonius had insisted on his
accompanying him to a great fight with the beasts, he had fainted
away, and on recovery had heard the mocking laugh of some of his
companions, and the scornful words of Antonius:—
“Bear him hence; he has not the courage of an infant of days.”
How dreamlike it all seemed now—the fate of his patron Antonius,
his flight, disgraced and dishonoured, from his princely villa; the
return for a time to the house of Clœlia; and then the sudden
resolve to cast in his lot with the old Jew Ezra, and some of his
people, who were bound for Alexandria, learning that trade in
precious stones and gold was making the fortune of some of the
Jewish race, who were forming a large colony there.
His father, Severus, cared little what became of him, and after his
mother’s death and his second marriage with Junia he had heard but
rarely of him.
When he first came to Alexandria, he had to live partly by the office
of scribe, but by degrees his scholarship attracted attention, and his
quickness in deciphering old manuscripts, and his acquaintance with
many languages, for which he had a natural gift, was in his favour.
Casca Severus was now held in honour amongst the literary world of
Alexandria, holding a post in the magnificent library as custodian
and secretary, which had raised him to a position of competence if
not affluence.
Some years before this time, Casca had married the daughter of a
Greek merchant, a beautiful gentle girl, who though less of a
companion to her learned husband than a joy for her beauty and
goodness, was most dear to him. After some years of waiting a little
daughter was given to them, and from the moment of her birth the
mother drooped and faded before Casca’s eyes.
Old Ezra’s death happened about this time, and Anna, the Saxon
Ebba, returned to serve Casca, and to take charge of his motherless
child. The Greek name of Hyacintha, which had been given to
Casca’s sister, was now passed on to his little daughter, and the
name was as a sound of music in Anna’s ears.
The dreaming over the past in which Casca indulged that morning
was broken in upon by the sound of footsteps, and one of his
servants drew aside the curtain from the doorway, and admitted a
tall soldier-like man with grizzled beard, and a face bronzed with
exposure, who advanced towards him with outstretched hands,
pronouncing his name—
“Casca!”
“Claudius, is it possible!” was the almost instant reply, and then the
two men looked at each other with that curious inquiring gaze with
which we scan the features of those whom we have known in youth,
and meet in later years.
Time had dealt very gently with the scholar and philosopher. Casca’s
high brow, from which the hair had retreated, was smooth and but
gently marked by lines. His hands, which had wielded the pen to so
much purpose, were white and slender, and his robe fell around him
in graceful folds.
As he and Claudius stood, with their right hands clasped together
and their left resting on each other’s shoulders, they made a fine
contrasted picture of the scholar and the soldier.
Claudius was tall and stalwart, his skin bronzed with exposure to the
sun, several scars of sabre cuts on his brow and cheek, and many
deep wrinkles on his brow, still shadowed by thick masses of tawny
hair which, like his beard, were lined with silver.
“Yes,” Claudius said, “we meet after many years.”
“Do you come from Rome?” Casca asked, “or from Verulam?”
“From Rome,” and Claudius sighed. “From Rome, and I bear you
tidings of your sister, now the Vestal Maxima.”
“Hyacintha!” exclaimed Casca, “she is always dear to my heart, but
her life is on the mountain top, and we poor folk are on a lower
level.”
Claudius shook his head.
“The mountain top is but a barren waste to her, I fear. She has much
trouble, and her elevation is dearly bought.”
“Sit down and tell me all,” Casca said. “Ah! good Claudius, it is like a
draught of new wine to see you. Strange that when you entered I
was going over the past—the little chamber at Verulam, Hyacintha
sitting by my side, and your loud ringing voice bidding me meet life
as a man, and not as a coward. Brave advice, whether for the
scholar or soldier, eh, good Claudius?”
“Yes; but methinks, Casca, it is you who must now cheer me, for my
heart is heavy within me, and I scarce dare to look forward or to
look within. You speak of those far-off days. Do you think I have
forgotten them? Nay, they are written on my heart. I would that I
were a careless fellow again, wrestling in the games at Verulam, and
contented because I knew of no life greater than the soldier’s. I am
a Christian, it is true, and ought to rejoice; but, somehow, there is
no rejoicing left in me.”
“I pray you, good Claudius,” Casca said, “do not speak thus. I, too,
have had my sorrows. I have lost my fair young wife, Ianthe, and no
grief can be greater than mine was; but I can rejoice yet in the
powers God has given me, and I live for Him and for our child.”
“Ah! then, Casca, yours is not a desolate, lonely life like mine. I
think, it is true, of the life beyond, and I crave for it with wearying
longing; but the beloved of my soul, your sister Hyacintha, is in
bitter trouble, and I, who would die for her, cannot move, or stretch
forth a finger, to help her.”
And now, just as Casca was about to ask Claudius to tell him
everything, the sound of little naked feet pattering on the floor was
heard, and the curtain which separated Casca’s room from the inner
chamber shook, and from the division in the middle peeped out a
little sunny face, rosy with sleep, with eyes yet dim from dreams,
and coral lips drooping at the corners, as she caught sight of a
strange man in earnest conversation with her father. Casca rose and
held out his arms, and then there was a sudden rush and a pair of
clinging arms wound round his neck, as Cynthia buried her golden
head on his shoulder and said:—
“Send away that big old man.”
“Nay, nay, my Cynthia, that is not the courtesy I would fain teach
thee,” said another voice; and turning, Claudius saw an elderly
woman, plainly dressed in a loose woollen garment, girt around the
waist by a broad belt, and wearing on her head a close cap, which
concealed her hair.
“Nay, my Cynthia,” she repeated—and then Claudius laid his hand on
her arm.
“Do you not know me, Ebba?”
The great tide of memory swept over poor Anna; danger, torture,
the dungeon, and the death she had so dreaded, seemed to cover
her again with a great mantle of fear. Her knees trembled, and she
would have fallen forward had not Claudius’s strong arms prevented
it.
“Poor Ebba!” Claudius said, “do you think you are in the dungeons
again?”
“Oh! pardon me, my noble Claudius! You know I was ever but a
coward, and now that I see you, my deliverer from death, I have no
words to thank you.”
“I need no words, good Ebba. I have lived long enough now to know
that there are worse sorrows than death, which must pass on all
men, to be borne. The Lord, who is now my Master as well as yours,
sent me to save your life for a good purpose, I will not doubt.”
“And you, too, are a Christian, thanks be to God!” Anna exclaimed
fervently. “See there, my Cynthia, here is the great Claudius who, at
the request of thy beautiful Aunt Hyacintha, my once dear mistress,
took me out of a dark dungeon, and saved my life. Say ‘Good
Claudius!’”
The child, who had raised her wondering face from her father’s
shoulder, now stretched out her arms towards the tall warrior, who
had at first frightened her, and said:—
“Good Claudius!” touching his cheeks with her hand.
“And can you tell me aught of my dear mistress, the lady
Hyacintha?” Anna asked.
“Yes; I have a tale to tell, but it is a sad tale.”
“Take Cynthia in your arms, and sit down, Anna,” said her master.
“You, of all others, ought to hear the tale, be it sad or joyful.”
“Yes,” Claudius said, “there is no reason why you should be in
ignorance of what is in my heart. Nay, I doubt not you know it
already, and that it will, as regards myself, scarcely be news. From
my rough boyish days at Verulam I have loved your dear mistress,
and I must love her always. Though never to be mine in this lower
world, I may claim her yet when all earthly taint of sin has passed
away.
“Since the death of Terentia Rufilla, the life of your gracious and
beautiful sister has been full of trial, noble Casca. Bitter jealousy and
envy of her acquirements have been rife in the community. Fair
without these white-robed Vestals may appear, but they not all are
fair within.
“By the voice of the majority, and by the dying desire expressed
again and again by the late Vestal Maxima, Terentia Rufilla,
Hyacintha Severa was elected to succeed her. There was none so
fitted as she was; her rank, as the daughter of a noble house, so
high; her accomplishments and graces of mind and body so rare. But
there never was a creature like her who did not provoke jealousy
and ill-will in some minds. Evil tongues have set afloat rumours
concerning her, which, though at first none heeded, have been like
fertile seed cast here and there, and at last taking root.
“It is not possible for me to see her. Some of the evil rumours say
that she has desired to renounce her vow, and, becoming a
Christian, be free to marry. Were I to present myself at the Vestals’
atrium it might fasten the charge of aspiring to her on me, and add
to her trouble. Her rule, as those who know it well declare, has been
marked by its wonderful wisdom. The young disciples well-nigh
worship her, the priests consult her on every matter connected with
the sacred rites. The one who works the mischief is the daughter of
a princely house, who desires the highest office.
“Finding all other accusations fail, she now insinuates that the Vestal
Maxima is a Christian in disguise, and that she merits the death of
the faithless virgin.”
“Oh! may God forbid,” exclaimed Anna—“oh! may the Lord protect
my mistress.”
“I think,” Claudius continued, “that they will be saved the trouble of
condemning her. The last time I saw her leading the procession
along the Sacred Way, she looked so wan and ill, and she leaned so
heavily on the shoulder of one of the young priestesses, and the
expression of her beautiful eyes as she turned them upon me was so
mournful that——”
Claudius stopped; emotion checked him.
“Is there aught that I can do,” Casca asked, starting up; “aught to
relieve the burden which lies upon my sister! Tell me, Claudius, is
there a way to help her?”
“It was to beg you to start for Rome for her solace and comfort that
I journeyed hither,” Claudius said.
“I will start willingly,” Casca exclaimed, “and take Anna and my little
one with me. Surely the touch of her sweet kisses, the sound of her
merry laughter, will do much to console my sister! Yes; we will return
together, good Claudius. Shall it be next month?”
“Nay, next month may be too late; the journey is long; set forth
without delay, or it may be too late—too late,” he repeated.
“I will give orders to that effect. You have a band of your own
people here?”
“Yes, my galley is manned with a brave band, and lies in the Port to
be ready at any moment. My ship is fitted with all things needful for
her voyage, and it remains for you to give the word for starting from
this fair city, the fairest that men’s eyes ever beheld.”
“Anna, are you ready?”
“Ready at my master’s word,” Anna said; “but the child, the sweet
child, is it safe for her?”
“As safe as man can make it; the voyage in this fair weather ought
to be a pleasurable one; there are no hardships to fear, good Anna!
and I mistake me if any sea robbers will dare attack the ships
manned by soldiers who have seen service under their commander
in many a battle in the far north, with those rough Northmen who
seem to be ever closing round the southern folk in increasing
numbers and with added strength. Give but the word, Casca, and we
will start ere the sun sets.”
“Nay, a week hence,” was Casca’s reply. “I have to deliver a lecture
to-morrow in the south hall of the museum. I am pledged to
expound a hard passage of a Greek Poet on the day but one after—I
——”
“You have much to do truly,” said Claudius, impatiently. “Of such
labours of the brain I know nought; but this, I say, I believe your
sister hungers for a sight of you, and yearns to clasp your hand in
hers. She cannot speak of her faith, which has slowly risen like the
sun upon her soul, and dispersed the darkness. She may and does
love those around her as her children, but she cannot talk openly
with them, lest haply they should be condemned and punished with
a punishment even more severe than that which might fall on her.
But delay your departure if you will—it is not for a rough soldier like
me to enter into the reasons which a subtle and learned scholar may
have for remaining here. I know what a true heart means, and I
have a strong sword-arm to prove it, but as to the brain of you
philosophers and poets, I know nothing of it, having, as you will say,
but a small share thereof myself.”
“Nay, now, good Claudius, do not misjudge me; do not be angry. We
will be ready in the next week; meantime let us renew our close
friendship, and let me show you the treasures of the past and of the
present, contained within the walls of yonder stately pile of
buildings, which is the museum of the world!”
Claudius’s temporary vexation passed away, and the two friends
found themselves knit together by a hundred subtle ties in the far-
off past of their early life.
Claudius listened with surprise to Casca, as he detailed all the varied
phases of thought through which he and many hundreds of men had
passed in Alexandria. Casca was a Christian—that is to say he had
been baptised, and if questioned as to his faith, he would have given
a direct answer that he believed in the true God and his Son Jesus
Christ. But there could be no doubt that the learning of the schools
had the greatest charm for him, and if he studied the manuscripts of
the Gospels, it was more in a critical than a faithful spirit.
He considered the writing of St. Luke’s Gospel so perfect that he
gloried in its study, and he showed Claudius a beautiful copy
inscribed by his own hand, with notes on the margin, for which he
told him he had won high praise and distinction.
The old heathen worship, he said, was dying, and the temples were
more and more deserted day by day. But Casca had not embraced
the faith of Christ with the simplicity of a child; it was rather the
acceptance of a finer theory than any he had yet discerned.
That witness within himself, of which Claudius had spoken to
Hyacintha long before, was wanting; and lost in the mazes of
thought, and yielding to the delight of learning, Casca had missed
the humble faith in a personal Saviour, which had taught the brave
Claudius self-restraint and self-forgetfulness, and made him, the
valiant hero of a hundred fights, humble in his own eyes.
Casca showed Claudius the leading features of interest in Alexandria,
and the bustle and activity of the representatives of many nations
filled the Roman soldier with wonder; for at this time Alexandria, the
greatest sea-port in the world, was crowded with buyers and sellers,
and rich merchant princes from all quarters.
Through the great Moon Gate there was a perpetual stream of
camels, and elephants, and humble asses, all laden with
merchandise.
Jews were there, with keen eager eyes; Greeks, with their graceful
easy carriage and soft musical tongue; Romans, too, and
representatives of the great Northern tribes, of which Claudius had
spoken.
Rome, the city on the seven hills, had filled the dreams of his
boyhood in Britain; it had been to him as a queen amongst cities in
his later years, but Alexandria was like a vision.
The ranges of buildings were so vast, and the unbroken line
presented a coup d’œil of magnificence scarcely if ever rivalled.
Claudius gazed around him, and but imperfectly heard or understood
Casca’s descriptions and explanations. He was dazzled and
bewildered, and he could only reply to Casca in monosyllables, which
were scarcely less irritating to Casca than silence.
The friends who greeted Casca looked inquiringly at Claudius, and
he felt he had no part or lot in Alexandria; her beauty was a dead
letter to him, and all her treasures of art and literature sealed books.
While Casca lectured in the museum or attended the orations of
philosophers, Claudius found his chief delight centred in little
Cynthia. She brought back the old, old days when the other
Hyacintha was the child, and he, a rough untaught boy, felt always
softened and subdued by her presence.
He loved to take the Cynthia of the present on his knees, and while
she toyed with his rough beard, and the ornaments on his military
coat, he would listen to her babyish prattle, which was made up of
various languages, and find in her society far more consolation than
in the declamations of the orators and poets in the lecture-rooms of
the museum.
Anna was much engaged with her preparations for departure, and
leaving all things in Casca’s household in good order. She would look
in on the great soldier sometimes and smile, and bid the child not be
too troublesome, or the good Claudius would weary of her.
Anna had taught the little Cynthia the Gospel story, and Claudius
found that the Lord, who was his acknowledged Master, was a very
real Being to Casca’s little daughter. With the unquestioning faith of
the little child, Cynthia needed no other assurance than “Anna says
so,” and Claudius loved to hear her tell of the birth of the Lord Jesus,
and of the little babes who were killed for His sake.
Cynthia was scarcely more than four years old, but she had inherited
her father’s gifts and her mother’s Greek grace and delicacy, so that
she was wonderfully forward for her age. She would draw with a
pointed stick, dipped in her father’s horn, upon the spare sheets of
parchment which lay about, and she could already form letters,
though her great idea was to “draw pictures.”
Claudius would tell her of her aunt, the Vestal Maxima, at Rome, and
that they were going over the blue sea to see her and comfort her.
“I know,” Cynthia said, one day; “I know you loved that lady, and
took Anna out of a dark hole because you promised. She was shut
there because she loved Jesus the Lord. Do you know Him? Father
never says ‘love;’ he says ‘worship.’ I don’t know what that means!”
No; little Cynthia knew only of love, nor had her childish heart
grasped as yet the great reality that love—perfect love—is the
highest form of worship. For love must serve, and service is
adoration, and so the circle is complete, and love must be in all
service and in all worship, and both are valueless without it.
The day for departure came at last, and the finely-equipped galley in
which Claudius had sailed from Rome turned her helm towards the
mouth of the great canal at Alexandria, and with sails set, and oars
keeping precise time and rhythm, went over the Lake Mareotis, and
thence out into the blue waters of the tideless sea. The yellow sand-
hills of the desert shone like burnished gold in the evening light; the
multitude of sails stood up against the carmine sky which melted
above the line of the horizon into the tenderest rose-colour, and
again into the palest colour of the calyx of the daffodil, till it was lost
in the over-arched blue of the summer night.
Stars studded that canopy like eyes of watching love, and Claudius,
seated with his little friend, pressed close in his strong arms, felt his
whole soul filled with the love of Him who is the Redeemer of the
world, and of him—wayworn and weary Claudius.
Casca strained his eyes over the lines of a closely-written manuscript
till the light faded, and then Anna carried away little Cynthia, to the
bed prepared for her, where the murmur of the waves against the
sides of the ship soon lulled her to sleep.
 CHAPTER XIV.
THE CROSS.

The atrium of the Vestals was full of life, and even merriment, one
bright morning of late summer, in this same year of 333. The want
of sunshine which was so much felt in the winter, was a gain now
that the fierce glare of August lay upon the streets of the city, and
beat upon the images of the gods and façades of the temples like a
furnace.
The Vestals were chatting gaily with each other about the grand
chariot race for which they had seats allotted to them. But two were
standing a little apart before a statue which had been placed
recently by the side of Flavia Mamilia, who was the most famous of
the order, and whose statues are multiplied and the descriptions of
her graces and gifts repeated again and again.
“They have placed her in good company,” a tall, commanding-
looking Vestal said, with a little ring of irony in her voice; “how long
will she remain there, and what will be the story of her virtues
inscribed below, I marvel! A long one, doubtless—they will never get
it all into the space allowed.”
The younger Vestal, a maiden of some twenty summers, who had
lately entered upon her fully-consecrated duties, replied:—
“The face is not nearly beautiful enough for our lady Maxima. Ah
me! how soon this stone resemblance will be all that is left us; she is
passing away from us, I know.”
“There are some that say the sooner the better; nay, Hermione, do
not start back as if I were saying some dreadful thing. I repeat, the
sooner the better, for your gracious Hyacintha Severa is acting a
part, and the treachery will be discovered unless death prevents it.”
“Treachery! nay,” said Hermione with youthful fervour; “nay, our lady
is as far removed from treachery as are the heavens from the earth.”
“Poor child!” was the provoking rejoinder, “such faith as yours must
be sweet if it were not misplaced. I can give you a warning, that
certain books have been discovered in the possession of Hyacintha
Severa which would, in stricter times, have brought the masons
hither to prepare one of those little chambers, whence no one who
entered ever came forth alive. It would have been inevitable, but
now a loose and careless government has altered things somewhat.”
“I cannot hear you speak thus, Cœlia, I cannot. You hate our noble
and beautiful lady because she is so far, far above you, because—”
“Tush! now, silly little Hermione, I warn you again, be careful, or
who knows if a little chamber may not be ready for you, and then
there will be a Vestal less, and the stones which will prevent your
exit will tell no tales.”
Hermione was preparing to hurl forth an angry invective, when a
hand was laid on her shoulder:—
“Hermione! nay, do not heed idle threats, but help me to ascend the
staircase; I am expected at the council of the priests at noon. I have
a statement to make to them which may please you to hear, Cœlia
Concordia. You will soon know what that statement is, and may it
ease your heart of the burden of rancour and unkindness which you
cherish towards me. It must needs be a burden, and I would fain,
for your own sake, that you laid it down. My poor statue shall not
offend you longer; orders shall be given to place it near the porta,
the lowest instead of the highest place.”
She spoke slowly and with difficulty, for her breath was short, and a
little dry gasping cough interrupted her again and again.
“You speak in riddles, most gracious lady,” Cœlia replied; “I admire
the excellence of your statue, and give the sculptor the highest
meed of praise for the manner in which it is wrought. Flavia Mamilia
is happy to have your near neighbourhood. I must hasten, as the
elder of the company who resort to the Circus Maximus, to collect
my maidens. A chariot race is a grand thing to witness, but there are
many who find it tame sport in comparison to that of former times,
when Christians were thrown, as they deserved, to the lions.”
A strong emphasis was laid on the word Christians, and a glance of
hatred from the Vestal’s dark eyes, directed at Hyacintha, told its
own story, as she made the usual obeisance to the Vestal Maxima,
and went to the farther end of the atrium.
Hyacintha stood for a few moments leaning heavily on Hermione’s
arm, and gazing at the marble resemblance of herself.
A faint smile passed over her face, and she said in a low voice:—
“They will soon forget me, little Hermione, but you will ever love
me.”
“Oh, dear lady, we all love you, all but that proud and haughty
Cœlia.”
“She will succeed me, as Vestal Maxima,” Hyacintha said; “win her
by submission, and do not irritate her by rebellion. Now let us go.”
She turned for a moment and gazed at the noble hall with its forest
of Corinthian columns, and watched the white-robed Vestals
following Cœlia to the porta on their way to the Circus. Memories of
her first appearance at that door, clinging to Clœlia’s hand, swept
over her—the child of nearly twelve years old, now the woman of
mature age!
“Thirty years ago,” she whispered, “thirty years ago! Ah, little
Hermione, I shall soon enter the city where time is not—no counting
of years there. Come, let us begin to mount the staircase, slowly, for
I have but little breath in me.”
In a state room in the upper part of the Vestals’ house the High
Priest sat in solemn conclave with his subordinates, and those who
might be called the Council of the order of Vesta.
It was the custom of the Vestal Maxima to demand an audience,
when she had any especial business to transact, or any dereliction in
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