Here the travellers, sheltered from the fierce
sun, ate of the provisions they carried, and lay resting for a
couple of hours. Marcian did not speak with the peasants, but he
heard the voice of a woman loud in lamentation, and Sagaris told him
that it was for the death of a child, who, straying yesterday at
nightfall, had been killed by a wolf. Many hours had the mother wept
and wailed, only interrupting her grief to vilify and curse the
saint to whose protection her little one was confided.
When he resumed his journey, Marcian kept glancing back until he
again caught sight of the company of horsemen; they continued to
follow him at the same distance. On he rode, the Alban hills at his
right hand, and before him, on its mountain side, the town for which
he made. The sun was yet far from setting when he reached Praeneste.
Its great walls and citadel towering on the height above told of
ancient strength, and many a noble building, within the city and
without, monuments of glory and luxury, resisted doom. Sulla's
Temple of Fortune still looked down upon its columned terraces, but
behind the portico was a Christian church, and where once abode the
priests of the heathen sanctuary, the Bishop of Praeneste had now
his dwelling.
Pages:
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366