It was mere
fiddling; and, absurd as it looked, there was nothing but an honest meaning
in it:--'20,000_l_. Date Obolum Belisario!' My dear father had translated
the little Latin inscription for me, and I had written it down as a sort
of exercise of memory; and also, perhaps, as expressive of that sort of
compassion which my uncle's fall and miserable fate excited invariably in
me. So I threw this queer little memorandum upon the open leaf of the book,
and again the flight, the pursuit, and the bait to stay it, engaged my eye.
And I heard a voice near the hearthstone, as I thought, say, in a stern
whisper, 'Fly the fangs of Belisarius!'
'What's that?' said I, turning sharply to Mary Quince.
Mary rose from her work at the fireside, staring at me with that odd sort
of frown that accompanies fear and curiosity.
'You spoke? Did you speak?' I said, catching her by the arm, very much
frightened myself.
'No, Miss; no, dear!' answered she, plainly thinking that I was a little
wrong in my head.
There could be no doubt it was a trick of the imagination, and yet to this
hour I could recognise that clear stern voice among a thousand, were it to
speak again.
Pages:
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615