The Vestals used a branch of laurel wherewith to sprinkle the Temple, which they also kept adorned with the evergreen boughs of this tree. The story of the laurel has also been written by the same poet that has told about Egeria, and from his words may, perhaps, be learned why this tree was employed in the service of Vesta.

There was once, so the story runs, a fair virgin, named Daphne, who was beloved by the god Apollo. But as her heart was untouched and she would marry no one, she fled from the god, who, however, followed in hot pursuit. In her swift flight, Daphne reached the bank of a deep river, and as she stood by the water's side, uncertain which way to turn, hope sank within her, for she saw Apollo fast approaching. Then, in despair, she prayed aloud for help to Peneus, the god of that river, and immediately she was turned into a graceful tree of laurel. When Apollo reached the spot, the leaves were still trembling, but Daphne was no longer to be seen. Then the god said, "Since thou canst not be my wife, thou shalt be my tree!" And thus Apollo's hair is crowned with laurel, and his lyre and his bow are made of its wood.

So seems it not meet indeed that the laurel—the "virgin's tree," made sacred by Apollo, the god of celestial fire—should be used in the Temple of Vesta, the virgin-goddess, whose emblem was the never dying flame?

On the first day of March of every year the Vestals gathered fresh laurel, and wreathed the Temple with new foliage. On this day also the sacred fire on the altar was extinguished by the Pontifex Maximus, and then relighted by him with solemn ceremonies. For the first of March was the New Year of the Roman religion; at that time all things began afresh,—the world was wakened by the sunshine of Spring, and man, casting aside his past, prayed for a renewal of strength within his soul. In the early times, the High Priest relighted the fire simply by rubbing two bits of wood together until they glowed; later, however, he used a glass through which the sun's rays were focussed to the burning point. Thus Vesta's fires were never lighted from any other, and only flamed by heat obtained directly from earth or from heaven.

At this time fresh laurel was also placed on the Regia, within which were two chapels, one to Mars, the god of War, and one to Ops Consiva, a goddess of Plenty. Before the entrance of the chapel of Mars grew two laurel trees, and it was from these, they say, that the Vestals took the boughs with which their temple was adorned.

Within the Regia, where the pontiffs held meetings on matters pertaining to religion, were kept many priestly records of great value; but in the care of the Vestal Virgins were things far more precious—things on which the fate of the nation itself depended. These most sacred were guarded in a shrine built in the centre of the large court of the Atrium; and this Holy of Holies of the Roman people was called the Penetralia, or innermost sanctuary of Vesta. No man, save the Pontifex Maximus, was permitted to enter this hallowed place; and only once a year, at the Vestalia, or festival of Vesta, were any women, other than the priestesses, allowed to pass the sacred threshold.

The holy objects were guarded with such caution that they were kept in an earthen jar, closely sealed and placed by the side of one exactly like the first, but empty, so that only the Vestals and the High Priest knew which of the two held the "sacred things." Indeed, such deep and awful mystery surrounded these objects that even the Romans themselves did not know what they were. They believed, however, that the most holy of the treasures was a small statue, called the Palladium, and that by its virtues the city in which it was kept could never by conquered.

It was a statue that had fallen from heaven itself, and this, so the old legend goes, happened in the times when men were few upon the earth, and when the gods were mighty upon Olympus, their celestial home. In those days of wonders was born Minerva, Jupiter's wise daughter, who, full-grown and clothed in shining armour, sprang into life from the head of her mighty sire. Her birthplace was near a certain rushing river, where lived Neptune's son Triton, and where for many years she remained in the care of this river-god, enjoying the companionship of his fair daughter Pallas. Now both the maidens, as strong as they were beautiful, delighted to make trial of their power, and one day as they wrestled in friendly contest, Jupiter appeared in the clouds above their heads. Fearful lest his favourite child be overcome, he held forth his glittering shield to attract the attention of Pallas. So bright it gleamed, the maiden could not choose but look, and at that instant Minerva dealt a hard blow that caused fair Pallas to fall dead at her feet. Then the goddess in deep sorrow made an image of Pallas, which she placed beside the statue of Jupiter himself. Not long after, it happened that the god was angry, and that he took up this image and hurled it downward to the earth. It fell at the feet of Ilus, one of the ancient Greeks, just as he was praying for a sign from heaven to show where best to begin the city that he purposed building. Reverently accepting this marvel as an answer to his petition, he enclosed the statue in a shrine, and about that place began to found the city of Troy. From that time men came to believe that the sacred image insured the safety of the city wherein it was kept. Brought by Æneas into Italy, it was given later into the care of the Vestal Virgins, who kept it as a pledge of the gods for the welfare of Rome. The Romans called the image the Palladium, a word even now used to mean that which is a protection or security. This figure, men say, was of wood, and was that of a woman, whose long draperies reached her feet, who right hand held aloft a spear, and whose left carried a spindle and a distaff. In time, not content to believe this marvellous statue to be only that of Pallas, the daughter of Triton, men would have it instead that of Minerva herself, who in other lands was often called Pallas—but whether the image was that of the fair maiden, or of the wise goddess, none may know. For the gods have disappeared into the darkness of the Long-Ago, and in the bright light of To-day one can only guess at their faint shadows that flicker and change even as one looks upon them.