chance of success.  Basil’s departure from Rome, which he had desired for other reasons, fell pat for the device now shaping itself in his mind.  A day or two after, early in the morning, he went to Heliodora’s house, and sent in a message begging private speech with the lady.  As he had expected, he was received forthwith, Heliodora being aware of his friendship with Basil.  Between her and Marcian the acquaintance was but slight; he had hitherto regarded her as unserviceable, because too dangerous.  It was because of her dangerous qualities that he now sought her, and his courage grew as the conversation became intimate.

He began with a confession.  Head hanging, visage gloomy, in slow, indirect, abashed language, he let it be understood that though truly Basil’s friend, he had all along been secretly doing his utmost to frustrate the lover’s search for the Gothic maiden Veranilda, and, as part of this purpose, had striven to turn Basil’s thoughts to Heliodora.  That he had had no better success grieved him to the heart.  All who wished Basil well, desired that he should marry a lady of his own rank, his own religion, and could he but have won a wife such as Heliodora!

‘Alas!’ sighed Marcian, ’it was too much to hope.  How could you be other than cold to him?  Had you deigned, thrice gracious lady, to set your beauty, your gifts, in contest with his memory of that other!’

In every man that approached her, Heliodora suspected a selfish aim, but it was seldom that she talked with one whose subtlety seemed the equal of her own.  The little she knew of Marcian had predisposed her to regard him as a cold and melancholy nature, quite uninteresting; she eyed him now with her keenest scrutiny, puzzled by his story, vainly seeking its significance.

‘Your friend complained to you of my coldness?’ she said distantly.

’He scarce spoke of you.  I knew too well with what hope he came here.  When he found it vain, he turned away in bitterness.’

This sounded like truth to one who knew Basil.  After a moment’s reflection, Heliodora made another inquiry, and in a tone of less indifference.

’Why, lord Marcian, do you come to tell me this?  Basil has quitted Rome.  You can scarce ask me to pursue him.’

‘Lady,’ was the sad reply, ’I will not even yet abandon hope.  But this is not the moment to plead his cause with you, and indeed I came with a thought more selfish.’

Ready to believe whatever might be uttered with such preface, Heliodora smiled and bade the speaker continue.  Again Marcian’s head drooped; again his words became hesitant, vague.  But their purpose at length grew unmistakable; unhappy that he was, he himself loved Veranilda, and the vehemence of his passion overcame his loyalty in friendship; never whilst he lived should Basil wed the Gothic maiden.  This revelation astonished Heliodora; she inquired when and how Marcian had become enamoured, and heard in reply a detailed narrative, part truth, part false, of the events at Surrentum, known to her as yet only in outline and without any mention of Marcian’s part in them.  Upon her surprise followed malicious joy.  Was there no means, she asked, of discovering Veranilda?  And the other in a low voice made answer that he knew where she was—­knew but too well.