After a long descent they struck into the Via Latina, still in spite of long neglect almost as good a road as when the legions marched over its wheel-furrowed stones.  If the information on which Leander had calculated was correct, some three days’ journey by this way would bring them within reach of the Gothic king; but Marcian was now debating with himself at what point he should quit the high road, so as to make certain his escape, in case the Greek horsemen began a chase early on the morrow.  To the left lay a mountainous region, with byways and little ancient towns, in old time the country of the Hernici; beyond, a journey of two good days, flowed the river Liris, and there, not far from the town of Arpinum, was Marcian’s ancestral villa.  Of this he thought, as his horse trotted beside or behind the carriage.  It was much out of his way; surely there would be no need to go so far in order to baffle pursuers.  Yet still he thought of his villa, islanded in the Liris, and seemed to hear through the night the music of tumbling waters, and said within his heart, ‘Could I not there lie safe?’

Safe?—­from the Greeks, that is to say, if they persistently searched for him.  Safe, until a messenger could reach Totila, and let him know that Veranilda was rescued.

An hour after midnight, one of the mules’ traces broke.  In the silence of the stoppage, whilst the driver was mending the harness as best he could, Marcian alighted, stepped to the side of the vehicle, laid a hand on the curtain which concealed those within, and spoke in a subdued voice.

‘Is all well with you, lady?’

‘As well,’ came the answer, ’as it can be with one who dreads her unknown fate.’

The soft accents made Marcian tremble.  He expected to hear a sweet voice, but this was sweeter far than he could have imagined:  its gentleness, its sadness, utterly overcame him, so that he all but wept in his anguish of delight.

‘Have no fear,’ he whispered eagerly.  ’It is freedom that awaits you.  I am Marcian—­Marcian, the friend of Basil.’

There sounded a low cry of joy; then the two names were repeated, his and that of his friend, and again Marcian quivered.

‘You will be no more afraid?’ he said, as though laughingly.

‘Oh no!  The Blessed Virgin be thanked!’

An owl’s long hoot wailed through the stillness, seeming to fill with its infinite melancholy the great vault of moonlit heaven.  In Marcian it produced a sudden, unaccountable fear.  Leaping on to his horse, he cursed the driver for slowness.  Another minute, and they were speeding onward.