To-day, being the first day of the week, there was a gathering to hear mass.  Marcian, though he had that in his mind which little accorded with religious worship, felt himself drawn to the little church, and knelt among the toil-worn folk.  Here, as always when he heard the liturgy, his heart melted, his soul was overcome with awe.  From earliest childhood he had cherished a peculiar love and reverence for the Eucharistic prayer, which was associated with his noblest feelings, his purest aspirations.  As he heard it now, here amid the solitude of the hills, it brought him help such as he needed.

’Vere dignum et justum est, aequum et salutare, nos tibi semper et ubique gratias agere, Domine sancte, Pater omnipotens, aeterne Deus.’

When at the end he rose, these words were still resonant within him.  He turned to go forth, and there behind, also just risen from her knees, stood a veiled woman, at the sight of whom he thrilled with astonishment.  No peasant she; for her attire, though but little adorned, told of refinement, and the grace of her figure, the simple dignity of her attitude, would alone have marked her out among the girls and women who were leaving the church, their eyes all turned upon her and on the female attendant standing respectfully near.  Through the veil which covered her face and hung about her shoulders, Marcian could dimly discern lips and eyebrows.

‘Lord Marcian, may I speak with you?’

It was the voice of last night, and again it shook him with an ecstasy which had more of dread than of joy.

‘You here?’ he replied, speaking very low.  ’You have heard the mass?’

‘I am a Catholic.  My religion is that of Basil.’

‘God be thanked!’ broke from Marcian.  And his exclamation meant more than it conveyed to the listener.

‘May you tell me whither we are going?’ was the next question from the veiled lips.

The church was now empty, but in the doorway appeared faces curiously peering.  Marcian looking in that direction seemed for a moment to find no reply; his lips were parted, and his breath came rapidly; then he whispered: 

’Not far from here there is a villa.  There you shall rest in safety until Basil comes.’

‘He is near?’

‘Already I have summoned him.’

‘O kind Marcian!’ uttered the low, sweet voice.  ’Oh, true and brave friend!’

In silence they walked together to the priest’s house.  Marcian had now put off all irresolution.  He gave orders to his guard; as soon as the horses had sufficiently rested, they would push on for Aletrium, and there pass the night.  The start was made some two hours after noon.  Riding once more beside the carriage, Marcian felt his heart light:  passions and fears were all forgotten; the sun flaming amid the pale blue sky, the violet shadows of the mountains, the voice of cicadas made rapture to his senses.  It was as though Veranilda’s beauty, not even yet beheld, rayed something of itself upon all the visible world.  Never had a summer’s day shone so gloriously for him; never had he so marked the hues of height and hollow, the shape of hills, the winding of a stream.  Where an ascent made the pace slow, he alighted, walked by the vehicle, and exchanged a few words with her who sat behind the curtain.