‘It makes me a child again,’ she exclaimed.  ’I have never ridden since I was a little girl, when my father—­’

Her voice died away; her look was averted, and Marcian, remembering the shame that mingled with her memories, began to talk of other things.

By a path that circled the villa, they came to a little wood of ilex, which shadowed the brink of the larger cataract.  Marcian had bidden Veranilda’s woman follow them, but as they entered the wood, his companion looking eagerly before her, he turned and made a gesture of dismissal, which the servant at once obeyed.  In the shadiest spot which offered a view of the plunging river, he asked Veranilda if she would alight.

‘Willingly, I would spend an hour here,’ she replied.  ’The leafage and the water make such a delightful freshness.’

‘I have anticipated your thought,’ said Marcian.  ’The woman is gone to bid them bring seats.’

Veranilda glanced back in surprise and saw that they were alone.  She thanked him winsomely, and then, simply as before, accepted his help.  Again Marcian held her an instant, her slim, light body trembling when he set her down, as if from a burden which strained his utmost force.  She stepped forward to gaze at the fall.  He, with an exclamation of alarm, caught her hand and held it.

‘You are too rash,’ he said in a thick voice.  ’The depth, the roar of the waters, will daze you.’

Against his burning palm, her hand was cool as a lily leaf.  He did not release it, though he knew that his peril from that maidenly touch was greater far than hers from the gulf before them.  Veranilda, accepting his protection with the thoughtlessness of a child, leaned forward, uttering her wonder and her admiration.  He, the while, watched her lips, fed his eyes upon her cheek, her neck, the golden ripples of her hair.  At length she gently offered to draw her hand away.  A frenzy urged him to resist, but madness yielded to cunning, and he released her.

‘Of course Basil has been here,’ she was saying.

‘Never.’

’Never?  Oh, the joy of showing him this when he comes!  Lord Marcian, you do not think it will be long?’

Her eyes seemed as though they would read in the depth of his; again the look of troubled wonder rose to her countenance.

‘It will not be more than a few days?’ she added, in a timid undertone, scarce audible upon the water’s deeper note.

‘I fear it may be longer,’ replied Marcian.

He heard his own accents as those of another man.  He, his very self, willed the utterance of certain words, kind, hopeful, honest; but something else within him commanded his tongue, and, ere he knew it, he had added: 

‘You have never thought that Basil might forget you?’

Veranilda quivered as though she had been struck.

‘Why do you again ask me that question?’ she said gently, but no longer timidly.  ‘Why do you look at me so?  Surely,’ her voice sank, ‘you could not have let me feel so happy if Basil were dead?’