Basil stared; he had gone pale again and haggard.

‘What lady was with him?’ he asked, under his breath.

’That I cannot tell you.  The bishop’s men knew nothing about her, and had not seen her face.  But’—­Venantius smiled—­’they left her safely housed with our friend Marcian.  How comes this Syrian to say that his master is at Rome?  Does he lie?  Or did the horsemen lie?  Or are there, perchance, two Marcians?’

‘I must speak with him,’ said Basil.  ’Leave me to find out the truth for you.  Send Sagaris here, Venantius, I entreat you.’

The captain appeared to hesitate, but, on Basil’s beseeching him not to delay, he agreed and left the room.  As soon as he was alone, Basil sprang up and dressed.  He was aching from head to foot, and a parched mouth, a hot hand, told of fever in his blood.  On receipt of Marcian’s last letter, he had not delayed a day before setting forth; all was in readiness for such a summons, and thirty well-mounted, well-armed men, chosen from the slaves and freedmen on his Asculan estate in Picenum, rode after him to join the King of the Goths.  The journey was rapidly performed; already they were descending the lower slopes of the westward Apennine, when they had the ill-luck to fall in with that same band of marauders which Marcian so narrowly escaped.  Basil’s first thought was that the mounted troop coming towards him might hem the Gothic service, but this hope was soon dispelled.  Advancing with fierce threats, the robbers commanded him and his men to alight, their chief desire being no doubt to seize the horses and arms.  Though outnumbered, Basil shouted defiance; a conflict began, and so stout was the resistance they met that, after several had fallen on either side, the brigands drew off.  Not, however, in final retreat; galloping on in hope of succour, Basil found himself pursued, again lost two or three men, and only with the utmost difficulty got clear away.

It was the young Roman’s first experience of combat.  For this he had been preparing himself during the past months, exercising his body and striving to invigorate his mind, little apt for warlike enterprise.  When the trial came, his courage did not fail, but the violent emotions of that day left him so exhausted, so shaken in nerve, that he could scarce continue his journey.  He had come out of the fight unwounded, but at nightfall fever fell upon him, and he found no rest.  The loss of some half dozen men grieved him to the heart; had the brave fellows fallen in battle with the Greeks, he would have thought less of it; to see them slain, or captured, by mere brigands was more than he could bear.  When at length he reached Aesernia, and there unexpectedly met with Venantius, he fell from his horse like a dying man.  A draught given by the physician sent him to sleep, and from the second hour after sunset until nearly noon of to-day he had lain unconscious.