‘I am travel-worn.  Your hospitality must restore me.’

‘That it shall,’ replied Marcian.  ‘Or, better still,’ he added, ’the hospitality of my father Gaudiosus.’  He touched the priest’s arm, as if affectionately.  ’For here there is little solace; barely one chamber habitable.  You have often heard me describe, O Basil, my poor, ruinous island villa, and now at length you behold it.  I did not think you would pass this way, or I would have prepared for your fitting reception.  By the greatest chance you find me here; and to-morrow I must be gone.  But scarce two thousand paces from here is the dwelling of this reverend man, who will entertain you fittingly, and give you the care you need; for it seems to me, dear Basil, that you are more than wearied.’

The listener nodded, and let himself drop upon a seat near to where Marcian was standing.

‘What have you to tell me?’ he asked under his breath.

‘Nothing good, alas!’ was the murmured reply.

‘Shall we speak in private?’

‘Nay, it is needless.  All my secrets lie open to Gaudiosus.’

Again Basil cast a glance at the presbyter, who had seated himself and appeared to be absorbed in thought.

‘Do you mean,’ he asked, ‘that something new has befallen?’

His eyes were upon Marcian, and Marcian’s upon those of Proserpine.

’Yes, something new.  The deacon of whom you know has left Rome, accompanying the Pope on his journey eastward.  And with him he has taken—­’

A name was shaped upon the speaker’s lips, but whether of purpose, or because his voice failed him, it found no utterance.

‘Veranilda?’

As Basil spoke, his eye was caught by the movement of a curtain at the back of the room.  The curtain was pushed aside, and there appeared the figure of a maiden, pale, beautiful.  Marcian did not see her, nor yet did the priest.

‘Veranilda?’ repeated Basil, in the same questioning tone.  He leaned forward, his hand upon his wrist.

‘She—­alas!’ was Marcian’s reply.

‘Liar! traitor! devil!’

At each word, Basil’s dagger drank blood up to the hilt.  With his furious voice blended a yell of terror, of agony, a faint cry of horror from Gaudiosus, and a woman’s scream.  Then came silence.

The priest dropped to his knees by Marcian’s prostrate form.  Basil, the stained weapon in his crimson hand, stared at Veranilda, who also had fallen.

‘Man!  What hast thou done?’ gasped Gaudiosus.

The trembling, senile tones wakened Basil as if from a trance.  He thrust his dagger into its sheath, stepped to the back of the room, and bent over the white loveliness that lay still.

‘Is it death?’ he murmured.

‘Death! death!’ answered the priest, who had just heard Marcian’s last sob.

‘I speak not of that perjured wretch,’ said Basil.  ‘Come hither.’

Gaudiosus obeyed, and looked with wonder at the unconscious face.