Reminded all at once that he had no time to lose, Marcus threw open the shutter, extinguished the lamp, and slipped away, leaving his patient with eyes turned to the pale glimmer of dawn at the tiny window.  Now only did there stir in Basil clear recollection of the events which had preceded his coming hither.  Marcus’s sly word in regard to the locket had awakened his mind, and in a few moments he thought connectedly.  But without emotion, unless it were a vague, tender sadness.  All seemed to have happened so long ago.  It was like a story he had heard in days gone by.  He thought of it until his brain began to weary, then again came sleep.

A day or two passed.  He had begun to eat with keen appetite, and his strength increased hour by hour.  On a Sunday, after the office of the third hour, Marcus cheerily gave him permission to rise.  This prompted Basil to inquire whether his man, who had come with him, was still in the monastery.  Marcus, with eyes averted, gave a nod.  Might he speak with him, Basil asked.  Presently, presently, was the answer.  Marcus himself aided the convalescent to dress; then having seated him in a great chair of rude wickerwork, used only on occasions such as this, left him to bask in a beam of sunshine.  Before long, his meal was brought him, and with it a book, bound in polished wood and metal, which he found to be a Psalter.  Herein, when he had eaten, he read for an hour or so, not, however, without much wandering of the thoughts.  He had fallen into reverie, when his door opened, and there appeared before him the Abbot Benedict.

Basil started up, stood for a moment in agitation, then sank upon his knees, with head reverently bowed.

‘Rise, rise, my son,’ spoke the voice which had so moved him in his vision of a week ago, a voice subdued by years, but perfectly steady and distinct.  ’Our good brother Marcus assures me that I may talk with you a little while without fear of overtasking your strength—­ nay, sit where you were, I pray you.  Thanks be to God, I need not support for my back.’

So saying, the abbot seated himself on the stool, and gazed at Basil with a smile of infinite benevolence.

‘Your face,’ he continued, ’speaks to me of a time very far away.  I see in it the presentment of your father’s father, with whom, when he was much of your age, I often talked.  His mother had a villa at Nursia, the home of my youth.  Once he turned aside from a journey to visit me when I dwelt at Sublaqueum.’

The reminiscence checked his tongue he kept silence for a moment, musing gravely.

’But these are old stories, my Basil, and you are young.  Tell me somewhat of your parents, and of your own life.  Did not your good father pass away whilst at Constantinople?’

Thus, with perfect simplicity, with kindliest interest in things human, did Benedict draw the young man into converse.  He put no question that touched on the inner life, and Basil uttered not a word concerning his late distress, but they touched for a moment upon public affairs, and Basil learnt, without show of special interest, that Totila still lingered in Campania.