‘Of my creed?  My faith is that of the Catholic Church.’

For the first time their eyes met.  Basil drew a step nearer; his face shone with joy, which for a moment held him mute.

‘It was in the convent,’ added Veranilda, ’that I learnt the truth.  They whom I called my enemies wrought this good to me.’

Basil besought her to tell him how she had been carried away from Surrentum, and all that had befallen her whilst she was a prisoner; he declared his ignorance of everything between their last meeting in the Anician villa and the dreadful day which next brought them face to face.  As he said this, it seemed to him that Veranilda’s countenance betrayed surprise.

‘I forget,’ he added, his head again falling, ’that your mind has been filled with doubt of me.  How can I convince you that I speak truly?  O Veranilda!’ he exclaimed passionately, ’can you look at me, can you hear me speak, and still believe that I was ever capable of betraying you?’

‘That I never believed,’ she answered in a subdued voice.

‘Yet I saw in your eyes some doubt, some hesitation.’

’Then it was despite myself.  The thought that you planned evil against me I have ever cast out and abhorred.  Why it was said of you, alas, I know not.’

‘What proof was given?’ asked Basil, gazing fixedly at her.

‘None.’

Her accent did not satisfy him; it seemed to falter.

‘Was nothing said,’ he urged, ’to make credible so black an untruth?’

Veranilda stood motionless and silent.

‘Speak, I beseech you!’ cried Basil, his hands clasped upon his breast.  ’Something there is which shadows your faith in my sincerity.  God knows, I have no right to question you thus—­I, who let my heart be poisoned against you by a breath, a nothing.  Rebuke me as you will; call me by the name I merit; utter all the disdain you must needs feel for a man so weak and false—­’

His speech was checked upon that word.  Veranilda had arrested him with a sudden look, a look of pain, of fear.

‘False?’ fell from her lips.

‘Can you forget it, O Veranilda?  Would that I could!’

‘In your anger,’ she said, ’as when perchance you were already distraught with fever, you spoke I know not what.  Therein you were not false to me.’

’False to myself; I should have said.  To you, never, never!  False to my faith in you, false to my own heart which knew you faithful; but false as men are called who—­’

Again his voice sank.  A memory flashed across him, troubling his brow.

‘What else were you told?’ he asked abruptly.  ’Can it be a woman’s name was spoken?  You are silent.  Will you not say that this thought, also, you abhorred and rejected?’