‘Let us walk into the sunshine,’ she said.  ‘The morning is chilly.’  And, as she passed out into the court, hand in hand with Veranilda, ’O, the pleasure of these large spaces, this free air, after the straight house at Cumae!  Do you not breathe more lightly, sweetest?  Come into Proba’s garden, and I will show you where I sat with my broidery when I was no older than you.’

The garden was approached by a vaulted passage.  A garden long reconquered by nature; for the paths were lost in herbage, the seats were overgrown with creeping plants, and the fountain had crumbled into ruin.  A high wall formerly enclosed it, but, in a shock of earthquake some years ago, part of this had fallen, leaving a gap which framed a lovely picture of the inland hills.  Basil pulled away the trailing leafage from a marble hemicycle, and, having spread his cloak upon it, begged tremorously that Veranilda would rest.

‘That wall shall be rebuilt,’ said Aurelia, and, as if to inspect the ruin, wandered away.  When she was distant not many paces, Basil bent to his seated companion, and breathed in a passionate undertone: 

‘My letter reached your hands, O fairest?’

‘I received it—­I read it.’

As she spoke, Veranilda’s cheeks flushed as if in shame.

‘Will you reply, were it but one word?’

Her head drooped lower.  Basil seated himself at her side.

’One word, O Veranilda!  I worship you—­my soul longs for you—­ say only that you will be mine, my beloved lady, my wife!’

Her blue eyes glistened with moisture as for an instant they met the dark glow in his.

‘Do you know who I am?’ she whispered.

‘You are Veranilda!  You are beauty and sweetness and divine purity—­’

He sought her hand, but at this moment Aurelia turned towards them, and the maiden, quivering, stood up.

‘Perhaps the sun is too powerful,’ said Aurelia, with her tenderest smile.  ‘My lily has lived so long in the shade.’

They lingered a little on the shadowed side, Aurelia reviving memories of her early life, then passed again under the vaulted arch.  Basil, whose eyes scarcely moved from Veranilda’s face, could not bring himself to address her in common words, and dreaded that she would soon vanish.  So indeed it befell.  With a murmur of apology to her friend, and a timid movement of indescribable grace in Basil’s direction, she escaped, like a fugitive wild thing, into solitude.

‘Why has she gone?’ exclaimed the lover, all impatience.  ’I must follow her—­I cannot live away from her!  Let me find her again.’

His cousin checked him.

‘I have to speak to you, Basil.  Come where we can be private.’

They entered the room where they had sat before, and Aurelia, taking up the needlework left by Veranilda, showed it to her companion with admiration.