Basil walked in gloomy silence.  The interview had inflamed his pride.  Mentally he repeated the oath never to acquiesce in this Byzantine tyranny, and he burned for the opportunity of open war against it.  When they were at a safe distance from the Palatine, Marcian warned his friend against the Greek’s indulgent manner; let him not suppose that Bessas spoke one word sincerely.

’His aim at present, I see, is to put you off your guard; and doubtless he is playing the like game with Petronilla.  You will be spied upon, day and night—­I myself, you understand, being one of the spies, but only one, unfortunately.  This Thracian is not so easy to deal with as the Hun at Cumae.  There have been moments when I thought he suspected me.  If ever I vanish, Basil—­’

He ceased with a significant look.

‘Why does Totila delay?’ exclaimed Basil, with a passionate gesture.

’He delays not.  It is wisdom to conquer Campania before coming hither.  Another month will see him before Neapolis.’

’Could I but find Veranilda, make her my own, and put her in safety, I would go straight to the king’s camp, and serve him as best I might.’

Marcian looked steadily at the speaker, smiling strangely.

‘Why do you look at me so?’ cried Basil.  ’You doubt me?  You distrust my courage?’

’Not for a moment.  But why should this depend upon the finding of Veranilda, my best Basil?  Having found her, having made her your own, will it be easier than now to take your chance of death or of captivity?  When was a Roman wont to let his country’s good wait upon his amorous desire?’

They were on the Sacred Way, between the Basilica of Constantine and the Atrium of Vesta.  Struck to the heart by his friend’s words, words such as Marcian had never yet addressed to him, Basil stood mute and let his eyes wander:  he gazed at the Forum, at the temples beyond it, at the Capitol with its desecrated sanctuary of Jupiter towering above.  Here, where the citizens once thronged about their business and their pleasure, only a few idlers were in view, a few peasants with carts, and a drove of bullocks just come in from the country.

‘You would have me forget her?’ he said at length, in a voice distressfully subdued.

‘I spoke only as I thought.’

‘And your thought condemned me—­despised me, Marcian?’

’Not so.  Pitied you rather, as one whose noble nature has fallen into trammels.  Have you not long known, O Basil, how I think of the thing called love?’

‘Because you have never known it!’ exclaimed Basil.  ’My love is my life.  Having lost Veranilda, I have lost myself; without her I can do nothing.  Were she dead I could fling myself into the struggle with our enemies, all the fiercer because I should care not whether I lived or died; but to lose her thus, to know that she may be in Rome, longing for me as I for her—­to think that we may never hold each other’s hands again—­oh, it tears my heart, and makes me weak as a child.  You cannot understand me; you have never loved!’