‘May such knowledge be far from me!’ said Marcian, with unwonted vehemence.  ‘Do you feel no shame in being so subdued to the flesh?’

‘Shame?  Shame in the thought that I love Veranilda?’

Marcian seemed to make an effort to control a passion that wrought in him; he was paler than of wont, and, instead of the familiar irony, a cold, if not cruel, austerity appeared in his eyes and on his lips.  He shunned Basil’s astonished gaze.

‘Let us not speak of this,’ broke from him impatiently.  ’You understand me as little as I you.  Forgive me, Basil—­I have been talking idly—­I scarce know what I said.  It is sometimes thus with me.  Something takes hold upon me, and I speak at random.  Come, come, dear friend of my heart, we will find your Veranilda; trust me, we will.’

Three days went by, then Basil was summoned again to the Palatine, where he had an interview with Bessas alone.  This time the commander hardly spoke of Veranilda; his talk was of the possessions left by Maximus, whose testament, when he had read it, he said that he would take care of until the lost daughter was discovered; he inquired closely, too, as to Basil’s own wealth, and let fall a remark that the Roman nobles would soon be called upon to support the army fighting for their liberties against the barbarians.  When next called, let Basil have ready and bring with him an exact statement of the money in his hands, and of the income he expected to derive from his property during the present year.  Thereupon he was dismissed with a nod and a smile, which made him quiver in rage for an hour after.  This happened in early morning.  The day was overcast, and a cold wind blew from the mountains; Basil had never known such misery as fell upon him when he re-entered his gloomy, silent house.  On the way home he had passed two funerals—­their hurried aspect proving that the dead were victims of the plague, that lues inguinaria which had broken out in Italy two years ago, and with varying intensity continued throughout the land.  Throwing himself down upon a couch, he moaned in utter wretchedness, fearful of the pestilence, yet saying to himself that he cared not if it seized upon him.  His moans became sobs; he wept for a long time, then lay, half soothed by the burst of hysterical passion, with eyes turned blankly to the ceiling and a hand clenched upon. his breast.

In his solitude he often talked with Felix, and more intimately perhaps than with either Decius or Marcian.  This trusty servant held communication with a man in the household of Petronilla, and from him learnt what he could as to the lady’s movements; but nothing was as yet discoverable which threw light on the mystery of Aurelia and Veranilda.  To-day, however, Felix returned from the other side of the Tiber with what sounded like important news.  Petronilla had left home this morning in her carriage, had gone forth from the city by one of the southern gates,