and, after an absence of two or three hours, had returned, bringing with her some one, a woman, whom she took into her house and kept there in privacy.  He who related this to Felix declared that his mistress had only visited the church of her patron saint on the Via Ardeatina, but who the woman might be that she had brought back with her, he did not pretend to know.  This story so excited Basil that he would have hastened forthwith across the Tiber, had not Felix persuaded him that at this late hour nothing could be done.  After a sleepless night he set out at sunrise, accompanied by Felix alone.  Whether he would be admitted at Petronilla’s door was quite uncertain; in any case, it would serve no purpose to go thither with a band of attendants, for the Anician house was sure to be strongly guarded.  All he could do was to present himself in the hope of seeing Petronilla, and take his chance of learning something from her when they stood face to face.

On horseback he went down by the Clivus Scauri, followed the road between the Circus Maximus and the Aventine, crossed the river by the Aemilian bridge (the nearer bridge of Probus was falling into ruins), and then turned to the left.  This part of the transtiberine district was inhabited by poor folk.  Something unusual seemed to have happened among them just now:  groups stood about in eager talk, and a little further on, in front of a church, a noisy crowd was assembled, with soldiers among them.  Having made inquiry, Felix explained the disturbance to his master.  It was due to the rapacity of the Greek commander, who, scorning no gain, however small, was seizing upon the funds of the trade guilds; this morning the common chest of the potters had been pillaged, not without resistance, which resulted in the death of a soldier; the slayer had fled to St. Cecilia’s church, and taken sanctuary.  Basil’s feeling, as he listened, was one of renewed bitterness against the Greeks; but to the potters themselves he gave little thought, such folk and their wrongs appearing of small moment to one of his birth.

Pursuing the road towards the Portuensian Gate, he was soon in sight of the palace where for generations had dwelt the heads of the Anician family.  It lay on a gentle slope above the river, at the foot of the Janiculan Hill; around it spread public porticoes, much decayed, and what had once been ornamental gardens, now the pasture of goats.  As Basil had expected, he was kept waiting without the doors until the porter had received orders regarding him.  Permitted at length to enter, he passed by a number of slaves who stood, as if on guard, in the atrium, and, though seeming to be alone in the room beyond, he heard subdued voices from behind the curtains of the doorways, which told him that he was under observation.  All parts of this great house were perfectly familiar to him, and had it been possible to conduct a search, he would soon have ascertained whether she he sought was kept imprisoned here; but, unless he took the place by storm, how could he hope to make any discovery?  Whilst he was impatiently reflecting, Petronilla entered.  She moved towards him with her wonted dignity of mien, but in the look with which she examined him, as she paused at two paces’ distance, it was easy to perceive distrust, and a certain inquietude.