’Heard you ever of a Gothic princess—­a lady of the lineage of Theodoric—­still living in Italy?’

‘Never,’ responded Decius, with a puzzled smile.  ’Is there such a one?’

’I am told so—­I heard it by chance.  Yet I know not who she can be.  Did not the direct line of Theodoric end with Athalaric and his sister Matasuntha, who is now at the Emperor’s court?’

‘So I believed,’ said Decius, ’though I have thought but little of the matter.’

‘I too, trust me,’ let fall Basil, with careful carelessness; no actor he.  ‘And the vile Theodahad—­what descendants did he leave?’

‘He was a scholar,’ said the other musingly, ‘deep read in Plato.’

’None the less a glutton and a murderer and a coward, who did well to give his throat to the butcher as he ran away from his enemies.  Children he had, I think—­but—­’

Basil broke off on a wandering thought.  He stood still, knitted his brows, and sniffed the air.  At this moment there appeared in the alley a serving man, a young and active fellow of very honest visage, who stood at some yards’ distance until Basil observed him.

‘What is it, Felix?’ inquired his master.

The attendant stepped forward, and made known that the lord Marcian had even now ridden up to the villa, with two followers, and desired to wait upon Basil.  This news brought a joyful light to the eyes of the young noble; he hastened to welcome his friend, the dearest he had.  Marcian, a year or two his elder, was less favoured by nature in face and form:  tall and vigorous enough of carriage, he showed more bone and sinew than flesh; and his face might have been that of a man worn by much fasting, so deep sunk were the eyes, so jutting the cheek-bones, and so sharp the chin; its cast, too, was that of a fixed and native melancholy.  But when he smiled, these features became much more pleasing, and revealed a kindliness of temper such as might win the love of one who knew him well.  His dress was plain, and the dust of Campanian roads lay somewhat thick upon him.

‘By Bacchus!’ cried his friend, as they embraced each other, ’fortune is good to me to-day.  Could I have had but one wish granted, it would have been to see Marcian.  I thought you still in Rome.  What makes you travel?  Not in these days solely to visit a friend, I warrant.  By Peter and Paul and as many more saints as you can remember, I am glad to hold your hand!  What news do you bring?’

‘Little enough,’ answered Marcian, with a shrug of the shoulders.  The natural tune of his voice harmonised with his visage, and he spoke as one who feels a scornful impatience with the affairs of men.  ‘At Rome, they wrangle about goats’ wool, as is their wont.  Anything else?  Why, yes; the freedman Chrysanthus glories in an ex-consulate.  It cost him the trifle of thirty pounds of gold.’

Basil laughed contemptuously, half angrily.

‘We must look to our honours,’ he exclaimed.  ’If Chrysanthus be ex-consul, can you and I be satisfied with less than ex-Praetorian-Prefect?  What will be the price, think you?  Has Bessas hung out a tariff yet in the Forum?’