er 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