and what hope was
there that he could gain his end against such an opponent?--more
formidable than Bessas, more powerful, perhaps, than Justinian. Were
Veranilda imprisoned in some monastery, he might abandon hope of
beholding her again on this side of the grave.
Yet it was something to know that she had not passed into the hands of
the Greeks; that she was not journeying to the Byzantine court, there
to be wedded against her will. Cheered by this, he felt an impulse of
daring; he would see Petronilla.
'Leo! Lead me to the chamber.'
The freedman besought him not to be so rash, but Basil was possessed
with furious resolve. He drove the servant before him, through the
atrium, into a long corridor. Suddenly the silence was broken by a
shriek of agony, so terrible that Basil felt his blood chilled to the
very heart. This cry came again, echoing fearfully through the halls
and galleries of this palace of marble. The servants had fled; Basil
dropped to his knees, crossed himself, prayed, the sweat standing upon
his forehead. A footstep approached him; he rose, and saw the physician
who had been with Maximus at Surrentum.
'Does she still live?' he asked.
'If life it can be called. What do you here, lord Basil?'
'Can she hear and speak?'
'I understand you,' replied the physician. 'But it is useless. She has
confessed to the priest, and will utter no word more. Look to yourself;
the air you breathe is deadly.'
And Basil, weak as a child, suffered himself to be led away.
CHAPTER XIII
THE SOUL OF ROME
The library in Basil's house was a spacious, graceful room, offering at
this day very much the same aspect as in the time of that ancestral
Anician, who, when Aurelian ruled, first laid rolls and codices upon
its shelves. Against the walls stood closed presses of wood, with
bronze panelling, on which were seen in relief the portraits of poets
and historians; from the key of each hung a strip of parchment, with a
catalogue of the works within. Between the presses, on pedestals of
dark green serpentine, ranged busts of the Greek philosophers: Zeno
with his brows knitted, Epicurus bland, Aratus gazing upward,
Heraclitus in tears, Democritus laughing. These were attributed to
ancient artists, and by all who still cared for such things were much
admired. In the middle stood a dancing faun in blood red marble, also
esteemed a precious work of art. Light entered by an arched window,
once glazed, now only b
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