arred with ornamental iron, too high in the wall
to allow of any view; below this, serving as table, was an old marble
sarcophagus carved with the Calydonian hunt.

Here, one day of spring, Decius sat over his studies. Long ago he had
transferred hither all the books from the great house across the Tiber,
and had made his home on the Caelian. As he read or wrote a hard cough
frequently interrupted him. During the past half year his health had
grown worse, and he talked at times of returning to the Surrentine
villa, if perchance that sweeter air might soothe him, but in the
present state of things--Totila had just laid siege to Neapolis--the
removal did not seem feasible. Moreover, Decius loved Rome, and thought
painfully of dying elsewhere than within her walls.

There was a footfall at the door, and Basil entered. He was carelessly
clad, walked with head bent, and had the look of one who spends his
life in wearisome idleness. Without speaking, however, he threw himself
upon a couch and lay staring with vacant eye at the bronze panels of
the vaulted ceiling. For some minutes silence continued; then Decius, a
roll in his hand, stepped to his kinsman's side and indicated with his
finger a passage of the manuscript. What Basil read might be rendered
thus:

'I am hateful to myself. For though born to do something worthy of a
man, I am now not only incapable of action, but even of thought.'

'Who says that?' he asked, too indolent to glance at the beginning of
the roll.

'A certain Marcus Tullius, in one of his letters,' replied the other,
smiling, and returned to his own couch.

Basil moved uneasily, sighed, and at length spoke in a serious tone.

'I understand you, best Decius. You are right. Many a time I have used
to myself almost those very words. When I was young--how old I feel!--I
looked forward to a life full of achievements. I felt capable of great
things. But in our time, what can we do, we who are born Romans, yet
have never learnt to lead an army or to govern a state?'

He let his arm fall despondently, and sank again into brooding silence.

At root, Basil's was a healthy and vigorous nature. Sound of body, he
needed to put forth his physical energies, yet had never found more
scope for them than in the exercise of the gymnasium, or the fatigue of
travel; mentally well-balanced, he would have made an excellent
administrator, such as his line had furnished in profusion, but that
career was no longer ope