e in
his mind had nothing to do with the contest of nations or with the fate
of Rome: it was that on the morrow he should behold Veranilda. For a
long time he had ceased to think of her; her name came to his lips in
connection with artifice and intrigue, but the maiden herself had faded
into nothingness, no longer touched his imagination. He wondered at
that fantastic jealousy of Basil from which he had suffered. This
morning, the caress of the warm air, the scents wafted about him as he
rode over the great brown wilderness, revived his bygone mood. Again he
mused on that ideal loveliness which he attributed to the unseen
Veranilda For nearly a year she had been sought in vain by her lover,
by Greek commanders, by powerful churchmen; she had been made the
pretext of far-reaching plots and conspiracies; her name had excited
passions vehement and perilous, had been the cause of death. Now he was
at length to look upon her; nay, she was to pass into his guardianship,
and be by him delivered into the hands of the warrior king. Dreaming,
dreaming, he rode along the Praenestine Way.

Though the personal dignity of Pelagius and the calm force of his
speech had awed and perturbed him, Marcian soon recovered his habitual
mind. He had thought and felt too deeply regarding public affairs to be
so easily converted from the cause for which he lived. A new treachery
was imposed upon him. When, after receiving all his instructions from
Leander, he went to see Pelagius, it was in order to secure his own
safety and the fulfilment of his secret mission by a seeming betrayal
of him he served. He knew that his every movement was watched; he could
not hope to leave Rome without being stopped and interrogated. If he
desired to carry out Leander's project--and he desired it the more
ardently the longer he reflected--his only course was this. Why did it
agitate him more than his treachery hitherto? Why did he shake and
perspire when he left Pelagius, after promising to bring Veranilda to
Rome? He knew not himself--unless it were due to a fear that he might
perform his promise.

This fear it was, perhaps, which had filled his short sleep with dreams
now terrible, now luxurious. This fear it was which caught hold of him,
at length distinct and intelligible, when, on turning his head towards
the city soon after sunrise, he became aware of a group of horsemen
following him at a distance of half a mile or so. Thus had it been
agreed with Pelagius