an instant he looked at her,
and his lips set themselves in something meant for a smile.

'This is the end of our journey?' she asked.

'For some days--if the place does not displease you.'

'How could I be ill at ease in the house of Basil's friend, and with
the promise that Basil will soon come?'

Marcian stared at the face of Proserpine, who seemed to regard him with
solemn thoughtfulness.

'Had you any forewarning of your release from the monastery?' he asked
of a sudden.

'None. None whatever.'

'You thought you would remain there for long to come?'

'I had not dared to think of that.'

Marcian took a few paces, glanced at the sweet face, the beautiful head
with its long golden hair, and came back to his place by the
candelabrum, on which he rested a trembling hand.

'Had they spoken of making you a nun?'

A look of dread came upon her countenance, and she whispered, 'Once or
twice.'

'You would never have consented?'

'Only if I had known that release was hopeless, or that Basil--'

Her voice failed.

'That Basil--?' echoed Marcian's lips, in an undertone.

'That he was dead.'

'You never feared that he might have forgotten you?'

Again his accents were so hard that Veranilda gazed at him in troubled
wonder.

'You never feared that?' he added, with fugitive eyes.

'Had I dreamt of it,' she replied, 'I think I should not live.' Then in
a voice of anxious humility, 'Could Basil forget me?'

'Indeed, I should not think it easy,' murmured the other, his eyes cast
down. 'And what,' he continued abruptly, 'was said to you when you left
the convent? In what words did they take leave of you?'

'With none at all. I was bidden prepare for a journey, and soon after
they led me to the gates. I knew nothing, nor did the woman with me.'

'Was the lady Aurelia in the same convent?' Marcian next inquired.

'I never saw her after we had landed from the ship which carried us
from Surrentum?'

'You do not know, of course, that Petronilla is dead?'

He told her of that, and of other events such as would interest her,
but without uttering the name of Basil. Above all, he spoke of Totila,
lauding the victorious king who would soon complete his triumph by the
conquest of Rome.

'I had all but forgotten,' were Veranilda's words, when she had
listened anxiously. 'I thought only of Basil.'

He turned abruptly from her, seemed to reflect for a moment, and said
with formal politeness:

'Permit me now to