ris had started.

'You bear a letter for the king?' he asked.

'A letter, Illustrious,' answered the slave, speaking very low.

'Ah, a letter?'

Sagaris went on to say that he had kept this a secret from Venantius,
his master having bidden him speak of it to no one and deliver it into
the king's own hand.

'It is in the Gothic tongue,' he added, his head bent, his look more
furtive than ever; 'and so urgent that I have scarce rested an hour
since leaving the villa.'

A terrible light flashed into Basil's eyes. Then he sprang at the
speaker, caught him by the throat, forced him to his knees.

'Scoundrel, you dare to lie to me! So you started from the villa and
not from Rome?'

Sagaris cried out for mercy, grovelled on the floor. He would tell
everything; but he implored Basil to keep the secret, for, did his
master learn what had happened, his punishment would be terrible.

'Fool!' cried Basil fiercely. 'How come you to have forgotten all at
once that I am your lord's chosen friend, and that everything
concerning him is safe with me. In very deed, I think you have ridden
too hard in the sun; your brains must have frizzled. Blockhead! If in
haste, the lord Marcian did not speak of me, he took it for granted
that, should you meet me--'

Something so like a malicious smile flitted over the slave's
countenance that in extremity of wrath he became mute.

'Your Nobility is deceived,' said Sagaris, in the same moment. 'My lord
expressly forbade me to tell you the truth, should I see you on my
journey.'

Basil stared at him.

'I swear by the holy Cross,' exclaimed the other, 'that this is true.
And if I did not dread your anger, I could tell you the reason. I dare
not. By all the saints I dare not!'

A strange quiet fell upon Basil. It seemed as if he would ask no more
questions; he half turned away, and stood musing. Indeed, it was as
though he had already heard all the slave had to tell, and so overcome
was he by the revelation that speech, even connected thought, was at
first impossible. As he recovered from the stupefying blow, the blood
began to boil in his veins. He felt as when, in the fight of two days
ago, he saw the first of his men pierced by a javelin. Turning again to
Sagaris, he plied him with brief and rapid questions, till he had
learnt every detail of Marcian's journey from Rome to the villa. The
Syrian spoke of the veiled lady without hesitation as Veranilda, and
pretended to have known for s