low?'

Somewhat recovered from the emotions which had enfeebled him, Gaudiosus
held up his head, and made solemn answer.

'Not yours was it to take vengeance. The God to whom you appeal has
said: "Thou shalt do no murder."'

'Consider his crime,' returned the other. 'In the moment when he swore
falsely I lifted up my eyes, and behold, she herself stood before me.
She whom I loved, who had pledged herself to me, who long ago would
have been my wife but for the enemy who came between us--she, hidden
here with him, become a wanton in his embraces--'

A low cry of anguish interrupted him. He turned. Veranilda had risen
and drawn near.

'Basil! You know not what you say.'

'Nor what I _could_ say,' he replied, his eyes blazing with scorn.
'You, who were truth itself have you so well learned to lie? Talk on.
Tell me that he held you here perforce, and that you passed the days
and the nights in weeping. Have I not heard of your smiles and your
contentment? Whither did you stray this morning? Did you go into the
wood to say your orisons?'

Veranilda turned to the priest.

'Servant of God I Hear me, unhappy that I am!'

With a gesture of entreaty she flung out her hands, and, in doing so,
saw that one of them was red. Her woebegone look changed to terror.

'What is this? His blood is upon me--on my hand, my garment. When did I
touch him? Holy father, whither has he gone? Does he live? Oh, tell me
if he lives!'

'Come hence with me,' said Gaudiosus. 'Come where I may hear you utter
the truth before God.'

But Veranilda was as one distraught. She threw herself on to her knees.

'Tell me he lives. He is but sorely hurt? He can speak? Whither have
they carried him?'

Confirmed in his damning thought by every syllable she uttered, Basil
strode away.

'Lead her where you will,' he shouted. 'I stay under this abhorred roof
only till my men have eaten and taken rest.'

Without knowing it, he had stepped into the pool of blood, and a red
track was left behind him as he went forth from the hall.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE RED HAND

Resting at length from desire and intrigue, Marcian lay cold upon the
bed where he had passed his haunted nights. About his corpse were
gathered all the servants of the house; men, with anger on their brows,
muttering together, and women wailing low because of fear. The girl who
had met the horsemen by the bridge told her story, whence it became
evident that Marcian's death was the r