VAS IN DEO

The telling of his story was to Basil like waking from a state of
imperfect consciousness in which dream and reality had
indistinguishably mingled. Since the fight with the brigands he had
never been himself; the fever in his blood made him incapable of wonted
thought or action; restored to health, he looked back upon those days
with such an alien sense that he could scarce believe he had done the
things he related. Only now did their move in him a natural horror when
he thought of the death of Marcian, a natural distress when he
remembered his bearing to Veranilda. Only now could he see in the light
of reason all that had happened between his talk with Sagaris at
Aesernia and his riding away with Venantius from the villa on the
island. As he unfolded the story, he marvelled at himself, and was
overcome with woe.

There needed not the words of the holy abbot to show him how blindly he
had acted. He could see now that, however it might appear, the guilt of
Marcian was quite unproved. The Syrian slave might have lied, or else
have uttered a mistaken suspicion. It might be true that Marcian had
been misled by some calumniator into thinking evil of his friend. And
had he not heard the declaration of Veranilda, that she had suffered no
wrong at his hands? Basil saw the face of his beloved. Only a man
possessed by the Evil Spirit could have answered her as he had done.
Was not the fact that Marcian had brought Veranilda to his villa in
order to give her into the hands of Totila sufficient proof that he had
neither wronged her nor meditated wrong? Ay, but Basil reminded himself
that he had accused Veranilda of amorous complicity with Marcian. And
at this recollection his brain whirled.

Even were it permitted him ever to behold her again, how could he stand
before her? Must she not abhor him, as one whose baseness surpassed all
she had thought possible in the vilest slave? Jealousy was pardonable;
in its rage, a man might slay and be forgiven. But for the reproach
with which he had smitten her--her, pure and innocent--there could be
no forgiveness. It was an act of infamy, branding him for ever.

Thoughts such as these intermingled with his reading of the Psalms of
penitence. Ever and again grief overwhelmed him, and he wept bitterly.
At the hour of the evening meal, he would willingly have remained in
his cell, to fast and mourn alone; but this, he felt, would have been
to shirk part of his penance; for, tho