He had ever worshipped the man
of heroic virtues; once upon a time it was Belisarius who fired his
zeal; now his eyes dazzled with the glory of Totila; he burned to
devote a loyal service to this brave and noble king.

Suddenly there sounded a trumpet. Its note broke strangely upon the
monastic stillness, and, in a moment, echoed clear from the mountains.

'The king goes forth,' said Venantius. 'I must leave you. Join us
speedily yonder.'

He pointed towards Rome. On Basil's lips quivered a word, a question,
but before it could be uttered the soldier had stridden away, his
casque gleaming in the sun, and his sword clanking beside him.

Again with mind confused, Basil went to his cell, and sat there head on
hand, trying to recover the mood, the thoughts, with which he had risen
this morning. But everything was changed. He could no longer think of
the past; the future called to him, and its voice was like that of the
Gothic trumpet, stirring his blood, urging him to activity. At midday
some one knocked, and there entered Deodatus.

'Where is Felix?' was Basil's first question.

Felix was gone, but only to the town at the foot of the mountain, where
he and two of his fellows would abide until their master left the
monastery. With this message Deodatus had been charged by Venantius. He
added that Felix had been dismissed, at the abbot's order, during
Basil's interview with the king.

'I understand,' said Basil in himself; and during the rest of the day
he strove with all the force of his will to recover calm and pious
thoughts. In the night that followed he slept little; it was now the
image of Veranilda that hovered before him and kept him wakeful,
perturbed with a tender longing. God, it might be, would pardon him his
offence against the Divine law; but could he look for forgiveness from
Veranilda? When he thought of the king's last words he was lured with
hope; when he reasoned upon this hope, it turned to a mocking
emptiness. And through the next day, and the next again, his struggle
still went on. He worked and prayed as usual, and read the Psalms of
penitence not once only, but several times in the four-and-twenty
hours; that other psalm, to which he had turned for strengthening of
the spirit, he no longer dared to open. And all this time he scarce
spoke with any one; not that the brethren looked upon him with less
kindness, or held him at a distance, but the rebuke of his own
conscience kept him mute. He fel