the monastery, told of the penance he
had done, of the absolution granted him by Benedict; whereupon a light
came into Veranilda's eyes.

'There lives,' she exclaimed, 'no holier man!'

'None holier lived,' was Basil's grave answer. 'Returning from
Assisium, I met a wandering anchorite, who told me of Benedict's death.'

'Alas!'

'But is he reverenced by those of your creed?' asked Basil in surprise.

'Of my creed? My faith is that of the Catholic Church.'

For the first time their eyes met. Basil drew a step nearer; his face
shone with joy, which for a moment held him mute.

'It was in the convent,' added Veranilda, 'that I learnt the truth.
They whom I called my enemies wrought this good to me.'

Basil besought her to tell him how she had been carried away from
Surrentum, and all that had befallen her whilst she was a prisoner; he
declared his ignorance of everything between their last meeting in the
Anician villa and the dreadful day which next brought them face to
face. As he said this, it seemed to him that Veranilda's countenance
betrayed surprise.

'I forget,' he added, his head again falling, 'that your mind has been
filled with doubt of me. How can I convince you that I speak truly? O
Veranilda!' he exclaimed passionately, 'can you look at me, can you
hear me speak, and still believe that I was ever capable of betraying
you?'

'That I never believed,' she answered in a subdued voice.

'Yet I saw in your eyes some doubt, some hesitation.'

'Then it was despite myself. The thought that you planned evil against
me I have ever cast out and abhorred. Why it was said of you, alas, I
know not.'

'What proof was given?' asked Basil, gazing fixedly at her.

'None.'

Her accent did not satisfy him; it seemed to falter.

'Was nothing said,' he urged, 'to make credible so black an untruth?'

Veranilda stood motionless and silent.

'Speak, I beseech you!' cried Basil, his hands clasped upon his breast.
'Something there is which shadows your faith in my sincerity. God
knows, I have no right to question you thus--I, who let my heart be
poisoned against you by a breath, a nothing. Rebuke me as you will;
call me by the name I merit; utter all the disdain you must needs feel
for a man so weak and false--'

His speech was checked upon that word. Veranilda had arrested him with
a sudden look, a look of pain, of fear.

'False?' fell from her lips.

'Can _you_ forget it, O Veranilda? Would that I could!'