Scarcely had Basil read this, when another missive was put into his hands.  It was from Heliodora, and written, as usual, in Greek characters.

’To-morrow, after the ninth hour, you are bidden hither.  Come if you choose.  If you do not, I shall have forgotten something I have learnt.’

To this he paid little heed; it might have significance, it might have none.  If the morning sustained his hope, he would be able to resist the temptation of the afternoon.  So he cherished Silvia’s letter, and flung Heliodora’s contemptuously aside.

Reaching Gordian’s house next morning a little before the appointed hour, he found the members of the family and one or two guests assembled in a circular room, with a dome pierced to admit light:  marble seats, covered with cushions, rose amphitheatre-wise on one half of the circle, and opposite was a chair for the reader.  In this hall Sidonius Apollinaris had declaimed his panegyric on the Emperor Avitus; here the noble Boethius had been heard, and, in earlier days, the poet Claudian.  Beside Silvia stood her husband’s two sisters, Tarsilla and Aemiliana, both of whom, it had begun to be rumoured, though still in the flower of their youth, desired to enter the monastic life.  At the younger, who was beautiful, Basil glanced diffidently, remembering that she might have been his wife; but Aemiliana knew nothing of the thought her brother had entertained, and her eyes were calm as those of a little child.  When other guests appeared, Basil drew aside, for most of the persons who entered were strangers to him.  Ecclesiastics grew numerous; among them might be distinguished a tall, meagre, bald-headed man, the sub-deacon Arator, who held in his hand the manuscript from which he was to read.  Among the latest to arrive was a lady, stricken in years and bowed with much grief, upon whom all eyes were respectfully bent as Gordian conducted her to a place of honour.  This was Rusticiana, the daughter of Symmachus, the widow of Boethius.  When Basil looked at her, and thought of the anguish through which her life had passed in that gloomy evening of the reign of Theodoric, he felt himself for a moment at one with those who rejected and scorned the Gothic dominion.  A great unhappiness flooded his heart and mind; he forgot what was passing about him, and only returned to himself when there sounded the voice of the reader.

Arator’s poetic version of the Acts of the Apostles was written in hexameters; whether good or ill, Basil felt unable to decide, and he wished Decius had been here to whisper a critical comment.  In any case he would have found the reading wearisome; that monotonous, indistinct voice soon irritated him, and at length made him drowsy.  But admiration frequently broke out from the audience, and at the end applause became enthusiasm.  Unspeakably glad that the ceremony was over, Basil mingled with the moving crowd, and drew towards Silvia.  At length their eyes met;