it could only be by the grace of the Emperor.  Veranilda had been summoned to Byzantium.  If Basil chose to follow her thither, and sue for her before the throne, why, this was open to him, as to any other Roman of noble birth.  It would have been idle indeed to seek to learn from Pelagius whether Veranilda had already left Italy, his tone was that of omniscience, but his brow altogether forbade interrogation.  Basil, in despair, ventured one inquiry.  If he desired to go to Byzantium, could he obtain leave of departure from the Greek commandant, under whose ban he lay?  The reply was unhesitating; at any moment, permission could be granted.  Therewith the conversation came to an end, and Basil, hating the face of man, stole away into solitude.

Entering his own house, he learnt that Marcian was within.  For a month they had not seen each other, Marcian having been absent on missions of the wonted double tenor; they met affectionately as ever, then Basil flung himself down, like one crushed by sudden calamity.

‘What now?’ asked his friend, with a rallying rather than a sympathetic air.

‘No matter,’ Basil replied.  ’You are weary of my troubles, and I can no longer talk of them.’

’What troubles?  The old story still?  I thought you had found solace?’

Basil looked an indignant wonder.  His friend, sitting on the couch beside him, continued in the same half-bantering tone: 

’When were you last at the house of a certain disconsolate widow, on the Quirinal?’

‘What mean you?’ cried the other, starting up, with sudden fury in his eyes.  ‘Are you vowed with my enemies to drive me mad?’

’Not I, dear Basil; but hear the truth.  Only late last night I entered the gates of Rome, and since I rose this morning three several persons have spoken your name to me together with that of Heliodora.’

’They are black and villainous liars!  And you, Marcian, so ready to believe them?  Tell me their names, their names!’

’Peace!  One would think you mad indeed.  You know the son of Opilio, young Vivian?’

‘I know him!’ answered Basil scornfully, ’as I know the lousy beggar who sits before St. Clement’s Church, or the African who tumbles in Trajan’s forum.’

’Even so.  This same spark of fashion stops me in the Vicus Longus.  “You are the friend of Basil,” quoth he.  “Give him this warning.  If ever I chance to find him near the portico of Heliodora, I will drive my dagger into his heart,” and on he struts, leaving me so amazed that I forgot even to fetch the cub a box o’ the ear.  But I had not long to wait for an explanation of his insolence.  Whom should I next meet but the solemn-visaged Opilio.  “So your friend Basil,” he began, “has forgotten his Gothic love?” We talked, and I learnt from him that you were the hot rival of Vivian for Heliodora’s favour.  Nay, I do but repeat what you ought to hear.  Can such gossip begin without cause?  Tell me now, how often have you been yonder since I left Rome?’