‘It shall be as my lord commands,’ replied the slave, his face set in unctuous solemnity.

‘Go, then.  Lose not a moment.’

Marcian watched him ride away in the blaze of the cloudless sun.  The man’s head was sheltered with a broad-brimmed hat of the lightest felt, and his horse’s with a cluster of vine-leaves.  He rode away at a quick trot, the while dust rising in a cloud behind him.

And Marcian lived through the day he knew not how.  It was a day of burning sunshine, of heat scarce tolerable even in places the most sheltered.  Clad only in a loose tunic, bare-armed, bare-footed, he lay or sauntered wherever shade was dense, as far as possible from the part of the villa consecrated to his guest.  Hour after hour crawled by, an eternity of distressful idleness.  And, even while wishing for the day’s end, he dreaded the coming of the night.

It came; the silent, lonely night, the warm, perfumed night, the season of fierce temptations, of dreadful opportunity.  Never had the passionate soul of Marcian been so manifestly lured by the Evil One, never had it fought so desperately in the strength of religious hopes and fears.  He knelt, he prayed, his voice breaking upon the stillness with anguish of supplication.  Between him and the celestial vision rose that face which he had at length beheld, a face only the more provocative of sensual rage because of its sweet purity, its flawless truth.  Then he flung himself upon the stones, bruised his limbs, lay at length exhausted, as if lifeless.

No longer could he strengthen himself by the thought of loyalty in friendship; that he had renounced.  Yet he strove to think of Basil, and, in doing so, knew that he still loved him.  For Basil he would do anything, suffer anything, lose anything; but when he imaged Basil with Veranilda, at once his love turned to spleen, a sullen madness possessed him, he hated his friend to the death.

By his own order, two watchmen stood below the stairs which led to Veranilda’s chamber.  Nigh upon midnight he walked in that direction, walked in barefooted stealth, listening for a movement, a voice.  Nearer and nearer he approached, till he saw at length the ray of a lantern; but no step, no murmur, told of wakeful guard.  Trembling as though with cold, though sweat streamed over his body, he strode forward; there, propped against the wall, sat the two slaves fast asleep.  Marcian glanced at the stairs; his face in the dim lantern light was that of a devil.  All of a sudden one of the men started, and opened his eyes.  Thereupon Marcian caught up a staff that lay beside them, and began to belabour them both with savage blows.  Fiercely, frantically, he plied his weapon, until the delinquents, who had fallen to their knees before him, roared for mercy.

‘Let me find you sleeping again,’ he said in a low voice, ’and your eyes shall be burnt out.’

He stole away into the darkness, and the men whispered to each other that he had gone mad.  For Marcian was notably humane with his slaves, never having been known even to inflict a whipping.  Perhaps they were even more astonished at this proof that their master seriously guarded the privacy of his guest; last night they had slept for long hours undisturbed, and, on waking, congratulated each other with familiar jests on having done just what was expected of them.