Sagaris went on to say that he had kept this a secret from Venantius, his master having bidden him speak of it to no one and deliver it into the king’s own hand.

‘It is in the Gothic tongue,’ he added, his head bent, his look more furtive than ever; ’and so urgent that I have scarce rested an hour since leaving the villa.’

A terrible light flashed into Basil’s eyes.  Then he sprang at the speaker, caught him by the throat, forced him to his knees.

’Scoundrel, you dare to lie to me!  So you started from the villa and not from Rome?’

Sagaris cried out for mercy, grovelled on the floor.  He would tell everything; but he implored Basil to keep the secret, for, did his master learn what had happened, his punishment would be terrible.

‘Fool!’ cried Basil fiercely.  ’How come you to have forgotten all at once that I am your lord’s chosen friend, and that everything concerning him is safe with me.  In very deed, I think you have ridden too hard in the sun; your brains must have frizzled.  Blockhead!  If in haste, the lord Marcian did not speak of me, he took it for granted that, should you meet me—­’

Something so like a malicious smile flitted over the slave’s countenance that in extremity of wrath he became mute.

‘Your Nobility is deceived,’ said Sagaris, in the same moment.  ’My lord expressly forbade me to tell you the truth, should I see you on my journey.’

Basil stared at him.

‘I swear by the holy Cross,’ exclaimed the other, ’that this is true.  And if I did not dread your anger, I could tell you the reason.  I dare not.  By all the saints I dare not!’

A strange quiet fell upon Basil.  It seemed as if he would ask no more questions; he half turned away, and stood musing.  Indeed, it was as though he had already heard all the slave had to tell, and so overcome was he by the revelation that speech, even connected thought, was at first impossible.  As he recovered from the stupefying blow, the blood began to boil in his veins.  He felt as when, in the fight of two days ago, he saw the first of his men pierced by a javelin.  Turning again to Sagaris, he plied him with brief and rapid questions, till he had learnt every detail of Marcian’s journey from Rome to the villa.  The Syrian spoke of the veiled lady without hesitation as Veranilda, and pretended to have known for some time that she was in a convent at Praeneste; but, when interrogated as to her life at the villa, he affected an affectation of doubt, murmuring that he had beheld nothing with his own eyes, that perhaps the female slaves gossiped idly.

‘What do they say?’ asked Basil with unnatural self-control.

’They speak of her happy mien and gay talk, of her walking with my lord in private.  But I know nothing.’

Basil kept his eyes down for a long minute, then moved like one who has taken a resolve.

‘Show me the letter you bear,’ he commanded.