Veranilda | Page 8

row of
quince-trees and a hedge of Christ's-thorn; at one end was a fountain in
a great basin of porphyry, at the other a little temple, very old and built
for the worship of Isis, now an oratory under the invocation of the
Blessed Mary. The two young men made a singular contrast, for Basil,
who was in his twenty-third year, had all the traits of health and vigour:
a straight back, lithe limbs, a face looking level on the world, a lustrous
eye often touched to ardour, a cheek of the purest carnation, a mouth
that told of fine instincts, delicate sensibilities, love of laughter. No less
did his costume differ from the student's huddled garb; his tunic was
finely embroidered in many hues, his silken cloak had a great buckle of
gold on the shoulder; he wore ornate shoes, and by his waist hung a
silver-handled dagger in a sheath of chased bronze. He stepped lightly,

as one who asks but the occasion to run and leap. In their intimate talk,
he threw an arm over his companion's neck, a movement graceful as it
was affectionate; his voice had a note frank and cordial.
Yet Basil was not quite his familiar self to-day; he talked with less than
his natural gaiety, wore a musing look, fell into silences. Now that
Aurelia had come, there was no motive for reserve on that subject with
Decius, and indeed they conversed of their kinswoman with perfect
openness, pitying rather than condemning her, and wondering what
would result from her presence under one roof with the rigid Petronilla.
Not on Aurelia's account did Basil droop his head now and then, look
about him vacantly, bite his lip, answer a question at hazard, play
nervously with his dagger's hilt. All at once, with an abruptness which
moved his companion's surprise, he made an inquiry, seemingly little
relevant to their topic.
'Heard you ever of a Gothic princess--a lady of the lineage of
Theodoric--still living in Italy?'
'Never,' responded Decius, with a puzzled smile. 'Is there such a one?'
'I am told so--I heard it by chance. Yet I know not who she can be. Did
not the direct line of Theodoric end with Athalaric and his sister
Matasuntha, who is now at the Emperor's court?'
'So I believed,' said Decius, 'though I have thought but little of the
matter.'
'I too, trust me,' let fall Basil, with careful carelessness; no actor he.
'And the vile Theodahad--what descendants did he leave?'
'He was a scholar,' said the other musingly, 'deep read in Plato.'
'None the less a glutton and a murderer and a coward, who did well to
give his throat to the butcher as he ran away from his enemies. Children
he had, I think--but--'
Basil broke off on a wandering thought. He stood still, knitted his
brows, and sniffed the air. At this moment there appeared in the alley a
serving man, a young and active fellow of very honest visage, who
stood at some yards' distance until Basil observed him.
'What is it, Felix?' inquired his master.
The attendant stepped forward, and made known that the lord Marcian
had even now ridden up to the villa, with two followers, and desired to
wait upon Basil. This news brought a joyful light to the eyes of the
young noble; he hastened to welcome his friend, the dearest he had.

Marcian, a year or two his elder, was less favoured by nature in face
and form: tall and vigorous enough of carriage, he showed more bone
and sinew than flesh; and his face might have been that of a man worn
by much fasting, so deep sunk were the eyes, so jutting the cheek-bones,
and so sharp the chin; its cast, too, was that of a fixed and native
melancholy. But when he smiled, these features became much more
pleasing, and revealed a kindliness of temper such as might win the
love of one who knew him well. His dress was plain, and the dust of
Campanian roads lay somewhat thick upon him.
'By Bacchus!' cried his friend, as they embraced each other, 'fortune is
good to me to-day. Could I have had but one wish granted, it would
have been to see Marcian. I thought you still in Rome. What makes you
travel? Not in these days solely to visit a friend, I warrant. By Peter and
Paul and as many more saints as you can remember, I am glad to hold
your hand! What news do you bring?'
'Little enough,' answered Marcian, with a shrug of the shoulders. The
natural tune of his voice harmonised with his visage, and he spoke as
one who feels a scornful impatience with the affairs of men. 'At Rome,
they wrangle about goats' wool, as is their