ittle that went on in the household of Bessas escaped
him--Marcian depended upon his servant Sagaris. Exorbitant vanity and
vagrant loves made the Syrian rather a dangerous agent; but it was
largely owing to these weaknesses that he proved so serviceable. His
master had hitherto found him faithful, and no one could have worked
more cunningly and persistently when set to play the spy or worm for
secrets. Notwithstanding all his efforts, this man failed to discover
whether Veranilda had indeed passed into the guardianship of Bessas;
good reason in Marcian's view for believing that she was still detained
by Leander, and probably in some convent. But a rumour sprang up among
those who still took interest in the matter that some one writing from
Sicily professed to have seen the Gothic maiden on board a vessel which
touched there on its way to the East. This came to the ears of Marcian
on the day after his conversation with Heliodora. Whether it were true
or not he cared little, but he was disturbed by its having become
subject of talk at this moment, for Heliodora could not fail to hear
the story.

The death of Muscula set him quivering with expectancy. That it
resulted from his plotting he could not be assured. Sagaris, who wore a
more than usually self-important air when speaking of the event, had
all manner of inconsistent reports on his tongue Not many days passed
before Marcian received a letter, worded like an ordinary invitation,
summoning him to the house on the Quirinal.

He went at the third hour of the morning, and was this time led
upstairs to a long and wide gallery, which at one side looked down upon
the garden in the rear of the house, and at the other offered a view
over a great part of Rome. Here was an aviary, constructed of fine
lattice work in wood, over-trailed with creeping plants, large enough
to allow of Heliodora's entering and walking about among the multitude
of birds imprisoned. At this amusement Marcian found her. Upon her head
perched a little songster; on her shoulder nestled a dove; two
fledglings in the palm of her hand opened their beaks for food. Since
her last visit a bird had died, and Heliodora's eyes were still moist
from the tears she had shed over it.

'You do not love birds,' she said, after gazing fixedly at Marcian a
moment through the trellis.

'I never thought,' was the reply, 'whether I loved them or not.'

'I had rather give my love to them than to any of mankind. They re