idential missions which Sagaris had discharged; yet,
looking now into his man's face, the master was troubled by a sudden
misgiving. The state of his own mind disposed him to see peril
everywhere. At another time he would not have noted so curiously a sort
of gleam in the Syrian's eye, a something on the fellow's cunning,
sensual lips, which might mean anything or nothing. Did Sagaris divine
who the veiled lady was? From the bishop's man he could not have
learned it, they themselves, as the bishop had assured Marcian, being
totally ignorant in the matter. If he guessed the truth, as was likely
enough after all the talk he had heard concerning Veranilda, was it a
danger? Had Sagaris any motive for treachery?

'Listen,' continued Marcian, in a tone such as he had never before used
with his servant, a tone rather of entreaty than of command. 'Upon the
safe and swift delivery of that letter more depends than you can
imagine. You will not lack your reward. But not a word to any save the
king. Should any one else question you, you will say that you bear only
a verbal message, and that you come direct from Rome.'

'My lord shall be obeyed,' answered the slave, 'though I die under
torture.'

'Of that,' said Marcian, with a forced laugh, 'you need have no fear.
But, hark you!' He hesitated, again searching the man's countenance.
'You might chance to meet some friend of mine who would inquire after
me. No matter who it be--were it even the lord Basil--you will answer
in the same words, saying that I am still in Rome. You understand me?
Were it even lord Basil who asked?'

'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 sil