ent, 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.

The