ou shall see her undisturbed.'

For a moment Basil sat motionless; then, without a word, he rose and
went whither Venantius directed him. But a few minutes passed before he
saw Veranilda enter. She was clad for travel, a veil over her face;
this, and the shadow in which Basil stood, made her at first unaware of
his presence, for Venantius had only requested her to enter this room
until the carriage was ready. Standing with bowed head, she sobbed.

'Why do you weep?' demanded an abrupt voice, which made her draw back
trembling.

Basil moved a little towards her.

'You weep for _him_?' he added in the same pitiless tone.

'For him, for you, and for myself, alas! alas!'

The subdued anguish of her voice did not touch Basil. He burned with
hatred of her and of the dead man.

'Shed no tears for me. I am cured of a long folly. And for you
consolation will not be slow in coming. Who knows but you may throw
your spell upon Totila himself.'

'You know not what you say,' replied Veranilda; not, as when she used
the words before, in accents quivering from a stricken heart, but with
sorrowful dignity and self-command. 'Is it Basil who speaks thus? Were
it only the wrong done me that I had to bear, I could keep silence,
waiting until God restored your justice and your gentleness. But,
though in nothing blameworthy, I am the cause of what has come about;
for had I not entered that room when I did, you would not have struck
the fatal blow. Listen then, O Basil, whilst I make known to you what
happened before you came.'

She paused to control herself.

'I must go back to the night when I left the convent. No one had told
me I was to go away. In the middle of the night I was aroused and led
forth, with me the woman who served me. We had travelled an hour or
two, perhaps, when some one standing by the carriage spoke to me, some
one who said he was Marcian the friend of Basil, and bade me have no
fears, for Basil awaited me at the end of the journey. The next day he
spoke to me again, this time face to face, but only a few words. We
came to this villa. You have been told, by I know not whom, that I was
light of heart. It is true, for I believed what Marcian had said to me,
and nothing had befallen to disturb my gladness. I lived with my
serving woman privately, in quiet and hope. This morning, yielding,
alas! to a wish which I thought harmless, I went forth with my
attendant to the waterfall. As I stood gazing at it, the lord