This was
now repeated by Marcian, who professed himself overwhelmed by the
event.
'You have here one Basilius,' said Chorsoman.
'The same whom your greatness saw on a certain occasion at Cumae.'
'They tell me he was about to wed with Veranilda. What does that
mean?'
'An idle rumour,' replied Marcian, 'springing from vulgar gossip,
and from the spiteful anger of the lady sister of Maximus, who hoped
to inherit what has fallen to her niece. Let your valorous
magnificence be assured that there is no truth in it. Can you
imagine that I, whose mission is known to you, should have looked on
at such an audacity? I think your perspicuity will not require
better proof of the powers with which I am intrusted than that I
gave you at Cumae?'
Of the profound contempt proclaimed, rather than disguised, by
Marcian's extravagant courtesy, Chorsoman had no inkling; but his
barbaric mind resented the complexity of things with which it was
confronted, and he felt a strong inclination to take this
smooth-tongued Latin by the throat, so as to choke the plain truth
out of him.
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