That strip of the Adriatic coast south of Ancona had
always been famous for its pears and apples, and choice examples of
the fruit lay on Basil's table to-day. When he had supped, he
anxiously awaited the coming of Marcian. It was two hours after
nightfall before his friend appeared, having come in a litter, with
torch-bearing attendants, from the Palatine, where he had supped
with Bessas, the Greek commander.
The news he brought was disquieting. Bessas had just received
despatches from Cumae, which acquainted him with the story of
Veranilda's disappearance, so far as it was known to Chorsoman; he
wore a heavy brow about the business, swore that the Gothic damsel
should be found, if it cost the skins of all who had had anything to
do with her.
'I partly soothed the brute,' concluded Marcian, 'by telling him
that Petronilla was within such easy reach. Her he will summon
to-morrow.'
'You promised to see her,' said Basil impatiently.
'Do I often break my promises? I saw her before going even to my own
house, with the dust of the journey still upon me.'
'Ever kind Marcian?'
'Why so hasty to think me less than kind?' returned the other, with
his smile of sad irony.
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