Anxiously glancing about him, Basil followed his conductor across
the hall and out into a peristyle, its pavement richly tesselated,
and the portico, still elaborately adorned with work in metal and in
marble, giving proof of still greater magnificence in bygone time;
pedestals had lost their statues, and blank spaces on the wall told
of precious panelling torn off. Beyond, they came to a curtained
doorway, where they were detained for some moments by the sentry;
then the curtain was drawn aside, and Basil found himself in the
triclinium of the Flavian palace, now used by the Greek general as
his public reception room. Its size was not much less than that of
the hall of audience; its decoration in the same grandiose style.
Enormous pillars of granite supported the roof; statues stood, or
had stood, all around; the pavement, composed of serpentine,
porphyry, and Numidian marble in many hues, was a superb work of
art. But Basil saw only the human figures before him. In a chair
covered with furs sat a man of middle age, robust,
fair-complexioned, with a keen look in his pale blue eyes and
something of the wolfish about his mouth.
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