'My love is my
life. Having lost Veranilda, I have lost myself; without her I can
do nothing. Were she dead I could fling myself into the struggle
with our enemies, all the fiercer because I should care not whether
I lived or died; but to lose her thus, to know that she may be in
Rome, longing for me as I for her--to think that we may never hold
each other's hands again--oh, it tears my heart, and makes me weak
as a child. You cannot understand me; you have never loved!'
'May such knowledge be far from me!' said Marcian, with unwonted
vehemence. 'Do you feel no shame in being so subdued to the flesh?'
'Shame? Shame in the thought that I love Veranilda?'
Marcian seemed to make an effort to control a passion that wrought
in him; he was paler than of wont, and, instead of the familiar
irony, a cold, if not cruel, austerity appeared in his eyes and on
his lips. He shunned Basil's astonished gaze.
'Let us not speak of this,' broke from him impatiently. 'You
understand me as little as I you. Forgive me, Basil--I have been
talking idly--I scarce know what I said.
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