'A certain Marcus Tullius, in one of his letters,' replied the
other, smiling, and returned to his own couch.
Basil moved uneasily, sighed, and at length spoke in a serious tone.
'I understand you, best Decius. You are right. Many a time I have
used to myself almost those very words. When I was young--how old
I feel!--I looked forward to a life full of achievements. I felt
capable of great things. But in our time, what can we do, we who are
born Romans, yet have never learnt to lead an army or to govern a
state?'
He let his arm fall despondently, and sank again into brooding
silence.
At root, Basil's was a healthy and vigorous nature. Sound of body,
he needed to put forth his physical energies, yet had never found
more scope for them than in the exercise of the gymnasium, or the
fatigue of travel; mentally well-balanced, he would have made an
excellent administrator, such as his line had furnished in
profusion, but that career was no longer open. Of Marcian's ascetic
gloom he knew nothing: not all the misery he had undergone in these
last six months could so warp his wholesome instincts.
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