It would have been idle indeed to seek
to learn from Pelagius whether Veranilda had already left Italy, his
tone was that of omniscience, but his brow altogether forbade
interrogation. Basil, in despair, ventured one inquiry. If he
desired to go to Byzantium, could he obtain leave of departure from
the Greek commandant, under whose ban he lay? The reply was
unhesitating; at any moment, permission could be granted. Therewith
the conversation came to an end, and Basil, hating the face of man,
stole away into solitude.
Entering his own house, he learnt that Marcian was within. For a
month they had not seen each other, Marcian having been absent on
missions of the wonted double tenor; they met affectionately as
ever, then Basil flung himself down, like one crushed by sudden
calamity.
'What now?' asked his friend, with a rallying rather than a
sympathetic air.
'No matter,' Basil replied. 'You are weary of my troubles, and I can
no longer talk of them.'
'What troubles? The old story still? I thought you had found
solace?'
Basil looked an indignant wonder.
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