'Have no fear,' he whispered eagerly. 'It is freedom that awaits
you. I am Marcian--Marcian, the friend of Basil.'
There sounded a low cry of joy; then the two names were repeated,
his and that of his friend, and again Marcian quivered.
'You will be no more afraid?' he said, as though laughingly.
'Oh no! The Blessed Virgin be thanked!'
An owl's long hoot wailed through the stillness, seeming to fill
with its infinite melancholy the great vault of moonlit heaven. In
Marcian it produced a sudden, unaccountable fear. Leaping on to his
horse, he cursed the driver for slowness. Another minute, and they
were speeding onward.
Marcian watched anxiously the course of the silver orb above them.
When it began to descend seaward, the animals were showing signs of
weariness; before daybreak he must perforce call a halt. In
conversation with the leader of his guard, he told the reason of
their hasting on by night (known already to the horseman, a trusted
follower of the Bishop of Praeneste), and at length announced his
resolve to turn off the Latin Way into the mountains, with the view
of gaining the little town Aletrium, whence, he explained, they
could cross the hills to the valley of the Liris, and so descend
again to the main road.
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