With acclamations and good
wishes, the crowd saw Marcian and his train set forth along the road
over the hills; before the sun had shed its first beam into the
westward valley, they had lost sight of Aletrium.
Not a word of the perils escaped had been allowed to reach
Veranilda's ear; exhausted by her journeying and her emotions, she
had slept soundly through the whole night, and this morning, when
Marcian told her how near was their destination, she laughed
light-heartedly as a child. But not yet had he looked upon her
countenance. At Aletrium he might have done so had he willed, but he
withheld himself as if from a dread temptation.
Never had he known such tremours of cowardliness as on this ride
over the hills. He strained his eyes in every direction, and
constantly imagined an enemy where there was none. The brigands, as
he found by inquiry of labouring peasants, had not even passed this
way. He would not halt, though the heat of the sun grew terrible. At
length, when exhaustion threatened men and beasts, they surmounted a
ridge, issued from a forest of chestnut-trees, and all at once, but
a little way below them, saw the gleam of the river Liris.
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