And, even while
wishing for the day's end, he dreaded the coming of the night.
It came; the silent, lonely night, the warm, perfumed night, the
season of fierce temptations, of dreadful opportunity. Never had the
passionate soul of Marcian been so manifestly lured by the Evil One,
never had it fought so desperately in the strength of religious
hopes and fears. He knelt, he prayed, his voice breaking upon the
stillness with anguish of supplication. Between him and the
celestial vision rose that face which he had at length beheld, a
face only the more provocative of sensual rage because of its sweet
purity, its flawless truth. Then he flung himself upon the stones,
bruised his limbs, lay at length exhausted, as if lifeless.
No longer could he strengthen himself by the thought of loyalty in
friendship; that he had renounced. Yet he strove to think of Basil,
and, in doing so, knew that he still loved him. For Basil he would
do anything, suffer anything, lose anything; but when he imaged
Basil with Veranilda, at once his love turned to spleen, a sullen
madness possessed him, he hated his friend to the death.
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