By his own order, two watchmen stood below the stairs which led to
Veranilda's chamber. Nigh upon midnight he walked in that direction,
walked in barefooted stealth, listening for a movement, a voice.
Nearer and nearer he approached, till he saw at length the ray of a
lantern; but no step, no murmur, told of wakeful guard. Trembling as
though with cold, though sweat streamed over his body, he strode
forward; there, propped against the wall, sat the two slaves fast
asleep. Marcian glanced at the stairs; his face in the dim lantern
light was that of a devil. All of a sudden one of the men started,
and opened his eyes. Thereupon Marcian caught up a staff that lay
beside them, and began to belabour them both with savage blows.
Fiercely, frantically, he plied his weapon, until the delinquents,
who had fallen to their knees before him, roared for mercy.
'Let me find you sleeping again,' he said in a low voice, 'and your
eyes shall be burnt out.'
He stole away into the darkness, and the men whispered to each other
that he had gone mad. For Marcian was notably humane with his
slaves, never having been known even to inflict a whipping.
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