'I fear it may be longer,' replied Marcian.
He heard his own accents as those of another man. He, his very self,
willed the utterance of certain words, kind, hopeful, honest; but
something else within him commanded his tongue, and, ere he knew it,
he had added:
'You have never thought that Basil might forget you?'
Veranilda quivered as though she had been struck.
'Why do you again ask me that question?' she said gently, but no
longer timidly. 'Why do you look at me so? Surely,' her voice sank,
'you could not have let me feel so happy if Basil were dead?'
'He lives.'
'Then why do you look so strangely at me? Ah, he is a prisoner?'
'Not so. No man's liberty is less in danger.'
She clasped her hands before her. 'You make me suffer. I was so
light of heart, and now--your eyes, your silence. Oh, speak, lord
Marcian!'
'I have hidden the truth so long because I knew not how to utter it.
Veranilda, Basil is false to you.'
Her hands fell; her eyes grew wider in wonder. She seemed not to
understand what she had heard, and to be troubled by incomprehension
rather than by a shock of pain.
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