What I want
to discover is whether this Syrian has lied to me. He declares that
he left Marcian in Rome. Now it happens that some of our men, who
were sent for a certain purpose, yesterday, along the Latin Way,
came across half a dozen horsemen, riding westward, and as their
duty was, learnt all they could from them. These six fellows
declared themselves servants of the bishop of Praeneste, and said
that they had just been convoying a Roman noble and a lady to a
villa not far from Arpinum. And the noble's name--they had it,
said they, from his own servants at the villa, where they had passed
a night--was Marcian.'
Basil stared; he had gone pale again and haggard.
'What lady was with him?' he asked, under his breath.
'That I cannot tell you. The bishop's men knew nothing about her,
and had not seen her face. But'--Venantius smiled--'they left
her safely housed with our friend Marcian. How comes this Syrian to
say that his master is at Rome? Does he lie? Or did the horsemen
lie? Or are there, perchance, two Marcians?'
'I must speak with him,' said Basil.
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