Basil sprang on to his horse, beckoned his troop, and rode forward.
CHAPTER XXII
DOOM
When Marcian parted from Veranilda in the peristyle, and watched her
as she ascended to her chamber, he knew that sombre exultation which
follows upon triumph in evil. Hesitancies were now at end; no longer
could he be distracted between two desires. In his eye, as it
pursued the beauty for which he had damned himself, glowed the fire
of an unholy joy. Not without inner detriment had Marcian accustomed
himself for years to wear a double face; though his purpose had been
pure, the habit of assiduous perfidy, of elaborate falsehood, could
not leave his soul untainted. A traitor now for his own ends, he
found himself moving in no unfamiliar element, and, the irrevocable
words once uttered, he thrilled with defiance of rebuke. All the
persistency of the man centred itself upon the achievement of this
crime, to him a crime no longer from the instant that he had
irreversibly willed it.
On fire to his finger-tips, he could yet reason with the coldest
clarity of thought.
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