'Veranilda?'
As Basil spoke, his eye was caught by the movement of a curtain at
the back of the room. The curtain was pushed aside, and there
appeared the figure of a maiden, pale, beautiful. Marcian did not
see her, nor yet did the priest.
'Veranilda?' repeated Basil, in the same questioning tone. He leaned
forward, his hand upon his wrist.
'She--alas!' was Marcian's reply.
'Liar! traitor! devil!'
At each word, Basil's dagger drank blood up to the hilt. With his
furious voice blended a yell of terror, of agony, a faint cry of
horror from Gaudiosus, and a woman's scream. Then came silence.
The priest dropped to his knees by Marcian's prostrate form. Basil,
the stained weapon in his crimson hand, stared at Veranilda, who
also had fallen.
'Man! What hast thou done?' gasped Gaudiosus.
The trembling, senile tones wakened Basil as if from a trance. He
thrust his dagger into its sheath, stepped to the back of the room,
and bent over the white loveliness that lay still.
'Is it death?' he murmured.
'Death! death!' answered the priest, who had just heard Marcian's
last sob.
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