He turned. Veranilda had risen
and drawn near.
'Basil! You know not what you say.'
'Nor what I _could_ say,' he replied, his eyes blazing with scorn.
'You, who were truth itself have you so well learned to lie? Talk
on. Tell me that he held you here perforce, and that you passed the
days and the nights in weeping. Have I not heard of your smiles and
your contentment? Whither did you stray this morning? Did you go
into the wood to say your orisons?'
Veranilda turned to the priest.
'Servant of God I Hear me, unhappy that I am!'
With a gesture of entreaty she flung out her hands, and, in doing
so, saw that one of them was red. Her woebegone look changed to
terror.
'What is this? His blood is upon me--on my hand, my garment. When
did I touch him? Holy father, whither has he gone? Does he live? Oh,
tell me if he lives!'
'Come hence with me,' said Gaudiosus. 'Come where I may hear you
utter the truth before God.'
But Veranilda was as one distraught. She threw herself on to her
knees.
'Tell me he lives. He is but sorely hurt? He can speak? Whither have
they carried him?'
Confirmed in his damning thought by every syllable she uttered,
Basil strode away.
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