A quiet fell upon the house. The strangers talked little, and,
when they spoke, subdued their voices. In still chambers and
corridors was heard now and then a sound of weeping.
Basil, though he had given orders for departure as soon as the meal
was done, knew not whither his journey should be directed. A
paralysis of thought and will kept him pacing alone in the
courtyard; food he could not touch; of repose he was incapable; and
though he constantly lifted up his bloodstained hand, to gaze at it
as if in bewildered horror, he did not even think of washing the
blood away. At moments he lost consciousness of what he had done,
his mind straying to things remote; then the present came back upon
him with a shock, seeming, however, to strike on numbed senses, so
that he had to say to himself, 'I have slain Marcian,' before he
could fully understand his suffering.
Veranilda was now scarce present to his mind at all. Something
vaguely outlined hovered in the background; something he durst not
look at or think about; the sole thing in the world that had reality
for him was the image of Marcian--stabbed, shrieking, falling,
dead.
Pages:
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448