'
Veranilda threw back the long veil, and stood looking at him.
'Eyes red with weeping,' he exclaimed, 'and for whom? If you were
true to me, would you not rejoice that I had slain my enemy? You say
you were joyful in the thought of seeing me again? You see me--and
with what countenance?'
'I see not Basil,' she murmured, her hands upon her breast.
'You see a false lover, an ignoble traitor--the Basil shown you by
Marcian. What would it avail me to speak in my own defence? His
voice is in your ears, its lightest tone outweighing my most solemn
oath. "Oh, that he were alive!" That is all you find to say to me.'
'I know you not,' sobbed Veranilda. 'Alas, I know you not!'
'Nor I you. I dreamt of a Veranilda who loved so purely and so
constantly that not a thousand slanderers could have touched her
heart with a shadow of mistrust. But who are you--you whom the
first gross lie of a man lusting for your beauty utterly estranges
from your faith? Who are you--who wail for the liar's death, and
shrink in horror from the hand that slew him? I ever heard that the
daughters of the Goths were chaste and true and fearless.
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