Marcian had now put off all irresolution.

He gave orders to his guard; as soon as the horses had sufficiently rested, they would push on for Aletrium, and there pass the night.

The start was made some two hours after noon.
Riding once more beside the carriage, Marcian felt his heart light: passions and fears were all forgotten; the sun flaming amid the pale blue sky, the violet shadows of the mountains, the voice of cicadas made rapture to his senses.

It was as though Veranilda's beauty, not even yet beheld, rayed something of itself upon all the visible world.
Never had a summer's day shone so gloriously for him; never had he so marked the hues of height and hollow, the shape of hills, the winding of a stream.

Where an ascent made the pace slow, he alighted, walked by the vehicle, and exchanged a few words with her who sat behind the curtain.
At length Aletrium came in view, a little town in a strong position on the mountain side, its walls and citadel built in old time, long unused for defence, but resisting ages with their cyclopean force.