He knelt, he prayed, his voice breaking upon the stillness with anguish of supplication.

Between him and the celestial vision rose that face which he had at length beheld, a face only the more provocative of sensual rage because of its sweet purity, its flawless truth.

Then he flung himself upon the stones, bruised his limbs, lay at length exhausted, as if lifeless.
No longer could he strengthen himself by the thought of loyalty in friendship; that he had renounced.

Yet he strove to think of Basil, and, in doing so, knew that he still loved him.

For Basil he would do anything, suffer anything, lose anything; but when he imaged Basil with Veranilda, at once his love turned to spleen, a sullen madness possessed him, he hated his friend to the death.
By his own order, two watchmen stood below the stairs which led to Veranilda's chamber.