The deacon of whom you know has left Rome, accompanying the Pope on his journey eastward.

And with him he has taken--' A name was shaped upon the speaker's lips, but whether of purpose, or because his voice failed him, it found no utterance.
'Veranilda ?' As Basil spoke, his eye was caught by the movement of a curtain at the back of the room.

The curtain was pushed aside, and there appeared the figure of a maiden, pale, beautiful.

Marcian did not see her, nor yet did the priest.
'Veranilda ?' repeated Basil, in the same questioning tone.

He leaned forward, his hand upon his wrist.
'She--alas!' was Marcian's reply.
'Liar! traitor! devil!' At each word, Basil's dagger drank blood up to the hilt.