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.

Every minute was the fearful scene re-enacted.