And Marcian lived through the day he knew not how. It was a day of burning sunshine, of heat scarce tolerable even in places the most sheltered. Clad only in a loose tunic, bare-armed, bare-footed, he lay or sauntered wherever shade was dense, as far as possible from the part of the villa consecrated to his guest. Hour after hour crawled by, an eternity of distressful idleness. And, even while wishing for the dayâ€™s end, he dreaded the coming of the night.
As she heard him, Veranilda trembled with joy. She caught his hand, and bent over it, and kissed it.
â€˜No,â€™ answered Basil, his voice subdued. â€˜A Goth; and, she says, of the royal blood, of the line of Theodoric.â€™
Basilâ€™s head drooped.