For most of his knowledge of private things that happened on the Palatine—and little that went on in the household of Bessas escaped him—Marcian depended upon his servant Sagaris. Exorbitant vanity and vagrant loves made the Syrian rather a dangerous agent; but it was largely owing to these weaknesses that he proved so serviceable. His master had hitherto found him faithful, and no one could have worked more cunningly and persistently when set to play the spy or worm for secrets. Notwithstanding all his efforts, this man failed to discover whether Veranilda had indeed passed into the guardianship of Bessas; good reason in Marcian’s view for believing that she was still detained by Leander, and probably in some convent. But a rumour sprang up among those who still took interest in the matter that some one writing from Sicily professed to have seen the Gothic maiden on board a vessel which touched there on its way to the East. This came to the ears of Marcian on the day after his conversation with Heliodora. Whether it were true or not he cared little, but he was disturbed by its having become subject of talk at this moment, for Heliodora could not fail to hear the story.

The death of Muscula set him quivering with expectancy. That it resulted from his plotting he could not be assured. Sagaris, who wore a more than usually self-important air when speaking of the event, had all manner of inconsistent reports on his tongue Not many days passed before Marcian received a letter, worded like an ordinary invitation, summoning him to the house on the Quirinal.

He went at the third hour of the morning, and was this time led upstairs to a long and wide gallery, which at one side looked down upon the garden in the rear of the house, and at the other offered a view over a great part of Rome. Here was an aviary, constructed of fine lattice work in wood, over-trailed with creeping plants, large enough to allow of Heliodora’s entering and walking about among the multitude of birds imprisoned. At this amusement Marcian found her. Upon her head perched a little songster; on her shoulder nestled a dove; two fledglings in the palm of her hand opened their beaks for food. Since her last visit a bird had died, and Heliodora’s eyes were still moist from the tears she had shed over it.

‘You do not love birds,’ she said, after gazing fixedly at Marcian a moment through the trellis.

‘I never thought,’ was the reply, ‘whether I loved them or not.’

‘I had rather give my love to them than to any of mankind. They repay it better.’

She came forth, carefully closed the wicket behind her, and began to pace in the gallery as though she were alone. Presently she stood to gaze over the city spread before her, and her eyes rested upon the one vast building—so it seemed—which covered the Palatine Hill.

‘Marcian!’

He drew near. Without looking at him, her eyes still on the distance, she said in an unimpassioned voice:

‘Did you lie to me, or were you yourself deceived?’

‘Lady, I know not of what you speak.’

‘You know well.’ Her dark eyes flashed a glance of rebuke, and turned scornfully away again. ‘But it matters nothing. I sent for you to ask what more you have to say.’

Marcian affected surprise and embarrassment.

‘It was my hope, gracious lady, that some good news awaited me on your lips. What can I say more than you have already heard from me?’

‘Be it so,’ was the careless reply. ‘I have nothing to tell you except that Veranilda is not there.’ She pointed towards the palace. ‘And this I have no doubt you know.’

‘Believe me, O Heliodora,’ he exclaimed earnestly, ‘I did not. I was perhaps misled by—’

Her eyes checked him.

‘By whom?’

‘By one who seemed to speak with honesty and assurance.’

‘Let us say, then, that you were misled; whether deceived or not, concerns only yourself. And so, lord Marcian, having done what I can for you, though it be little, I entreat your kind remembrance, and God keep you.’

Her manner had changed to formal courtesy, and, with this dismissal, she moved away again. Marcian stood watching her for a moment, then turned to look at the wide prospect. A minute or two passed; he heard Heliodora’s step approaching.

‘What keeps you here?’ she asked coldly.

‘Lady, I am thinking.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of the day soon to come when Totila will be king in Rome.’

Heliodora’s countenance relaxed in a smile.

‘Yet you had nothing more to say to me,’ she murmured in a significant tone.

‘There were much to say, Heliodora, to one whom I knew my friend. I had dared to think you so.’

‘What proof of friendship does your Amiability ask?’ inquired the lady with a half-mocking, half-earnest look.

As if murmuring to himself, Marcian uttered the name ‘Veranilda.’

‘They say she is far on the way to Constantinople,’ said Heliodora. ‘If so, and if Bessas sent her, his craft is greater than I thought. For I have spoken with him, and’—she smiled—‘he seems sincere when he denied all knowledge of the maiden.’

Marcian still gazed at the distance. Again he spoke as if unconsciously murmuring his thoughts:

‘Totila advances. In Campania but a few towns still await his conquest. The Appian Way is open. Ere summer be past he will stand at the gates of Rome.’

‘Rome is not easily taken,’ let fall the listener, also speaking as though absently.

‘It is more easily surrendered,’ was the reply.

‘What! You suspect Bessas of treachery?’

‘We know him indolent and neglectful of duty. Does he not live here at his ease, getting into his own hands, little by little, all the wealth of the Romans, careless of what befall if only he may glut his avarice? He will hold the city as long as may be, only because the city is his possession. He is obstinate, bull-headed. Yet if one were found who could persuade him that the cause of the Greeks is hopeless—that, by holding out to the end, he will merely lose all, whereas, if he came to terms—’

Marcian was watching Heliodora’s face. He paused. Their eyes met for an instant.

‘Who can be assured,’ asked Heliodora thoughtfully, ‘that Totila will triumph? They say the Patricius will come again.’

‘Too late. Not even Belisarius can undo the work of Alexandros and these devouring captains. From end to end of Italy, the name of the Greeks is abhorred; that of Totila is held in honour. He will renew the kingdom of Theodoric.’

Marcian saw straight before him the aim of all his intrigue. It was an aim unselfish, patriotic. Though peril of the gravest lay in every word he uttered, not this made him tremble, but the fear lest he had miscalculated, counting too securely on his power to excite this woman’s imagination. For as yet her eye did not kindle. It might be that she distrusted herself, having learnt already that Bessas was no easy conquest. Or it might be that he himself was the subject of her distrust.

‘What is it to you?’ she suddenly asked, with a fierce gaze. ‘Can the Goth bring Veranilda back to Italy?’

‘I do not believe that she has gone.’

Marcian had knowledge enough of women, and of Heliodora, to harp on a personal desire rather than hint at high motive. But he was impelled by the turmoil of his fears and hopes to excite passions larger than jealousy. Throwing off all restraint, he spoke with hot eloquence of all that might be gained by one who could persuade the Greek commander to open the gates of Rome. Totila was renowned for his generosity, and desired above all things to reconcile, rather than subdue, the Roman people; scarce any reward would seem to him too great for service such as helped this end.

‘Bessas lies before you. Ply your spells; make of him your creature; then whisper in his ear such promise of infinite gold as will make his liver melt. For him the baser guerdon; for you, O Heliodora, all the wishes of your noble heart, with power, power, power and glory unspeakable!’

Heliodora pondered. Then, without raising her head, she asked quietly:

‘You speak for the King?’

‘For the King,’ was answered in like tone.

‘Come to me a............