¡¡Again
Vivian
rolled
on
the
cushions
in
mirth,
until
he
caught
Basil’s
eye
as
it
glanced
at
him
with
infinite
scorn.
Then
he
started
to
a
sitting
posture,
fingered
the
handle
of
his
dagger,
and
glared
at
Heliodora’s
neighbour
with
all
the
insolent
ferocity
of
which
his
face
was
capable.
This
youth
was
the
son
of
a
man
whose
name
sounded
ill
to
any
Roman
patriot,—of
that
Opilio,
who,
having
advanced
to
high
rank
under
King
Theodoric,
was
guilty
of
frauds,
fell
from
his
eminence,
and,
in
hope
of
regaining
the
king’s
favour,
forged
evidence
of
treachery
against
Boethius.
His
attire
followed
the
latest
model
from
Byzantium:
a
loose,
long-sleeved
tunic,
descending
to
the
feet,
its
hue
a
dark
yellow,
and
over
that
a
long
mantle
of
white
silk,
held
together
upon
one
shoulder
by
a
great
silver
buckle
in
the
form
of
a
running
horse;
silken
shoes,
gold
embroidered,
with
leather
soles
dyed
purple;
and
on
each
wrist
a
bracelet.
His
black
hair
was
short,
and
crisped
into
multitudinous
curls
with
a
narrow
band
of
gold
pressing
it
from
the
forehead
to
the
ears.
‘Since when you have conversed, I take it, freely enough.’
Hand on dagger, and eyes glaring, the young noble had sprung to his feet. Marcian did not stir; his head was slightly bent, and a sad smile hovered about his lips.
‘Not so,’ replied Gaudiosus. ‘Of you she said no evil.’
By his apparel, he might have been mistaken for a noble.
‘If I knew that she has gone!’ cried Basil wretchedly. ‘If I knew!’