Basil and Decius paced together a garden alley, between a row of
quince-trees and a hedge of Christ's-thorn; at one end was a
fountain in a great basin of porphyry, at the other a little temple,
very old and built for the worship of Isis, now an oratory under the
invocation of the Blessed Mary. The two young men made a singular
contrast, for Basil, who was in his twenty-third year, had all the
traits of health and vigour: a straight back, lithe limbs, a face
looking level on the world, a lustrous eye often touched to ardour,
a cheek of the purest carnation, a mouth that told of fine
instincts, delicate sensibilities, love of laughter. No less did his
costume differ from the student's huddled garb; his tunic was finely
embroidered in many hues, his silken cloak had a great buckle of
gold on the shoulder; he wore ornate shoes, and by his waist hung a
silver-handled dagger in a sheath of chased bronze. He stepped
lightly, as one who asks but the occasion to run and leap. In their
intimate talk, he threw an arm over his companion's neck, a movement
graceful as it was affectionate; his voice had a note frank and
cordial.

Yet Basil was not quite his familiar self to-day; he talked with
less than his natural gaiety, wore a musing look, fell into
silences. Now that Aurelia had come, there was no motive for reserve
on that subject with Decius, and indeed they conversed of their
kinswoman with perfect openness, pitying rather than condemning her,
and wondering what would result from her presence under one roof
with the rigid Petronilla. Not on Aurelia's account did Basil droop
his head now and then, look about him vacantly, bite his lip, answer
a question at hazard, play nervously with his dagger's hilt. All at