'What is it, Felix?' inquired his master.

The attendant stepped forward, and made known that the lord Marcian
had even now ridden up to the villa, with two followers, and desired
to wait upon Basil. This news brought a joyful light to the eyes of
the young noble; he hastened to welcome his friend, the dearest he
had. Marcian, a year or two his elder, was less favoured by nature
in face and form: tall and vigorous enough of carriage, he showed
more bone and sinew than flesh; and his face might have been that of
a man worn by much fasting, so deep sunk were the eyes, so jutting
the cheek-bones, and so sharp the chin; its cast, too, was that of a
fixed and native melancholy. But when he smiled, these features
became much more pleasing, and revealed a kindliness of temper such
as might win the love of one who knew him well. His dress was plain,
and the dust of Campanian roads lay somewhat thick upon him.

'By Bacchus!' cried his friend, as they embraced each other,
'fortune is good to me to-day. Could I have had but one wish
granted, it would have been to see Marcian. I thought you still in
Rome. What makes you travel? Not in these days solely to visit a
friend, I warrant. By Peter and Paul and as many more saints as you
can remember, I am glad to hold your hand! What news do you bring?'

'Little enough,' answered Marcian, with a shrug of the shoulders.
The natural tune of his voice harmonised with his visage, and he
spoke as one who feels a scornful impatience with the affairs of
men. 'At Rome, they wrangle about goats' wool, as is their wont.
Anything else? Why, yes; the freedman Chrysanthus glories in an
ex-consulate. It cost him the trifle of thirty pounds of gold.'