Against his burning palm, her hand was cool as a lily leaf. He did not release it, though he knew that his peril from that maidenly touch was greater far than hers from the gulf before them. Veranilda, accepting his protection with the thoughtlessness of a child, leaned forward, uttering her wonder and her admiration. He, the while, watched her lips, fed his eyes upon her cheek, her neck, the golden ripples of her hair. At length she gently offered to draw her hand away. A frenzy urged him to resist, but madness yielded to cunning, and he released her.
'Of course Basil has been here,' she was saying.
'Never.'
'Never? Oh, the joy of showing him this when he comes! Lord Marcian, you do not think it will be long?'
Her eyes seemed as though they would read in the depth of his; again the look of troubled wonder rose to her countenance.
'It will not be more than a few days?' she added, in a timid undertone, scarce audible upon the water's deeper note.
'I fear it may be longer,' replied Marcian.
He heard his own accents as those of another man. He, his very self, willed the utterance of certain words, kind, hopeful, honest; but something else within him commanded his tongue, and, ere he knew it, he had added:
'You have never thought that Basil might forget you?'
Veranilda quivered as though she had been struck.