'None.'
Her accent did not satisfy him; it seemed to falter.
'Was nothing said,' he urged, 'to make credible so black an untruth?'
Veranilda stood motionless and silent.
'Speak, I beseech you!' cried Basil, his hands clasped upon his breast. 'Something there is which shadows your faith in my sincerity. God knows, I have no right to question you thus—I, who let my heart be poisoned against you by a breath, a nothing. Rebuke me as you will; call me by the name I merit; utter all the disdain you must needs feel for a man so weak and false—'
His speech was checked upon that word. Veranilda had arrested him with a sudden look, a look of pain, of fear.
'False?' fell from her lips.
'Can you forget it, O Veranilda? Would that I could!'
'In your anger,' she said, 'as when perchance you were already distraught with fever, you spoke I know not what. Therein you were not false to me.'
'False to myself; I should have said. To you, never, never! False to my faith in you, false to my own heart which knew you faithful; but false as men are called who—'