"Did he foretell that which was to happen?" Theodora spoke at last.
"To the hour!"
"And yet—forewarned—"
"Marozia, grown desperate in the hatred of her lord, derided his warnings."
"It was her Fate. Tell me more!"
"He has visited every land under the sun. From Thulé to Cathay his fame is known. Strange tales are told of him. No one knows his age. He seems to have lived always. As he appears now he hath ever been. They say he has been seen in places thousand leagues apart at the same time. Sometimes he disappears and is not heard of for months. But—whoever he may be—whatever he may be engaged in—at the stroke of midnight that he must suspend. Then his body turns rigid as a corpse, bereft of animation, and his spirit is withdrawn into realms we dare not even dream of. At the first hour of the morning life will slowly return. But no one has yet dared to question him, where he has spent those dread hours."
Theodora had listened to Persephoné's tale with a strange new interest.
"How long has this Hormazd—or whatever his name—resided in Rome?" she turned to the Circassian.
"I met him first on the night on which the lady Marozia summoned him to the summit of the Emperor's Tomb. There he abode with her for hours, engaged in some unholy incantation and at last conjured up such a tempest over the Seven Hills, as the city of Rome had not experienced since it was founded by the man from Troy—"
Persephoné's historical deficiency went hand in hand with a superstition characteristic of the age, and evoked no comment from one perchance hardly better informed with regard to the past.