THE ANICIANS Not many days after, in a still noontide of mellow autumn, Basil and Marcian drew towards Rome.

They rode along the Via Appia, between the tombs of ancient men; all about them, undulant to the far horizon, a brown wilderness dotted with ruins.

Ruins of villas, of farms, of temples, with here and there a church or a monastery that told of the newer time.

Olives in scant patches, a lost vineyard, a speck of tilled soil, proved that men still laboured amid this vast and awful silence, but rarely was a human figure visible.

As they approached the city, marshy ground and stagnant pools lay on either hand, causing them to glance sadly at those great aqueducts, which for ages had brought water into Rome from the hills and now stood idle, cleft by the Goths during the siege four years ago.
They rode in silence, tired with their journey, occupied with heavy or anxious thoughts.