But as the years passed, and Anne’s prayers remained unanswered and the deliverer did not come, her hopes began to fade again. Gradually she reverted to her earlier frame of mind in which all hopes were set upon a reunion with the unknown beloved in the world to come. One evening in the spring of 1594—four years after the name of Sebastian had first passed between the priest and the princess—Frey Miguel was walking down the main street of Madrigal, a village whose every inhabitant was known to him, when he came suddenly face to face with a stranger. A stranger would in any case have drawn his attention, but there was about this man something familiar to the friar, something that stirred in him vague memories of things long forgotten. His garb of shabby black was that of a common townsman, but there was something in his air and glance, his soldierly carriage, and the tilt of his bearded chin, that belied his garb. He bore upon his person the stamp of intrepidity and assurance. Both halted, each staring at the other, a faint smile on the lips of the stranger—who, in the fading light, might have been of any age from thirty to fifty—a puzzled frown upon the brow of the friar. Then the man swept off his broad-brimmed hat. “God save your paternity,” was his greeting. “God save you, my son,” replied Frey Miguel, still pondering him. “I seem to know you. Do I?” The stranger laughed. “Though all the world forget, your paternity should remember me.” And then Frey Miguel sucked in his breath sharply. “My God!” he cried, and set a hand upon the fellow’s shoulder, looking deeply into those bold, grey eyes. “What make you here?” “I am a pastry-cook.” “A pastry-cook? You?” “One must live, and it is a more honest trade than most. I was in Valladolid, when I heard that your paternity was the Vicar of the Convent here, and so for the sake of old times—of happier times—I bethought me that I might claim your paternity’s support.” He spoke with a careless arrogance, half-tinged with mockery. “Assuredly...” began the priest, and then he checked. “Where is your shop?” “Just down the street. Will your paternity honour me?” Frey Miguel bowed, and together they departed. For three days thereafter the convent saw the friar only in the celebration of the Mass. But on the morning of the fourth, he went straight from the sacristy to the parlour, and, despite the early hour, desired to see her Excellency. “Lady,” he told her, “I have great news; news that will rejoice your heart.” She looked at him, and saw the feverish glitter in his sunken eyes, the hectic flush on his prominent cheek-bones. “Don Sebastian lives. I have seen him.”