“My name?” quoth I, astonished by such a question, and remarking now the intentness and surprise of his own glance. “It is Sebastian,” I answered, and truthfully, for that was the name of my adoption, the name I had taken when I entered upon my hermitage. “Sebastian of what and where?” quoth he. He stood before me, his back to the peasant crowd, ignoring them as completely as if they had no existence, supremely master of himself. And meanwhile, the little lady on his arm stole furtive upward glances at me. “Sebastian of nowhere,” I answered. “Sebastian the hermit, the guardian of this shrine. If you are come to...” “What was your name in the world?” he interrupted impatiently, and all the time his eyes were devouring my gaunt face. “The name of a sinner,” answered I. “I have stripped it off and cast it from me.” An expression of impatience rippled across the white face “But the name of your father?” he insisted. “I have none,” answered I. “I have no kin or ties of any sort. I am Sebastian the hermit.” His lips smacked testily. “Were you baptized Sebastian?” he inquired. “No,” I answered him. “I took the name when I became the guardian of this shrine.” “And when was that?” “In September of last year, when the holy man who was here before me died.” I saw a sudden light leap to his eyes and a faint smile to his lips. He leaned towards me. “Heard you ever of the name of Anguissola?” he inquired, and watched me closely, his face within a foot of mine. But I did not betray myself, for the question no longer took me by surprise. I was accounted to be very like my father, and that a member of the house of Cavalcanti, with which Giovanni d'Anguissola had been so intimate, should detect the likeness was not unnatural. I was convinced, moreover, that he had been guided thither by merest curiosity at the sight of that crowd of pilgrims. “Sir,” I said, “I know not your intentions; but in all humility let me say that I am not here to answer questions of worldly import. The world has done with me, and I with the world. So that unless you are come hither out of piety for this shrine, I beg that you will depart with God and molest me no further. You come at a singularly inauspicious time, when I need all my strength to forget the world and my sinful past, that through me the will of Heaven may be done here.” I saw the maid's tender eyes raised to my face with a look of great compassion and sweetness whilst I spoke. I observed the pressure which she put on his arm. Whether he gave way to that, or whether it was the sad firmness of my tone that prevailed upon him I cannot say. But he nodded shortly. “Well, well!” he said, and with a final searching look, he turned, the little lady with him, and went clanking off through the lane which the crowd opened out for him.