"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.
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