"How came he to discover me?"
"Yes--Fra Gervasio is his name," replied the priest.
"Where is he now?" I asked.
"I think he is here."
In that moment I caught the sound of approaching steps. The door opened,
and before me stood the tall figure of my best friend, his eyes all
eagerness, his pale face flushed with joyous excitement.
I smiled my welcome.
"Agostino! Agostino!" he cried, and ran to kneel beside me and take my
hand in his. "0, blessed be God!" he murmured.
In the doorway stood now another man, who had followed him--one whose face
I had seen somewhere yet could not at first remember where. He was very
tall, so that he was forced to stoop to avoid the lintel of the low
door--as tall as Gervasio or myself--and the tanned face was bearded by a
heavy brown beard in which a few strands of grey were showing. Across his
face there ran the hideous livid scar of a blow that must have crushed the
bridge of his nose. It began just under the left eye, and crossed the face
downwards until it was lost in the beard on the right side almost in line
with the mouth. Yet, notwithstanding that disfigurement, he still
possessed a certain beauty, and the deep-set, clear, grey-blue eyes were
the eyes of a brave and kindly man.
He wore a leather jerkin and great thigh-boots of grey leather, and from
his girdle of hammered steel hung a dagger and the empty carriages of a
sword.
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