be a singularly useful one. As they were reaching Mainz
something prompted Brian to ask a question. "Why did you speak to me
this afternoon?" he said, the morbid suspiciousness of a man who is sick
in mind as well as body returning full upon him. "You do not know me?"

"No, monsieur, I do not know you." The ecclesiastic's pale brow flushed;
he even looked embarrassed. "Monsieur," he said at last, "you had the
appearance--you will pardon my saying so--of one who was either ill or
bore about with him some unspoken trouble; it is the privilege of the
Order to which I hope one day to belong to offer help when help is
needed; and for a moment I hoped it might be my special privilege to
give some help to you."

"Why did you think so?" Brian asked, hastily. "You did not know my
name?"

The Italian cast down his eyes. "Yes, monsieur," he said in a low tone,
"I did know your name."

Brian started up. He did not stop to weigh probabilities; he forgot how
little likely a young foreign seminarist would be to hear news of an
accident in Scotland; he felt foolishly certain that his name--as that
of the man who had killed his brother--must be known to all the world!
It was the wildest possible delusion, such as could occur only to a man
whose mind was off its balance--and even he could not retain it for more
than a minute or two; but in that space of time he uttered a few wild
words, which caused the young monk to raise his dark eyes to his face
with a look of sorrowful compassion.

"Does everyone know my wretched story, then? Do I carry a mark about
with me--like Cain?" Brian cried aloud.

"I know nothing of your story, monsieur," said Brother Dino, as he
called himself, after a little pause, "When I said that I knew your
name, I should more properly have said the name of your family. A
gentleman of your name once visited the little town where I was brought
up." He paused again and added gently, "I have peculiar reasons for
remembering him. He was very good to a member of my family."

Brian had recovered his self-possession before the end of the young
priest's speech, and was heartily ashamed of his own weakness.

"I beg your pardon," he said, sinking back into his seat with an air of
weariness and discouragement that would have touched the heart of a
tender-natured man, such as was Brother Dino of San Stefano. "I must be
an utter fool to have spoken as I did. You knew my father, did you? That
must be long ago."

"Many yea