ted floor and
plain oak furniture.

"You would like some polenta?" he said, as the wearied man sank into one
of the wooden chairs with an air of complete exhaustion. "Or some of our
good red wine? I will see about it directly. The signor can repose here
until I return; I will fetch one of the Reverend Fathers by-and-bye, but
they are all at Benediction at this moment."

"I want to see Brother Dino," said the stranger, lifting his head. And
then the porter changed his mind about the station of the visitor.

That slightly imperious tone, the impatient glance of the dark eye, the
unmistakably foreign accent, convinced him that he had to do with one of
the tourists--English or American signori--who occasionally paid a visit
to San Stefano. The porter himself was a lay-brother, and prided himself
on his knowledge of the world. He answered courteously that Brother Dino
should be informed, and then withdrew to provide the refreshment of
which the stranger evidently stood in need.

Brother Dino was not long in coming. He entered quickly, with a look of
subdued expectation upon his face. A flash of joy and recognition leaped
into his eyes as he beheld the wayworn figure in one of the antique
carved oak chairs. His hands, which had been crossed and hidden in the
wide sleeves of the habit that he wore, went out to the stranger with a
gesture of welcome and delight.

"Mr. Luttrell!" he exclaimed. "You are here already at San Stefano! We
shall welcome you warmly, Mr. Luttrell!"

The name seemed wonderfully familiar to his tongue. Brian, who had
risen, held out his hands also, and the young monk caught them in his
own; but Brian's gesture was an involuntary one, conveying more of
apprehension than of greeting.

"Not that name," he said, breathlessly. "Call me by any other that you
please, but not that. Brian Luttrell is dead."

Brother Dino shivered slightly, as if a cold breath of air had passed
through the ill-lighted room, but he held Brian's hands with a still
warmer pressure, and looked steadily into his haggard, hollow eyes.

"What shall I call you, then, my brother?" he said, gently.

"I have thought of a name," replied Brian, in curiously uncertain,
faltering tones; "it will harm nobody to take it, because he is dead,
too. Remember, my name is Stretton--John Stretton, an Englishman--and a
beggar."

Therewith he loosed his hands from Brother Dino's clasp, uttered a short
laugh--it was a moan rather than a laugh, h