"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."