"I shall perhaps meet you again, then?" said Brian. "I am perhaps going to Italy myself."
The young man smiled and shook his head. "You are scarcely likely to encounter me, monsieur," he answered. "I shall be busy amongst the poor and sick, or at work within the monastery. I shall remember you—but I do not think that we shall meet again."
"By what name should I ask for you if I came across any of your order?" said Brian.
"I am generally known as Dino Vasari, or Brother Dino, at your service, monsieur," replied the Italian, cheerfully. "If, in your goodness, you wished to inquire after me, you should ask at the monastery of San Stefano, where I spend a few weeks every year in retreat. The Prior, Father Cristoforo, is an old friend of mine, and he will always welcome you if you should pass that way. There is good sleeping accommodation for visitors."
Brian took the trouble to make an entry in his note-book to this effect. It turned out to 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.