“My name?” quoth I, astonished by such a question, and remarking now the intentness and surprise of his own glance. “It is Sebastian,” I answered, and truthfully, for that was the name of my adoption, the name I had taken when I entered upon my hermitage.
“Sebastian of what and where?” quoth he.
He stood before me, his back to the peasant crowd, ignoring them as completely as if they had no existence, supremely master of himself. And meanwhile, the little lady on his arm stole furtive upward glances at me.
“Sebastian of nowhere,” I answered. “Sebastian the hermit, the guardian of this shrine. If you are come to...”
“What was your name in the world?” he interrupted impatiently, and all the time his eyes were devouring my gaunt face.
“The name of a sinner,” answered I. “I have stripped it off and cast it from me.”
An expression of impatience rippled across the white face
“But the name of your father?” he insisted.
“I have none,” answered I. “I have no kin or ties of any sort. I am Sebastian the hermit.”
His lips smacked testily. “Were you baptized Sebastian?” he inquired.