Something else thou hast been,—something far different.”
The pilgrim rose, and stood with bended head. The Pope laid his hand upon the red blond hair. “It doth seem, my son, as if a crown had rested here, and in thy hand a sceptre was held, even as thou dost now grasp thy pilgrim’s staff.” He looked down at the sandalled feet. “Thou hast trodden on the battlefield, and mastered the deck of the war-ship. Thou hast worn armor, and carried a strong sword at thy side. Who art thou?”
The pilgrim gazed beseechingly at the Pontiff, then kneeling down again, he said imploringly:
“No other name have I now, Holy Father, no other place, but that of a humble pilgrim to the Tomb of my Saviour. I would crave thy leave to bury all my life, to let it sink in death and defeat under the waves of the deep sea. I have worn a crown, I have borne a sceptre. Aye, I have won battles on sea and land, and my sword was swift to conquer. I have ruled—a king! But now, Holy Father, when I have whispered once my name, thou wilt let it die as I would have it die in the silence of the desert.”
The pilgrim rose again, and without lifting his eyes he leaned forward, and spoke his name in an undertone, full of sadness.
The Pontiff started with surprise. “It hath been rumored, my son, that thou wert dead, drowned after thy defeat.”
