“No, he came in a week or more ago. He is a wanderer, he goes on perpetualpilgrimage, from shrine to shrine as close as in his condition he may. Seventyyears old, he says he is, and I believe him. He will not stay long, I think. Hemakes a stay here because Saint Winifred’s bones rested here in the churchbefore being received into the abbey. There, so close to the town, he may notgo. Here he may.”

Cadfael, who had knowledge of that renowned virgin’s whereabouts which hecould never confide to his innocent friend, scrubbed thoughtfully at his bluntbrown nose, and reflected tranquilly that even from her far-distant grave inGwytherin, Saint Winifred would bestir herself to hear the prayers of a poor,afflicted man.

His eyes followed the tall, erect figure. In the shrouded anonymity of darkcloak and hood, and the cloth veil that hid even the faces of those worstdisfigured, men and women, old and young, seemed to go secretly and alonethrough the remnant of life left to them. No gender, no age, no coloring, no country, no creed: all living ghosts, known only to theirmaker. But no, it was not so. By gait, by voice, by stature, by a thousandinfinitesimal foibles of character and kind that pierced through the disguise,they emerged every one unique. This one in his silence had a dominatingpresence, and in his stillness even under threat a rare and daunting dignity.

“You have talked with him?”

“Yes, but he says little. From his manner of speaking,” said Mark, “I thinklips or tongue must be corrupted. Words come slowly, a little mangled, and hetires soon. But his voice is quiet and deep.”

“What remedies are you using on him?”

“None, for he says he needs none, he carries his own balm. No one here hasseen his face. That is why I think he must be sadly maimed. You’ll have noticedone foot is crippled? He has lost all toes on that one, but for the stump ofthe great toe. He has a special shoe built to give him support, a stable soleto walk on. I think the other foot may also be affected, but not so badly.”