drew himself up facing the sun, and rubbed his eyes before he looked
toward the party at the other table. When he saw them, he hesitated for
a moment, and then came up to Gilbert with the apparent intention of
addressing him.

Above the height of average men, the figure looked unnaturally tall by
its gauntness, and the heavy folds of the grey woollen frock fell
together below the breast as if they covered a shadow. Long, bony
hands, that seemed woven of sinews and leather, but which were not
without a certain nervous refinement, hung from loose-jointed brown
wrists left bare by sleeves that were too short. The head was so
roughly angular that even the thick masses of dark brown hair which
fell to the shoulders could not make the angles seem like curves, and
the face displayed the fervent features of a fanatic--dark, hollow
cheeks, deep-sunk, blazing eyes, the vast lines of an ascetic mouth, a
great jaw scarcely fringed by the scant black beard. Gilbert saw before
him a face and figure that might have belonged to a hermit of Egypt, an
ascetic of the Syrian desert, a John the Baptist, an Anthony of Thebes.
The man wore a broad leathern girdle; a blackened rosary, with beads as
large as walnuts, hung from his side and ended in a rough cross of
wrought iron.

Gilbert half rose from his seat, moved to one end of the short bench,
and invited the stranger to sit beside him. The monk bent his head
slightly, but not a feature moved as he took the proffered place in
silence. He folded his great hands on the edge of the rough-hewn board
and stared at the ruinous brown city to southward.

"You are a stranger," he said in Provencal, after a long pause and in a
singularly musical voice, but without turning his eyes to Gilbert.