I met a novice in a long smock. He took me to the guest-rooms of the
monastery, and there, to my joy, I was accommodated with a bed--the
first for many weeks. I was introduced to a very fat and ancient monk
who carried at his belt a bunch of keys. Though very stupid, and, as I
learnt afterwards, quite illiterate, he was the spirit of hospitality.
He kept the larder, and very gladly brought me milk and bread and
cheese, roast beef, wine, and would apparently have brought me
anything I asked for--all "for the love of God": no monastery charges
anything for its hospitality.

After my supper I was glad to stretch my limbs and sleep. I opened my
window and lay for a while looking at the mysterious dark masses of
the cedars and listening to the low sobbing of the waves. In the
monastery buildings I heard the turnings of heavy keys. I slept. Next
morning at sunrise I had breakfast in the refectory, and the abbot
deigned to come in and talk about Pitsoonda. His was an ancient and
beautiful monastery, built by the same hand that erected St. Sophia at
Constantinople, Justinian the First. It was indeed a replica of that
famous building, a fine specimen of Byzantine architecture. It had
changed hands many times, belonging to the Greeks, the Turks, the
Cherkesses, and finally to the Russians. Here formerly stood the
fortified town of Pitius, scarcely a stone of which was now standing,
though many were the weapons and household implements that had been
found by the monks. It was now the scene of the quiet life of twenty
or thirty brethren. No one ever visited them or sought them from
without. Steamers never called--only occasional feluccas came in
bringing Caucasian tribesmen from neighbouring villages, and there was
no carriage-way to any town.

We talked later of present-day matters, the abbot being at once