a pine-tree exactly opposite, there came out noiselessly, without
the slightest rustle, a man of medium height with uncovered grey
head, all in black, and barefooted like a beggar, and his black
eyebrows stood out conspicuously on his pale, death-like face.
Nodding his head graciously, this beggar or pilgrim came noiselessly
to the seat and sat down, and Kovrin recognised him as the black
monk.

For a minute they looked at one another, Kovrin with amazement, and
the monk with friendliness, and, just as before, a little slyness,
as though he were thinking something to himself.

"But you are a mirage," said Kovrin. "Why are you here and sitting
still? That does not fit in with the legend."

"That does not matter," the monk answered in a low voice, not
immediately turning his face towards him. "The legend, the mirage,
and I are all the products of your excited imagination. I am a
phantom."

"Then you don't exist?" said Kovrin.

"You can think as you like," said the monk, with a faint smile. "I
exist in your imagination, and your imagination is part of nature,
so I exist in nature."

"You have a very old, wise, and extremely expressive face, as though
you really had lived more than a thousand years," said Kovrin. "I
did not know that my imagination was capable of creating such
phenomena. But why do you look at me with such enthusiasm? Do you