below it, an open pavilion, with seats, has been built over the sacred
spring from which the hermit drank, and thither the pilgrims thronged.
The water was served in a large wooden bowl, and each one made the sign
of the cross before drinking. By waiting for my turn I ascertained that
the spring was icy-cold, and very pure and sweet.

I found myself lured to the highest cliff, whence I could look out,
through the trees, on the far, smooth disk of the lake. Smooth and fair
as the Ægean it lay before me, and the trees were silent as olives at
noonday on the shores of Cos. But how different in color, in sentiment!
Here, perfect sunshine can never dust the water with the purple bloom of
the South, can never mellow its hard, cold tint of greenish-blue. The
distant hills, whether dark or light, are equally cold, and are seen too
nakedly through the crystal air to admit of any illusion. Bracing as is
this atmosphere, the gods could never breathe it. It would revenge on
the ivory limbs of Apollo his treatment of Marsyas. No foam-born
Aphrodite could rise warm from yonder wave; not even the cold, sleek
Nereïds could breast its keen edge. We could only imagine it disturbed,
temporarily, by the bath-plunge of hardy Vikings, whom we can see, red
and tingling from head to heel, as they emerge.

"Come!" cried P., "the steamer is about to leave!"

We all wandered down the steps, I with my lilies in my hand. Even the
rough peasants seemed reluctant to leave the spot, and not wholly for
the sake of Alexander Svirski. We were all safely embarked and carried
back to Valaam, leaving the island to its solitude. Alexis (as I shall
call our Russian friend) put us in charge of a native artist who knew
every hidden beauty of Valaam, and suggested an exploration of the
inlet, while he went back to his devotions. We borrowed a boat from the