to her character in the popular estimate at least, they left nothing
doubtful. His first impression of her was confirmed. She was a woman to
whom Heaven had confided every grace and virtue. Such marvels had been
before. He had heard of them in tradition, and always in a strain to
lift those thus favored above the hardened commonplace of human life,
creatures not exactly angels, yet moving in the same atmosphere with
angels. The monasteries, even those into whose gates women are forbidden
to look, all have stories of womanly excellence which the monks tell
each other in pauses from labor in the lentil patch, and in their cells
after vesper prayers. In brief, so did Sergius' estimate of the Princess
increase that he was unaware of impropriety when, trudging slowly after
the train of attendants, he associated her with heroines most odorous in
Church and Scriptural memories; with Mothers Superior famous for
sanctity; with Saints, like Theckla and Cecilia; with the Prophetess who
was left by the wayside in the desert of Zin, and the later seer and
singer, she who had her judgment-seat under the palm tree of Deborah.

Withal, however, the monk was uncomfortable. The words of his Hegumen
pursued him. Should he tell the Princess? Assailed by doubts, he
followed her to the lookout on the edge of the promontory.

Seating herself, she glanced over the wide field of water below; from
the vessels there, she gazed across to Asia; then up at the sky, full to
its bluest depth with the glory of day. At length she asked:

"Have you heard from Father Hilarion?"

"Not yet," Sergius replied.

"I was thinking of him," she continued. "He used to tell me of the