seen in him a stranger overtaken by the storm and in need of shelter, and had entertained him accordingly.  They had conducted him to the refectory, where a well-piled log fire was cheerfully blazing, and there had set before him an excellent supper, flavored with equally excellent wine.  He had, however, scarcely begun to converse with them when the vesper-bell had rung, and, obedient to its summons, they had hurried away, leaving him to enjoy his repast in solitude.  When he had finished it, he had sat for a while dreamily listening to the solemn strains of the organ, which penetrated to every part of the building, and then moved by a vague curiosity to see how many men there were dwelling thus together in this lonely retreat, perched like an eagle’s nest among the frozen heights of Caucasus, he had managed to find his way, guided by the sound of the music, through various long corridors and narrow twisting passages, into the cavernous grot where he now stood, feeling infinitely bored and listlessly dissatisfied.  His primary object in entering the chapel had been to get a good full view of the monks, and of their faces especially,—­but at present this was impossible, as from the position he was obliged to occupy behind them their backs alone were visible.

“And who knows,” he thought moodily, “how long they will go on intoning their dreary Latin doggerel?  Priestcraft and Sham!  There’s no escape from it anywhere, not even in the wilds of Caucasus!  I wonder if the man I seek is really here, or whether after all I have been misled?  There are so many contradictory stories told about him that one doesn’t know what to believe.  It seems incredible that he should be a monk; it is such an altogether foolish ending to an intellectual career.  For whatever may be the form of faith professed by this particular fraternity, the absurdity of the whole system of religion remains the same.  Religion’s day is done; the very sense of worship is a mere coward instinct—­a relic of barbarism which is being gradually eradicated from our natures by the progress of civilization.  The world knows by this time that creation is an empty jest; we are all beginning to understand its bathos!  And if we must grant that there is some mischievous supreme Farceur who, safely shrouded in invisibility, continues to perpetrate so poor and purposeless a joke for his own amusement and our torture, we need not, for that matter, admire his wit or flatter his ingenuity!  For life is nothing but vexation and suffering; are we dogs that we should lick the hand that crushes us?”

At that moment, the chanting suddenly ceased.  The organ went on, as though musically meditating to itself in minor cords, through which soft upper notes, like touches of light on a dark landscape, flickered ripplingly,—­one monk separated himself from the clustered group, and stepping slowly up to the altar, confronted the rest of his brethren.  The fiery Cross shone radiantly behind him, its beams