We talked later of present-day matters, the abbot being at once omniscient and omni-ignorant, and I finished my breakfast in time to accompany him to church.  I went to morning service in the great high-walled cathedral and saw all the brothers pray.  Of the people of the neighbourhood there were only three; these with the monks formed the whole congregation—­there is no village at Pitsoonda.  Imagine a gigantic and noble building fit to be the living heart of a great metropolis, and inside of it but a few little pictures, brightly painted, and a diminutive rood-screen, scarcely higher than a five-barred gate.  On the ceiling of the great dome was painted a lively and striking picture of Christ, probably done of old time, but in countenance resembling, strangely enough, the accepted portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson—­a Christ with a certain amount of cynicism, one who might have smoked upon occasion.  No doubt it was painted by a Greek:  a Russian would never have done anything so Western.

The monks, looking ancient and dwarf-like, for they had never cut their beards, were accommodated in little pews along the walls, and they could stand and rest their shoulders upon the high arms of the pews and doze, but could not sit, for there were no seats.

The service was beautiful, though I had little feeling of being in church—­one needs many people in such a cathedral.  I was more interested in the monks, their faces and appearances, and in the atmosphere of the monastery.  Most of the monks were peasants, dedicated to the religion of Christ and leading particularly strict lives.  It was difficult to understand how they lived.  Their faces all bore witness to their religious exercises, and on some were evidences of spiritual meditation.  They were all naturally rather stupid, and here more stupid than usual, because they were cut off from society, even from the society of their native villages.  They did not study, or read, or write; they had no worldly life to occupy them—­there was no means for it.  They could gossip—­yes, but I doubt if they even did that.  Assuredly here the Middle Ages slept.

* * * * *

Round the monastery, behold, the ruins of a great fort, slowly crumbling away under the hand of Time.  No fleets now sail against Pitius, no pirates land on the barren cape—­there is nothing to steal.  Even the monastery is without gold.

VI

I cannot forget this walk of gloom and mystery, and my stay in this strange, sleeping monastery of the Middle Ages.  But over and against it stands the bright morning of Gudaout, four days later.