The sunset-light was on the trees when we started, but here in the North it is no fleeting glow.  It lingers for hours even, fading so imperceptibly that you scarcely know when it has ceased.  Thus, when we returned after a long pull, craving the Lenten fare of the monastery, the same soft gold tinted its clustering domes.  We were not called upon to visit the refectory, but a table was prepared in our room.  The first dish had the appearance of a salad, with the accompaniment of black bread.  On carefully tasting, I discovered the ingredients to be raw salt fish chopped fine, cucumbers, and—­beer.  The taste of the first spoonful was peculiar, of the second tolerable, of the third decidedly palatable.  Beyond this I did not go, for we had fresh fish, boiled in enough water to make a soup.  Then the same, fried in its own fat, and, as salt and pepper were allowed, we did not scorn our supper.  P. and R. afterwards walked over to the Skit, a small church and branch of the monastery, more than a mile distant; while I tried, but all in vain, to reproduce the Holy Island in verses.  The impression was too recent.

The next day was the festival of Peter and Paul, and Alexis had advised us to make an excursion to a place called Jelesniki.  In the morning, however, we learned that the monastery and its grounds were to be consecrated in solemn procession.  The chimes pealed out quick and joyously, and soon a burst of banners and a cloud of incense issued from the great gate.  All the pilgrims—­nearly two thousand in number—­thronged around the double line of chanting monks, and it was found necessary to inclose the latter in a hollow square, formed by a linked chain of hands.  As the morning sun shone on the bare-headed multitude, the beauty of their unshorn hair struck me like a new revelation.  Some of the heads, of lustrous, flossy gold, actually shone by their own light.  It was marvellous that skin so hard and coarse in texture should produce such beautiful hair.  The beards of the men, also, were strikingly soft and rich.  They never shave, and thus avoid bristles, the down of adolescence thickening into a natural beard.

As the procession approached, Alexis, who was walking behind the monks, inside the protecting guard, beckoned to us to join him.  The peasants respectfully made way, two hands unlinked to admit us, and we became, unexpectedly, participants in the ceremonies.  From the south side the procession moved around to the east, where a litany was again chanted.  The fine voices of the monks lost but little of their volume in the open air; there was no wind, and the tapers burned and the incense diffused itself, as in the church.  A sacred picture, which two monks carried on a sort of litter, was regarded with particular reverence by the pilgrims, numbers of whom crept under the line of guards to snatch a moment’s devotion before it.  At every pause in the proceedings there was a rush from all sides, and the poor fellows who formed the lines held each other’s hands with all their strength.  Yet, flushed, sweating, and exhausted as they were, the responsibility of their position made them perfectly proud and happy.  They were the guardians of cross and shrine, of the holy books, the monks, and the abbot himself.