Before saying good-night, the old monk placed his hand upon R.’s head.  “We have matins at three o’clock,” said he; “when you hear the bell, get up, and come to the church:  it will bring blessing to you.”  We were soon buried in a slumber which lacked darkness to make it profound.  At two o’clock, the sky was so bright that I thought it six, and fell asleep again, determined to make three hours before I stopped.  But presently the big bell began to swing:  stroke after stroke, it first aroused, but was fast lulling me, when the chimes struck in and sang all manner of incoherent and undevout lines.  The brain at last grew weary of this, when, close to our door, a little, petulant, impatient bell commenced barking for dear life.  R. muttered and twisted in his sleep, and brushed away the sound several times from his upper ear, while I covered mine,—­but to no purpose.  The sharp, fretful jangle went through shawls and cushions, and the fear of hearing it more distinctly prevented me from rising for matins.  Our youth, also, missed his promised blessing, and so we slept until the sun was near five hours high,—­that is, seven o’clock.

The captain promised to leave for Kexholm at eight, which left us only an hour for a visit to the Konkamen, or Horse-Rock, distant a mile, in the woods.  P. engaged as guide a long-haired acolyte, who informed us that he had formerly been a lithographer in St. Petersburg.  We did not ascertain the cause of his retirement from the world:  his features were too commonplace to suggest a romance.  Through the mist, which still hung heavy on the lake, we plunged into the fir-wood, and hurried on over its uneven carpet of moss and dwarf whortleberries.  Small gray boulders then began to crop out, and gradually became so thick that the trees thrust them aside as they grew.  All at once the wood opened on a rye-field belonging to the monks, and a short turn to the right brought us to a huge rock, of irregular shape, about forty feet in diameter by twenty in height.  The crest overhung the base on all sides except one, up which a wooden staircase led to a small square chapel perched upon the summit.

The legends attached to this rock are various, but the most authentic seems to be, that in the ages when the Carelians were still heathen, they were accustomed to place their cattle upon this island in summer, as a protection against the wolves, first sacrificing a horse upon the rock.  Whether their deity was the Perun of the ancient Russians or the Jumala of the Finns is not stated; the inhabitants at the present day say, of course, the Devil.  The name of the rock may also be translated “Petrified Horse,” and some have endeavored to make out a resemblance to that animal, in its form.  Our acolyte, for instance, insisted thereupon, and argued very logically—­“Why, if you omit the head and legs, you must see that it is exactly like a horse.”  The peasants say that the Devil had his residence in the stone, and point to a hole which he made, on being forced by the exorcisms of Saint Arsenius to take his departure.  A reference to the legend is also indicated in the name of the island, Konewitz,—­which our friend, the officer, gave to me in French as Chevalise, or, in literal English, The Horsefied.