Between these pigeon-holes and the new substantial, but mean-looking cloister, on the other side rose the church of polished white marble, a splendid specimen of pure Byzantine architecture, if I dare apply such an adjective to that fantastic middle manner, which succeeded to the style of the fourth century, and was subsequently re-cast by Christians and Moslems into what are called the Gothic and Saracenic.[11]

A fat, feeble-voiced, lymphatic-faced Superior, leaning on a long staff, received us; but the conversation was all on one side, for “Blagodarim,” (I thank you,) was all that I could get out of him.  After reposing a little in the parlour, I came out to view the church again, and expressed my pleasure at seeing so fair an edifice in the midst of such a wilderness.

The Superior slowly raised his eyebrows, looked first at the church, then at me, and relapsed into a frowning interrogative stupor; at last, suddenly rekindling as if he had comprehended my meaning, added “Blagodarim” (I thank you).  A shrewd young man, from a village a few miles off, now came forward just as the Superior’s courage pricked him on to ask if there were any convents in my country; “Very few,” said I.

“But there are,” said the young pert Servian, “a great many schools and colleges where useful sciences are taught to the young, and hospitals, where active physicians cure diseases.”

This was meant as a cut to the reverend Farniente.  He looked blank, but evidently wanted the boldness and ingenuity to frame an answer to this redoubtable innovator.  At last he gaped at me to help him out of the dilemma.

“I should be sorry,” said I, “if any thing were to happen to this convent.  It is a most interesting and beautiful monument of the ancient kingdom of Servia; I hope it will be preserved and honourably kept up to a late period.”

“Blagodarim, (I am obliged to you,)” said the Superior, pleased at the Gordian knot being loosed, and then relapsed into his atrophy, without moving a muscle of his countenance.

I now examined the church; the details of the architecture showed that it had suffered severely from the Turks.  The curiously twisted pillars of the outer door were sadly chipped, while noseless angels, and fearfully mutilated lions guarded the inner portal.  Passing through a vestibule, we saw the remains of the font, which must have been magnificent; and covered with a cupola, the stumps of the white marble columns which support it are still visible; high on the wall is a piece of sculpture, supposed to represent St. George.

Entering the church, I saw on the right the tomb of St. Simeon, the sainted king of Servia; beside it hung his banner with the half-moon on it, the insignium of the South Slavonic nation from the dawn of heraldry.  Near the altar was the body of his son, St. Stephen, the patron saint of Servia.  Those who accompanied us paid little attention to the architecture of the church, but burst into raptures at the sight of the carved wood of the screen, which had been most minutely and elaborately cut by Tsinsars, (as the Macedonian Latins are called to this day).