That day he sat in the open air, in a gallery whence he could survey a great part of the monastic buildings, and much of the mountain summit on its western side.  For an hour he had the companionship of Marcus, who, pointing to this spot and to that, instructed Basil in the history of what he saw, now and then reciting his own verses on the subject.  He told how Benedict, seeking with a little company of pious followers for a retreat from the evil of the world, came to ruined Casinum, and found its few wretched inhabitants fallen away from Christ, worshipping the old gods in groves and high places.  Here, on the mountain top, stood temples of Jupiter, of Apollo, and of Venus.  The house of Apollo he purified for Christian service, and set under the invocation of the Holy Martin.  The other temples he laid low, and having cut down the grove sacred to Apollo, on that spot he raised an oratory in the name of the Baptist.  Not without much spiritual strife was all this achieved; for—­the good Marcus subdued his voice—­Satan himself more than once overthrew what the monks had built, and, together with the demons whom Benedict had driven forth, often assailed the holy band with terrors and torments.  Had not the narrator, who gently boasted a part in these beginnings, been once all but killed by a falling column, which indeed must have crushed him, but that he stretched out a hand in which, by happy chance, he was holding a hammer, and this—­for a hammer is cruciform—­touching the great pillar, turned its fall in another direction.  Where stood the temple of Venus was now a vineyard, yielding excellent wine.

‘Whereof, surely, you must not drink?’ interposed Basil, with a smile.

‘Therein, good brother,’ replied Marcus, ’you show but little knowledge of our dear lord abbot.  He indeed abstains from wine, for such has been the habit of his life, but to us he permits it, for the stomach’s sake; being of opinion that labour is a form of worship, and well understanding that labour, whether of body or of mind, can only be performed by one in health.  This very day you shall taste of our vintage, which I have hitherto withheld from you, lest it should overheat your languid blood.’

Many other questions did Basil ask concerning the rule of the monastery.  He learned that the day was equitably portioned out (worship apart) between manual and mental work.  During summer, the cooler hours of morning and afternoon were spent in the field, and the middle of the day in study; winter saw this order reversed.  On Sunday the monks laboured not with their hands, and thought only of the Word of God.  The hours of the divine office suffered, of course, no change all the year round:  their number in the daytime was dictated by that verse of the Psalmist:  ’Septies in die laudem dixi tibi’; therefore did the community assemble at lauds, at prime, at the third hour, at mid-day, at the ninth hour, at vespers, and at compline.  They arose, moreover, for prayer at midnight, and for matins before dawn.  On all this the hearer mused when he was left alone, and with his musing blended a sense of peace such as had never before entered into his heart.