I shook my head.
Father Arsenius’s face changed, and there came into it the light which made him look almost holy. In a rapt tone he began: “It was years ago, in the fifteenth century, when a dream came to one of our monks, a holy man, chosen by the saint to do his bidding.”
He crossed himself three times, raised his eyes to the blue above, and for some seconds was lost in his dreams.
“The saint appeared to our holy monk and said: ‘Arise and follow me, by the sound of a bell, over land and sea, till the bell shall cease to ring. There dig in the earth till you find my icon; and on that spot build a chapel, and spend your life in worshipping me.’
“Three times the vision came to the monk; then he arose, went to his superior, and with his permission started on his pilgrimage. As soon as he left the monastery he heard the sound of the bell, and following it he travelled for months, over land and sea, until he came to this island. Here the sound of the bell became louder, until finally it stopped. On that spot he began to dig——”
“On what spot?” I interrupted.
“Down by the little chapel, where now the holy spring oozes forth. There the monk found the icon, and with it in his arms went about begging for money to build the chapel.”
“He must have been a very powerful man if he carried that icon about,” I commented, “for now it takes two pallikaria to lift it.”
Father Arsenius smiled his kind, fatherly smile. “My little one, when our saint wants to, he can make himself as light as a feather. After the monk had collected sufficient money he went to the Turkish authorities and asked permission to build his chapel. The Turks had just conquered Constantinople, and we had to ask permission for everything at that time. The pasha to whom the monk applied refused him, saying that there were already churches enough.”
Father Arsenius’ face, as he spoke, was no longer holy. He looked a Greek, boiling for a fight. Gradually his features regained their calm and he smiled at me, as he continued: