“That night St George came to the monk in his dreams and bade him start building without permission of the Turks. In the morning the monk climbed the mountain, and with the help of two other monks began his work. Ah! but I should like to have been that monk,” Father Arsenius cried—but he would not permit his soul even the envy of a holy deed, and humbly added: “Thy will be done, saint.”
“Didn’t the Turks interfere any more?” I asked.
“Yes, they did, my little one. While the work was in progress they heard of it, and sent word to the monk to stop it. He replied that he obeyed higher orders than theirs. The pasha was furious, and set out himself for the island, swearing he would hang the monk from his own scaffolding.
“But he reckoned without St George. At that time there were no roads on the island, not even a path leading up here. The pasha and his followers became lost in the woods, and had to spend the night, hungry and thirsty, under the pine trees. In the middle of the night the pasha woke up, struggling in the grip of St George. He cried out to his companions. They were tied to the trees. St George beat the pasha with the flat of his sword until he was tired. Then he commanded him to fall on his knees and promise to permit the chapel to be built. The terrified Turk did as he was ordered, and, of his own accord, promised to give money to build a large monastery, and he kept his word.”
Father Arsenius looked at me with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, and I laughed aloud to hear how the Greek saint had got the better of the Turkish pasha.
“I have been here for fifty years now,” Father Arsenius went on presently; “and my wish is to die in the service of my saint.”
“Do you think that when I am sold to him, he will take care of me?” I asked.
“I do not think so—I know so. His power is omnipotent; and his kindness to people is wonderful. When there is any mortal disease among them, he leaves here, goes out and fights for them.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I hear him go, and come back.”