A faint plaintive sound came floating through the air; this was the summons to early mass. Instead of bells, knockers were used,—oak boards hung on ropes made of twisted ox-sinews, a huge three-sided nail being used to hammer them. According to tradition Noah had summoned the animals to the ark in similar fashion. In the responsive silence of the woods the sound rang singularly sweet and sad.
The pilgrims, looking towards the holy monastery, last refuge of the persecuted, crossed themselves.
“Holy, Holy, Holy New Jerusalem, may God’s glory descend upon thee,” chanted Kilikeya. A transfiguring joy lit up her pale, waxen face.
“All the monasteries have been destroyed; this one alone has remained untouched,” remarked Vitalia; “the Queen of Heaven has evidently taken it under Her holy protection. It is written in Revelation: ‘And to the woman were given two wings of a great eagle, that she might fly into the wilderness.’”
“The Tsar’s arm is long, but it won’t reach as far as this,” said one of the pilgrims.
“This is the last refuge of ancient holy Russia,” concluded another.
The sound died away, all remained quiet. It was the silent hour, when, according to tradition, the waters remain motionless, the angels pray, and the seraphim move their wings in holy awe before the throne of the Most High.
Simple John, sitting with his arm round his knees, his motionless eyes fixed on the brightening east, sang his eternal song:—
A coffin of pinewood tree
Stands ready prepared for me,