The house was a small one made of red bricks, topped with five cupolas, almost like a mosque to the village. At a distance, it possessed a certain elegance. Comely without and coarse within, it was a sample of the Orient. One saw, in the shelter of a hill covered with thyme, a hundred straw bee-hives, placed in a line like the tents in a camp. The king of this empire, the good old man, was a small, young man of twenty-five, round and merry. All Greek monks are honored with the title of "good old man," age having nothing to do with it. He was dressed like a peasant, except his bonnet, which was black instead of red; it was by this sign that Dimitri recognized him.
The little man, seeing us running toward him, raised his arms to heaven, and appeared utterly amazed. "Here is an original," Mrs. Simons exclaimed; "what astonishes him so much? One would say that he had never seen any English people before."
Dimitri, who had run on ahead, kissed the monk's hand, and said to him with a curious mixture of respect and familiarity:
"Thy blessing, father! Wring the necks of two chickens, we will pay thee well."
"Unhappy man: why do you come here?"
"To breakfast."
"Didst thou not see that the inn was deserted?"
"I saw it so well, that I found no one at home."
"And that the village was deserted?"
"If I had met anyone, I should not have climbed up to thy house."