He told us that the wretched skeleton who was driving us had power in Turkish days to commandeer the services of Christian labourers, and to pay them nothing.
We passed by placid fields containing cows, horses, donkeys. The country seemed untouched by war. Those cows could never have drawn heavy carts and lain exhausted and foodless after a heavy day's work. The horses reminded one of the sleek mares owned by old ladies who lived in awe of their coachmen.
For this all belonged to Dechani, and it was beyond the power of the state to touch their riches; nor had they been molested even in the days of Turkish rule.
"You see, monastery 'e pay money to the toughest Albanians—Albanian they give besa—and nobody never do no 'arm to the monasteries. Russia she send much money, she send always her priest to Dechani and the Turks they keep sorter respectful."
Our first sight of Dechani disappointed us a little, the proportions lacked the beauty of the Ipek church; but the big old door marked by the fire the Turks had built against it, decades before, cheered us up a bit.
A pleasant priest with a smooth face and ringlets two feet long greeted us and led us to the little Russian hospital which was fitted into the Abbey, warning us not to bang our heads against the heavy oak beams in the corridors.
The Russians welcomed us heartily, preparing the most wonderful tea, Australian butter, white bread made with flour brought from Russia.
Pavlovitch enjoyed himself immensely. Food was thin in the barracks. But he was very worried about the priest's long ringlets.
"I'd soon cure 'im, a month diggin' de trench!" he murmured.
After tea we examined the church. The interior was one miraculous blue: pictures with blue backgrounds, apostles with blue draperies, blue skies, a wonderful lapis lazuli.