Once the Moslems had overpowered the defenders of the church and had got in, the eyes of some of the saints were picked through the plaster. Legend runs, however, that while they were desecrating the tomb of Tzar Stephan who founded the church, the tomb of the queen, which lay alongside, exploded with a violent report and terror struck the Turks, who fled.
They showed us the queen's tomb, split from top to bottom. The priests naturally claim a miracle; but Pavlovitch said, "I tink dey verry clever, dey done dat wi' gunpowder."
The Tzar Stephan had wished to build the church of gold and precious stones, but a soothsayer said—
"No, my lord, build it of plain stone, for your empire will be robbed from you, and if it be of gold greedy men will tear it to pieces, but if it be of plain stone it will remain a monument for ever."
So he built it of fine marble. The central pillars were forty feet high, and each cut from a single piece, with grotesque carved capitals. The great screen was wonderfully carved and gilded. Wherever one looked was decoration, almost in excess.
Ringlets invited us to tea with the Russian bishop who was in charge. He was a stout, sweet-mannered little man, who shook his head woefully over the war.
Somehow Pavlovitch discovered that he and the bishop were the same age, forty-eight. We contrasted Pavlovitch's spare athletic frame with the well-fed shape of the bishop, and felt instinctively which was the better Christian. Coffee and slatka were brought in. This slatka is always handed to callers in well-regulated Serbian households. It is jam accompanied by many little spoons and glasses of water. Each guest dips out a spoonful, licks the spoon, drinks the water, and places his spoon in the glass. There is also a curious custom with regard to the coffee. If a guest outstays his welcome, a second cup is brought in and ceremoniously placed before him—but, of course, this hint depends upon how it is done.
"It is Friday," remarked Pavlovitch, regretfully. "Odder days we gits mighty good meal." He was very anxious for us to stay the night so that we should fit in a first-class breakfast, but the morrow was the Ipek fair, and we could not miss that.
Night was coming so we hurried off and drove away. The horses went quite fast, as we had made them a present of some barley. We had discovered that since the beginning of the war, when they had been requisitioned by the Montenegrin Government, they had lived on nothing but hay, and the owner, who was driving them, said that they would soon die, and that when they did he would not receive a penny and would be a ruined man. He added pathetically—