Alas, for Jerusalem!
Alas, for Constantinople!
POSTSCRIPTS.
In the morning of the third day after the fall of the city, a common carrier galley drew alongside the marble quay in front of the Princess' garden at Therapia, and landed a passenger—an old, decrepit man, cowled and gowned like a monk. With tottering steps he passed the gate, and on to the portico of the classic palace. Of Lysander, he asked: "Is the Princess Irene here or in the city?"
"She is here."
"I am a Greek, tired and hungry. Will she see me?"
The ancient doorkeeper disappeared, but soon returned.
"She will see you. This way."
The stranger was ushered into the reception room. Standing before the Princess, he threw back his cowl. She gazed at him a moment, then went to him and, taking his hands, cried, her eyes streaming with tears: "Father Hilarion! Now praised be God for sending you to me in this hour of uncertainty and affliction!"
Needless saying the poor man's trials ended there, and that he never again went cold, or hungry, or in want of a place to lay his head.