"Christ knoweth not kings," he answered her, as he shook off her light touch—"save only those who bow to Him: and the mighty among men—aye—even he who calleth himself His Vicar upon earth—are puffed up with pride and know in their hearts no virtue in this—His sacred symbol." He pressed his rough hand hard against the thorns upon his breast as he spoke. "Hath not he—this false and sumptuous Vicar—but now asserted that we, of the Holy Greek Church have no part in the Communion of the Holy Catholic Church on earth? Did Christ call the Latins only?" he ended fiercely.
It was a grievance that rankled; and Hagios Johannes had not learned the gracious art of self-control, being accustomed to feel that whatever he thought or wished was good—his hatred as well as that which appealed to him—since he honestly sought nothing for himself, despising riches and station from the depths of his soul, with an open scorn for the great ones of earth and an imperious assertion of his own methods and judgments which he would have denounced in any earthly ruler, however wise. He never dreamed himself an autocrat over that continuous stream of pilgrims who made their way into the House of Priests on Troödos: they were chiefly peasants, rude in ways and understanding, whose accustomedness to absolute methods and short words made their obedience the swifter; and the few more learned ones who came to consult him knew that in his heart he was faithful and seldom treasured the offense against him—though they may have decried his wisdom. But these came more rarely as his absolutism grew upon him, and the prophet of the mountains came down to the cities of the plains only to see the luxury of them—the sin and godliness of them, and to denounce them, in unmeasured words.
Within his soul, although he did not confess it to himself, the generations of men were separated by a wide impassable gulf—the rich and ruling class, the godless, on one side; the poor, the suffering and lowly—the to-be-saved,—on the other, and none ever passed across the deep abyss. He would have challenged any man who counted him, Father Johannes, in his hempen garment studded with thorns, among the rulers of men!
The youthful Queen, weary and worn indeed from the perplexities and struggle of the two long nights and days that had elapsed since she had sent her Councillor on his quest of "the holiest man in Cyprus," rose from her couch as the prior entered and advanced to meet him with a gracious reverence.
But he, unconscious of any rudeness, spoke at once, without turning his eyes upon her, and offering no homage.
"I am a plain man from the Mountain of the Holy Cross, your Majesty; I know naught of the ways of Courts. The matter should be great that calleth me from my work. Let it be presented, that I may be dismissed."
She was almost too weak to stand, and the rebuff smote her to the quick; her lip trembled slightly, but she only stretched out her hand to her beloved friend, drawing her close and leaning lightly upon her shoulder, that she might feel the support of loving companionship in her great need.
Father Johannes had been vaguely conscious of some movement in the chamber and involuntarily he turned towards this royal lady whom, as yet, he had never seen, but whose urgent summons had roused his indignation.
She looked so young and fair and simple in her heavy folds of mourning—so worn from vigil, with the lines of anguish and of a strange strength written in her white girl-face—that she might have been the vision of some youthful saint, wearing the rough cross of Troödos upon her breast, beneath her robe: and for a moment, the holy man was startled—did such heavenly visions, in truth, visit the palaces of the great?
There was a moment of stillness in which his wonder grew.