A fine jolly old monk, with a powerful voice, welcomed the Natchalnik
at the gate, and putting his hand on his left breast, said to me,
"_Dobro doche Gospody_!" (Welcome, master!)
We then, according to the custom of the country, went into the chapel,
and, kneeling down, said our thanksgiving for safe arrival. I
remarked, on taking a turn through the chapel and examining it
minutely, that the pictures were all in the old Byzantine
style--crimson-faced saints looking up to golden skies.
Crossing the court, I looked about me, and perceived that the cloister
was a gallery, with wooden beams supporting the roof, running round
three sides of the building, the basement being built in stone, at one
part of which a hollowed tree shoved in an aperture formed a spout for
a stream of clear cool water. The Igoumen, or superior, received us at
the foot of the wooden staircase which ascended to the gallery. He was
a sleek middle-aged man, with a new silk gown, and seemed out of his
wits with delight at my arrival in this secluded spot, and taking me
by the hand led me to a sort of seat of honour placed in a prominent
part of the gallery, which seemed to correspond with the _makaa_ of
Saracenic architecture.
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