topped in front of a large house, whose long, windowless wall
extended from one side street to the next, and pausing before the great
gate, he read an inscription on which the light fell from a lamp above:
The House of the Holy Martyr. His widow here offers shelter to all who
need it. He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord."

"At how much per cent I wonder?" mattered the old man and a satirical
smile curled his bearuless lips. A heavy thud with the knocker rang
through the silent street, and after a few short questions from within
and equally curt replies from without, a small door was opened in the
great gate. The stranger was on the point of crossing the vestibule when
a human creature crept up to him on all fours, and clutched his ancle
with a strong hand, exclaiming in a hoarse voice: "As soon as the door is
shut--an entrance fee; for the poor, you know."

The old man flung a copper piece to the gatekeeper who tried it, and
then, holding on to the rope by which he was tied to a post like a
watch-dog, he whined out "Not a drop to wet a Christian's lips?"

"It has not rained for some time," retorted the stranger, who proceeded
to open a second door which led into a vast court-yard open to the blue
vault of heaven. A few torches stuck against the pillars and a small fire
on the pavement added thin smoky, flickering light to the clear glory of
the stars, and the whole quadrangle was full of a heavy, reeking
atmosphere, compounded of smoke and the steam of hot food.

Even in the street the wanderer had heard the dull buzz and roar which
now met his ear as a loud medley of noises and voices, rising from
hundreds of men who were encamped in the wide space before him--in groups
or singly, sleeping and snoring, or quarrelling, eating, talking and
singing as they squatted on the ground which was strewn with straw.

The inn was full, and more than half of the humble guests were monks who,
during the last two days, had flowed into the city from every Cenoby,
Laura and hermitage in the desert, and from most of the monasteries in
the surrounding district--the 'Nitriote Nome'. Some of them had laid
their heads close together for confidential whispering, others squabbled
loudly, and a large group in the northern angle of the court had raised a
psalm which mingled strangely with the "three," "four," "seven," of the
men who were playing 'mora', and the cry of the cook inviting purchasers
to his stall spread with meat, brea