with a
window opening on the court, and a hard, narrow pallet against the wall.
There was also a little table, with books, sacred pictures, and a bunch
of lilacs in water. The walls were whitewashed, and the floor cleanly
swept. The chamber was austere, certainly, but in no wise repulsive.

It was now growing late, and only the faint edges of the twilight
glimmered overhead, through the fog. It was not night, but a sort of
eclipsed day, not much darker than our winter days under an overcast
sky. We returned to the tower, where an old monk took us in charge.
Beside the monastery is a special building for guests, a room in which
was offered to us. It was so clean and pleasant, and the three broad
sofa-couches with leather cushions looked so inviting, that we decided
to sleep there, in preference to the crowded cabin. Our supply of
shawls, moreover, enabled us to enjoy the luxury of undressing. Before
saying good-night, the old monk placed his hand upon R.'s head. "We have
matins at three o'clock," said he; "when you hear the bell, get up, and
come to the church: it will bring blessing to you." We were soon buried
in a slumber which lacked darkness to make it profound. At two o'clock,
the sky was so bright that I thought it six, and fell asleep again,
determined to make three hours before I stopped. But presently the big
bell began to swing: stroke after stroke, it first aroused, but was fast
lulling me, when the chimes struck in and sang all manner of incoherent
and undevout lines. The brain at last grew weary of this, when, close to
our door, a little, petulant, impatient bell commenced barking for dear
life. R. muttered and twisted in his sleep, and brushed away the sound
several times from his upper ear, while I covered mine,--but to no
purpose. The sharp, fretful jangle went through shawls and cushions, and
the fear of hearing it more distinctly prevented me from rising for
matins. Our youth, also, missed his promised blessing, and so we slept
until the sun was near five hours high,--that is, seven o'clock.

The captain promised to leave for Kexholm at eight, which left us only
an hour for a visit to the _Konkamen_, or Horse-Rock, distant a mile, in
the woods. P. engaged as guide a long-haired acolyte, who informed us
that he had formerly been a lithographer in St. Petersburg. We did not
ascertain the cause of his retirement from the world: his features were
too commonplace to suggest a romance. Through the mist, whic