He was silent for a moment.

"If it is coming," he repeated, in an irritated tone, "because it might never come at all."

And a moment later:

"It can't just go on like this, boss; either the world will have to get smaller or I shall have to get bigger. Otherwise I'm done for!"

A monk appeared between the pines, redhaired and yellow complexioned, his sleeves rolled up, a round homespun cap on his head. He was carrying an iron rod with which he struck the ground as he strode along. When he saw us he stopped and raised his stick in the air.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the monastery," Zorba replied; "we're going to say our prayers."

"Turn back, Christians!" cried the monk, his clear blue eyes growing inflamed as he spoke. "Turn back, if you'll take my advice! It is not the Virgin's orchard you'll find there, but the garden of Satan! Poverty, humility, chastity… the monk's crown, as they say! Very likely. Go back, I tell you. Money, pride, and young boys! That's their Holy Trinity!"

"He's a comic, this chap," whispered Zorba, enchanted. He leaned towards him.

"What's your name, brother?" he asked the monk. "And where do you come from?"

"My name is Zaharia. I've packed up my things and I'm off! Right away. I can't bear it any longer! Kindly tell me your name, countryman."

"Canavaro."

"I can't endure it any longer, brother Canavaro. All night long Christ moans and prevents me sleeping. And I moan with him. Then the abbot-may he roast in hell-fire forever-sent for me early this morning."

"'Well, Zaharia,' he said. 'So, you won't let your brother monks sleep. I'm going to throw you out.'

"'I won't let them sleep?' I said. 'I won't? Or Christ won't? He's the one who keeps moaning.'

"Then he raised his cross, that anti-Christ, and, well… look!"

He took off his monk's cap and revealed a patch of congealed blood in his hair.

"So I shook the dust of the place from my shoes and left."

"Come back to the monastery with us," said Zorba. "I'll get round the abbot. Come on, you can keep us company and show us the way. You've been sent by heaven itself."

The monk thought for a moment. His eyes shone.

"What will you give me?" he asked.

"What do you want?"

"Two pounds of salt cod and a bottle of brandy."

Zorba leaned forward and looked at him.

"You wouldn't by any chance have a sort of devil inside you, would you, Zaharia?"

The monk started.

"How did you guess?" he asked in amazement.

"I come from Mount Athos myself," answered Zorba. "I know something about it."

The monk hung his head. We could scarcely hear his reply.

"Yes, I have a devil inside me."

"And he'd like some salt cod and brandy, would he?"

"Yes, thrice damned as he is!"

"All right! Done! Does he smoke as well?"

Zorba threw him a cigarette and the monk seized it eagerly.

"He smokes, yes, he smokes, plague on him!" he said.

And he took a small flint and a piece of wick from his pocket, lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

"In Christ's name!" he said.

He raised his iron rod, turned about face and started off.

"What's your devil's name?" asked Zorba, winking at me.

"Joseph!" answered Zaharia, without turning his head.

This half-crazed monk's company was not at all to my taste. A sick mind, like a sick body, makes me feel compassion, and at the same time disgust. But I said nothing; I left it to Zorba to do what he liked.

The clear pure air made us hungry and we sat down beneath a giant pine tree and opened the haversack. The monk leaned forward and hungrily peered into it to see what it contained.

"Not so fast!" cried Zorba. "Don't lick your chops too soon, Zaharia! It's Holy Monday today. We are freemasons, so we shall eat some meat and chicken, God forgive us! But look, there's some halva and a few olives for your own saintly stomach!"

The monk stroked his filthy beard.

"I will have olives and bread and fresh water," he said with contrition. "But Joseph's a devil, he will eat meat with you, brothers; he likes chicken-oh, he's a lost soul-and he'll drink wine from your gourd!"

He made the sign of the cross, swallowed the bread, olives and halva, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, drank the water, and then crossed himself again as if he had finished his meal.

"Now," he said, "it's Joseph's turn, the poor thrice-damned soul."

And he threw himself on the chicken.

"Eat, you lost soul!" he mumbled furiously as he rammed great lumps of chicken into his mouth. "Eat!"

"Hoorah! Good for you, monk!" shouted Zorba enthusiastically. "You've got two strings to your bow, I can see."

He turned to me.

"What do you think of him, boss?"

"He's very like you," I said with a laugh.

Zorba gave the monk the wine gourd.

"Joseph! Have a drink!"

"Drink! You lost soul!" said the monk, seizing the bottle and clapping it to his mouth.

The sun was very hot and we moved further into the shade. The monk reeked of sour sweat and incense. He almost ran liquid in the sun and Zorba dragged him to the shadiest spot to reduce the stench.

"How did you become a monk?" asked Zorba, who had eaten well and wanted to gossip.

The monk grinned.

"I suppose you think it was because I'm so saintly? You bet! It was through poverty, brother, poverty! I had nothing left to eat, so I said to myself: if I go into a monastery, I can't starve!"

"And are you satisfied?"

"God be praised! I sigh and complain often enough but don't you pay any attention to that. I don't sigh for earthly things; as far as I'm concerned they can go and be… forgive me… and I tell them every day to go and be… But I long for heaven! I tell jokes and cut capers about the place and make the monks laugh. They all say I'm possessed by the devil and insult me. But I say to myself: 'It can't be true; God must like fun and laughter. "Come inside, my little buffoon, come inside," he'll say to me one day, I know. "Come and make me laugh!"' That's the way I'll get into Paradise, as a buffoon!"

"You've got your head screwed on the right way, old fellow!" said Zorba, standing up. "Come on, we must make a move, so that we don't get caught by the dark."

The monk went ahead again. As we climbed the mountain I felt we were clambering over ranges of the mind within me, passing from base and petty cares to nobler ones, from the comfortable truths of the plains to precipitous conceptions.

Suddenly the monk stopped.

"Our Lady of Revenge!" he cried, pointing to a small chapel with a graceful dome. He sank to his knees and made the sign of the cross. I dismounted and entered the cool oratory. In one corner was an old icon, black with smoke and covered with votive offerings: thin sheets of silver on which had been crudely engraved figures of feet, hands, eyes, hearts… A silver candlestick stood before the icon holding an ever-burning light.

I approached in silence: a fierce, warlike madonna with a strong neck and the austere, uneasy look of a virgin, held in her hand, not the holy babe, but a long straight spear.

"Woe to him who attacks the monastery!" said the monk in terror. "She hurls herself at him and sticks him through with her spear. In ancient times the Algerians came here and burnt the monastery. But see what it cost these heathens: as they passed this chapel the Holy Virgin, all of a sudden, threw herself from the icon, rushed outside and started thrusting with her spear, thís way and that, in all directions… And she killed them all to a man. My grandfather remembered seeing their bones; they littered the whole of the forest. Since then, we call her Our Lady of Revenge. Before that she was called Our Lady of Mercy."

"Why didn't she perform her miracle before they burnt the monastery, Father Zaharia?" asked Zorba.