"Such is life here below," said the hospitaller. "A crucifixion and a fast. But patience, brothers, patience, the Resurrection and the Lamb are coming, and the Kingdom of Heaven."

I coughed. Zorba trod on my foot as though to say: "Shut up!"

"I've seen Father Zaharia…" said Zorba, to change the subject.

The hospitaller started:

"What did that madman say to you?" he asked anxiously. "He has all seven demons in him, don't listen to a word he says. His soul is impure and he sees impurity all around him."

The bell for the monks rang lugubriously. The hospitaller crossed himself and stood up.

"I shall have to go," he said. "Christ's Passion is beginning; we must carry the cross with him. You can rest tonight, you must be tired after your journey. But at matins tomorrow…"

"Those swine!" Zorba muttered between his teeth as soon as the monk had gone. "Swine! Liars! Mules!"

"What's wrong, Zorba? Has Zaharia told you something?"

"Never mind, boss, to hell with it! If they don't want to sign, I'll show them what I'm made of!"

We went to the cell which had been assigned to us. In the corner was an icon representing the Virgin pressing her cheek against her son's, her big eyes full of tears.

Zorba shook his big head.

"Do you know why she's crying, boss?"

"No."

"Because she can see what's going on. If I was a painter of icons, I'd draw the Virgin without eyes, ears or nose. Because I'd be sorry for her."

We stretched out on the hard beds. The wooden beams smelled of cypress; through the open window was wafted the gentle breath of spring, laden with the perfume of flowers. Occasionally the mournful tunes surged from the courtyard like gusts of wind. A nightingale began to sing close to the window, then another a short distance away, and still another. The night was overflowing with love.

I could not sleep. The nightingale's song mingled with the lamentations of Christ, and I tried to climb Golgotha myself through the flowering orange trees, guiding myself by the huge spots of blood. In the blue spring night I could see the cold sweat glistening all over Christ's pale, faltering body. I could see his hands outstretched and trembling, as though he were a beggar imploring the bystanders to listen. The poor people of Galilee hurried after him, crying: "Hosannah! Hosannah!" They had palm leaves in their hands and spread their mantles before his feet. He looked at the ones he loved, though none could divine the depths of his despair. He alone knew he was going to his death. Beneath the stars, weeping and silent, he consoled his poor human heart that was full of fear:

"Like unto a grain of wheat, my heart, you, too, must fall into the ground and die. Be not afraid. If you do not, how can you bring forth fruit? How can you nourish men who die of hunger?"

But, within him, his man's heart was fainting and trembling, and did not want to die…

The wood round the monastery was full of the song of nightingales. Their song rose amidst the damp foliage and spoke entirely of love and passion. And with it trembled, swelled and wept the poor heart of mankind.

Gradually, imperceptibly, together with Christ's Passion and the nightingale's song, I entered the realm of sleep, just as the soul must enter Paradise.

I had been sleeping less than an hour when I awoke with a start, terror-stricken.

"Zorba!" I cried. "Did you hear? A revolver shot!"

But Zorba was sitting on his bed smoking a cigarette.

"Don't be alarmed, boss," he said, still trying to control his anger, "let them settle their own accounts, the swine!"

Cries came from the corridor; we could hear heavy slippers dragging along, doors opening and closing, and a moaning in the distance as though someone were wounded.

I leaped from my bed and opened the door. A wizened old man appeared before me and spread out his arms, barring my passage. He was wearing a white pointed bonnet and a white shirt down to his knees.

"Who are you?"

"The bishop…" he replied, his voice trembling.

I almost burst out laughing. A bishop? Where were his ornaments, the gold chasuble, mitre and cross, the many-colored false stones… It was the first time I had seen a bishop in his night attire.

"What was that revolver shot, Your Lordship?"

"I don't know, I don't know…" he stammered, pushing me gently back into the room.

Zorba burst out laughing from his bed.

"Are you scared, little Father?" he said. "Come in, then, old fellow, and stay with us. We are no monks, so you needn't worry."

"Zorba," I said in an undertone, "show more respect, can't you? It's the bishop."

"H'm! in a shirt nobody's a bishop! Come in, old chap!"

He stood up, took the bishop by the arm and led him into the cell, closing the door behind him. He took a bottle of rum out of his haversack and filled a small glass.

"Drink, my friend," he said. "That'll buck you up."

The little old man drained the glass and soon came round. He sat down on my bed and leaned against the wall.

"Very Reverend Father," I said, "what was that revolver shot?"

"I don't know, my son… I had worked till midnight and gone to bed, when next door in Father Demetrios's cell I heard…"

"Ah! ah!" said Zorba with a laugh. "You were right, then, Zaharia! Those dirty swine!"

The bishop bowed his head.

"It must have been a thief of some sort," he murmured.

In the corridor the uproar had ceased and the monastery sank into silence once more. The bishop looked at me with his kind, frightened eyes, as if in supplication.

"Are you sleepy, my son?" he asked.

I felt clearly that he did not want to leave and go back to be alone in his cell. He was afraid.

"No," I answered, "I'm not at all sleepy; stay here a while."

We began to talk. Zorba was leaning on his pillow and rolling a cigarette.

"You appear to be a cultured young man," the bishop said to me. "Here I can't find anyone to talk to. I have three theories that help to make my life agreeable; I would like to tell you about them, my child."

He didn't wait for my reply but began straight away:

"My first theory is this: the shape of flowers influences their color; their color influences their properties. Thus it is that each flower has a different effect on a man's body, and therefore on his soul. That is why we must be extremely careful in passing through a field when the flowers are in bloom."

He stopped as though waiting for my opinion. I could see the little old man wandering through a field, searching the ground, with secret excitement, for the shapes and colors of the flowers. The poor old man must tremble with mystic awe; in the spring the fields must be peopled for him with many-colored devils and angels.

"This is my second theory: every idea that has a real influence has also a real existence. It is really there, it does not float invisibly in the atmosphere-it has a real body-eyes, a mouth, feet, a stomach. It is male or female and therefore runs after men or women, as the case may be. That is why the Gospel says: 'The word became flesh…'"

He looked anxiously at me again.

"My third theory," he went on hurriedly, as he could not bear my silence, "is this: there is some Eternity even in our ephemeral lives, only it is very difficult for us to discover it alone. Our daily cares lead us astray. A few people only, the flower of humanity, manage to live an eternity even in their transitory lives on this earth. Since all the others would therefore be lost, God had mercy on them and sent them religion-thus the crowd is able to live in eternity, too."

He had finished and was visibly relieved for having spoken. He raised his small eyes, which had no lashes, and smiled at me. It was as though he were saying: "There, I am giving you all I have, take it!" I was very moved at the sight of this little old man thus offering me outright, when he hardly knew me, the fruits of a lifetime's work.