He had tears in his eyes.

"What do you think of my theories?" he asked, taking my hand between his own and looking into my eyes. I felt that he depended on my reply to tell him whether his life had been of any use or not.

I knew that, over and above the truth, there exists another duty which is much more important and much more human.

"Those theories may save many souls," I answered.

The bishop's face lit up. That was the justification of his entire life.

"Thank you, my son," he whispered, squeezing my hand affectionately.

Zorba leaped from his corner.

"I've got a fourth theory!" he cried.

I looked anxiously at him. The bishop turned to him.

"Speak, my son, and may your theory be blessed! What is it?"

"That two and two make four!" said Zorba gravely.

The bishop looked at him, flabbergasted.

"And a fifth theory, old man," Zorba went on. "That two and two don't make four. Go on, my friend, take a chance! Make your choice!"

"I don't understand," stammered the old man, casting a questioning glance at me.

"Neither do I!" said Zorba, bursting into laughter.

I turned to the poor old man, who was abashed, and changed the subject.

"What are your special studies here in the monastery, Reverend Father?" I asked.

"I am making copies of the ancient manuscripts of the monastery, my son, and recently I have been collecting all the sacred epithets used by the Church in connection with the Virgin Mother."

He sighed.

"I am old," he said, "and I can't do anythíng else. I find relief in listing all the verbal adornments of the Virgin, and thus I forget the miseries of this world."

He leaned his elbow on the pillow, closed his eyes and began murmuring as though in delirium:

"Imperishable Rose, Fruitful Earth, Vine, Fountain, Source of Miracles, Ladder to Heaven, Bridge, Rescuing Frigate for the Shipwrecked, Haven of Rest, Key to Paradise, Dawn, Eternal Light, Lightning, Pillar of Fire, Invincible General, Immovable Tower, Impregnable Fortress, Consolation, Joy, Staff for the Blind, Mother for the Orphan, Table, Food, Peace, Serenity, Perfume, Banquet, Milk and Honey…"

"The old boy's delirious…" said Zorba in an undertone. "I'll cover him over so that he doesn't catch cold."

He stood up, threw a blanket over the bishop and put his pillow straight.

"There are seventy-seven kinds of madness, so I've heard," he said. "This one must be the seventy-eighth."

Day was dawning. We could hear the ringing of the semantron. I leaned my head out of the window. In the first rays of dawn I saw a gaunt monk, a long black hood over his head, walk slowly round the courtyard striking with a small hammer on a long piece of wood which had marvellously musical properties. The sound of the semantron echoed through the morning air, full of sweetness, harmony and appeal. The nightingales had stopped singing and other birds were beginning to chirp in the trees.

I listened, charmed with the sweet evocative notes of the semantron. I thought how, even in decay, an elevated rhythm in life preserves all its outward form, is impressive and full of nobility. The spirit departs, but it leaves its vast dwelling which it has slowly evolved and which is as intricate as a sea shell.

The wonderful cathedrals you see in noisy, godless cities are just such empty shells, I thought. Prehistoric monsters of which only a skeleton, worn by sun and rain, is left.

There was a knock at the door of our cell. The unctuous voice of the hospitaller came to our ears.

"Come, rise now, brothers, it's time for matins."

Zorba leaped up:

"What was the revolver shot in the night?" he shouted, beside himself.

He waited a moment. Silence. The monk must have heard him through the door, because we could hear his noisy breathing. Zorba stamped with rage.

"What was that revolver shot?" he asked again, in a fury.

We heard steps going rapidly away. With one bound Zorba was at the door. He opened it:

"Filthy scoundrels! Blackguards!" he shouted, spitting in the direction of the retreating monk. "Priests, nuns, monks, church-wardens, sacristans, the whole lot of you, that's all you're worth!" And he spat again.

"Let's go!" I said. "There's a smell of blood in the air."

"If it were only blood!" grunted Zorba. "You go to matins, boss, if you want to. I'll have a look round to see what I can find out."

"Let's go!" I said again, nauseated. "And will you be good enough not to go poking your nose where it's none of your business?"

"That's just where I always want to poke it!" said Zorba.

He thought for a moment, then smiled cunningly:

"The devil is doing us a favor," he said. "I think he's bringing things to a head. Do you realize what that might cost the monastery, boss, a revolver shot like that? A cool seven thousand!"

He went down into the courtyard. The scent of blossom, morning sweetness, heavenly felicity. Zaharia was waiting for us. He ran up and seized Zorba's arm.

"Brother Canavaro," he whispered with a trembling voice. "Come, we must go!"

"What was that revolver shot? They killed somebody, didn't they? Come on, talk or I'll wring your neck!"

The monk's chin quivered. He looked round him. The courtyard was deserted, the cells closed; through the open chapel door came waves of music.

"Follow me, both of you," he muttered. " Sodom and Gomorrah!"

We slipped along the side of the wall, gained the other side of the courtyard and went out of the garden. A hundred yards or so from the monastery was a cemetery. We went inside.

We stepped over the graves, Zaharia pushed the little door of the chapel and we entered behind him. In the center, on a rush mat, lay a body covered over with a monk's habit. There was a candle burning at both head and foot of the corpse.

I stooped to look at the body.

"The young monk!" I murmured with a shudder. "Father Demetrios's fair-haired young novice!"

On the door of the sanctuary, with widespread wings and unsheathed sword, and wearing red sandals, glittered the figure of the archangel Michael.

"Archangel Michael!" cried the monk, "send fire and brimstone and burn them all! Archangel Michael, do something. Leave your icon! Raise your sword and smite them! Did you not hear that revolver shot?"

"Who killed him? Who was it? Demetrios? Speak, old goat beard!"

The monk slipped out of Zorba's grasp and threw himself flat on the floor before the archangel. He remained motionless for a few moments, face upraised, eyes starting from his head, mouth wide open, watching the icon intently.

Suddenly he jumped for joy.

"I will burn them!" he declared in a resolute voice. "The archangel moved, I saw him, he made a sign to me!"

He went close to the icon and glued his thick lips to the archangel's sword.

"God be praised!" he said. "I am relieved!"

Zorba seized the monk again.

"Come here, Zaharia," he said. "Now, you'll do what I tell you."

Then he turned to me.

"Give me the money, boss, I'll sign the papers myself. They're all wolves in there, and you're a lamb, they'll eat you. Leave it to me. Don't you worry, I've got the fat hogs where I want them. We'll leave here at midday with the forest in our pockets. Come on, Zaharia."

They slipped away furtively towards the monastery. I went for a stroll under the pine trees.

The sun was high already and the dew was sparkling on the leaves. A blackbird in front of me flew on to the branch of a wild pear tree, flicked his tail, opened his beak, looked at me and whistled two or three mocking notes.

Through the pines I could see the courtyard and the monks coming out in a long file, their heads bowed and black cowls hanging over their shoulders. The service was over; they were on their way to the refectory.