hich have saved the little edifice from
burning.

We went straight to the shrine, through a little door scarcely more
than four feet high (the wooden lintels of which being the handiwork
of S. Vasili were piously kissed by the Montenegrins), through two
long and narrow passages hewn from the living rock and emerged
suddenly in a small rock chamber, dimly lit by an oil lamp and about
twelve feet square. The five of us filled the space, and, as our eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom, we were able to distinguish a wooden
shrine taking up the whole length of one side--where the mortal
remains of the Hercegovinan lay. Another side was occupied by an open
coffin containing the vestments and crucifix. On a chair sat a Greek
priest who rose when we entered. At the foot of the shrine lay a
cripple.

We stood for some minutes in utter silence, and then followed the lead
of the doctor, who approached the coffin and kissed the crucifix,
which a priest gave to us all in turn: a plate for alms lay on the
vestments: then the woodwork of the shrine was likewise kissed, and we
emerged again into the narrow gallery.

The heat had been intense in the little chapel, and we were in that
limp and exhausted state that one experiences in a Turkish bath.

[Illustration: THE UPPER MONASTERY]

The gallery was open on one side where a large bell was fixed, and
this our puny guide struck four times vigorously in the sign of a
cross without a word of warning.

After the impressive solemnity and silence of the preceding minutes,
we nearly jumped out of our skins, and when our injured hearing had
sufficiently recovered so that we could distinguish the sound of our
own voices, we demanded an explanation of this apparently childish and
wanton outrage.

He said that he had struck the bell for the renewal of his strength.
It appeared an unnecessary request.

Dr. S. explained that pilgrims strike the bell on emerging from the
shrine, praying for some special benefit.

We next went up a lot of steps to a platform under the shelving cliff
where there was a beautiful spring of water. The view which it
commanded was magnificent. Below us lay the lower monastery and the
deep valley of the Zeta, the mountains rising again sharply on the
further side; to the right and left stretched wooded slopes.

Then we descended again and paid the priest a visit. This man, over
eighty years of age, has spent forty years of his life as a hermit in
that rocky crag.