Part One Saint and Sceptic Chapter 1 The Monastery

"What merest whim
Seems all this poor endeavor after Fame
To one who keeps within his steadfast aim
A love immortal, an Immortal too!
Look not so 'wildered, for these things are true
And never can be borne of atomics
That buzz about our slumbers like brain-flies
Leaving us fancy-sick.
No, I am sure
My restless spirit never could endure
To brood so long upon one luxury.
Unless it did, though fearfully, espy
A HOPE BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DREAM!"

KEATS.

Deep in the heart of the Caucasus mountains a wild storm was gathering. Drear shadows drooped and thickened above the Pass of Dariel,--that terrific gorge which like a mere thread seems to hang between the toppling frost-bound heights above and the black abysmal depths below,--clouds, fringed ominously with lurid green and white, drifted heavily yet swiftly across the jagged peaks where, looming largely out of the mist, the snow-capped crest of Mount Kazbek rose coldly white against the darkness of the threatening sky. Night was approaching, though away to the west a road gash of crimson, a seeming wound in the breast of heaven, showed where the sun had set an hour since. Now and again the rising wind moaned sobbingly through the tall and spectral pines that, with knotted roots fast clenched in the reluctant earth, clung tenaciously to their stony vantageground; and mingling with its wailing murmur, there came a distant hoarse roaring as of tumbling torrents, while at far-off intervals could be heard the sweeping thud of an avalanche slipping from point to point on its disastrous downward way.