THE PRINCE OF INDIA (Historical Novel). Lew Wallace
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“From the good father Hilarion.”
“Who is he?”
“The Archimandrite of Bielo-Osero.”
“A monastery?”
“Yes.”
“How did he receive it?”
“From the Spirit of God, whence Christ had his wisdom—whence all good men have their goodness—by virtue of which they, like Him, become sons of God.”
“What is thy name?”
“Sergius.”
“Sergius”—the Prince, now fully recovered, exerted his power of will—“Sergius, thou art a heretic.”
At this accusation, so terrible in those days, the monk raised the rosary of large beads dangling from his girdle, kissed the cross, and stood surveying the accuser with pity.
“That is,” the Prince continued with greater severity, “speak thou thus to the Patriarch yonder”—he waved a hand toward Constantinople—“dare repeat the saying to a commission appointed to try thee for heresy, and thou wilt thyself taste the pangs of crucifixion or be cast to the beasts.”
The monk arose to his great height, and replied, fervently:
“Knowest thou when death hath the sweetness of sleep? I will tell thee “—A light certainly not from the narrow aperture in the wall collected upon his countenance, and shone visibly—“It is when a martyr dies knowing both of God’s hands are a pillow under his head.”
The Prince dropped his eyes, for he was asking himself, was such sweetness of sleep appointed for him? Resuming his natural manner, he said: “I understand thee, Sergius. Probably no man in the world, go thou East or West, will ever understand thee better. God’s hands under my head, welcome death!—Let us be friends.”
Sergius took his offered hand.
Just then there was a noise at the door, and a troop of servants entered with lighted lamps, rugs, a table, stools, and beds and bedding, and it was not long until the apartment was made habitable. The Prince, otherwise well satisfied, wanted nothing then but a reply from Mirza; and in the midst of his wonder at the latter’s delay, a page in brilliant costume appeared, and called out:
“The Emir Mirza!”
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