We sat together in the shadow of the cloister, while he explained to me the rule under which he and his brethren lived, and as he spoke I felt the centuries drop away and disclose the ascetic life of the early Christian world. They spend their days in meditation; their diet is bread and oil and lentils; no meat, and neither milk nor eggs may pass their lips; they may see no woman-- “But may you see me?” I asked. “We have made an exception for you,” explained the prior. “Travellers come here so seldom. But some of the monks have shut themselves into their cells until you go.” The cell of St. Eugenius stands apart from the others, hollowed out of the cliff to the west of the church. The prior had spent a lonely winter there, seeing no one but the brother who brought him his daily meal of bread and lentils. As we stood in the narrow cave, which was more like a tomb than a dwelling-place, I looked into the young face, marked with the lines drawn by solitude and hunger. “Where is your home?” I asked. “In Mardîn,” he answered. “My father and my mother live there yet.” “Will you see them again?” said I. “Perhaps not,” he replied, but there was no regret in his voice. “And all your days you will live here?” He looked out calmly over rock and plain. “Please God,” he said. “It seems to be a good place for prayer.” It is the habit of the monks to let no traveller depart without food, a habit well known to the neighbouring Kurds who claim more hospitality than the monastery can well afford. While I worked at the church, the prior betook himself to the cave kitchen and prepared an ample meal of eggs and bread, raisins and sour curds for me and for my men. When we had eaten I asked whether it would not be seemly to thank the bishop for the entertainment which had been offered to us. “You cannot see him,” said the prior. “He has left the world.” “The kas from Useh Dereh came to-day to visit him,” I objected. “He came to gaze upon his cell,” answered the prior, and with that he led me out of the church and pointed to a cave some fifty feet above us in the cliff. Three-quarters of the opening had been filled with masonry, and I could see that it was approached by a stair of which the lower part was cut out behind a gallery and the upper on the face of the rock. An active novice might have thought twice before attempting the path to the bishop’s cell. “Is he old?” said I. “He is the father of eighty years,” replied the prior, “and it is now a year since he took a vow of silence and renounced the world. Once a day, at sunset, he lets down a basket on a rope and we place therein a small portion of bread.” “And when he dies?” I asked. “When he is sick to death he will send down a written word telling us to come up on the next day and fetch his body. Then we shall see his face again.” “And you will take his place?” said I. “If God wills,” he answered.