The musician seems to understand him, and with a slight preliminary flourish on his instrument pours forth, in a voice as clear and rippling as the carol of a bird, a song which may be thus translated: Men fret, men toil, men pinch and pare, Make life itself a scramble, While I, without a grief or care, Where'er it lists me ramble. 'Neath cloudless sun or clouded moon, By market-cross or ferry, I chant my lay, I play my tune. And all who hear are merry. When summer's sun unclouded shines, And mountain-shadows linger, I watch them dance among the vines As quicker moves my finger; And so they sport till day is o'er, And black-robed Night advances, And where the maidens tripped before, The lovely moonbeam dances. When 'neath the rush of winter's rain The dripping forests welter, The shepherd opes his door amain, And gives me food and shelter. I touch my chords, I trill my lay, The firelight glances o'er us, And wind and rain, in stormy play, Join in with lusty chorus. 'Mid rustling leaves, 'neath open sky, I live like lark or swallow: There's not a bird more free to fly Than I am free to follow. And when grim Death his bow shall bend, My mortal course suspending, Oh may my life, howe'er it end, Have music in its ending! Such music, supplemented by such a voice, strongly tempts us to remain and hear more; but our impatient guide urges us onward, and in another minute we stand before the dark, low-browed archway of the old church which we have come to see. The quaint architecture of the outside is strange and old-world enough, but when we enter, the dim interior, haunted by weird shadows and ghostly echoes, has quite an unearthly effect after the bustling life of the city. As is usual in Greek and Russian churches, there are no seats of any kind, the whole interior being one wide bare space, dimly lighted by the two tall candles on the altar and a few little oil-lamps attached to the pictures of saints adorning the walls. The decorations have that air of tawdry finery which is the most displeasing feature of the Eastern churches; but the four frescoes at the farther end (representing the Adoration of the Magi, our Lord's Baptism, the Crucifixion, and the Descent into Hell), rude as they are, have a grim power which takes hold of our fancy at once. Dante himself might approve the last of the four, in which the lurid atmosphere, the hideous contortions of the demons, and the surging flight of the half-awakened dead, with their blank faces and stony eyes, contrast magnificently with the grand calmness of the divine Figure in the centre--a perfect realization of the noble words of Milton: Some howled, some shrieked, Some bent their fiery darts at thee, while Thou Sat'st unappalled in calm and sinless peace.