But perhaps in the eyes of Rabban Hormizd even the very devils themselves were not so foul an abomination as the great rival monastery on Jebel Maklub,[70] which rises conspicuous in the midst of Mosul plain in full sight of his cell. For Rabban Hormizd was a "Nestorian," while the monks of Sheikh Mattai were "Jacobites;" their monastery being still the abode of their _Maphrian_, the second dignitary in their church. Both sects are equally obnoxious to the intermediate orthodox; but they are even more obnoxious to each other, for they draw towards opposite poles. His zeal against the monks of Sheikh Mattai roused Rabban Hormizd to the great deed of his lifetime. He actually quitted his cell (for the only occasion on record) and started on a lone-hand raid against his adversaries' stronghold. The monks of Sheikh Mattai received him hospitably, and gave him lodging in their monastery. But at dead of night he arose and groped his way to their library, where the works of "the accursed Cyril" stood stored like cordite shells. By virtue of his prayers he summoned up a miraculous spring in the centre of the floor, and carefully washed every line of writing off every page of their books! Then leaving them a collection of nice clean leaves free from every taint of heresy, he departed joyfully to his hermitage and thereafter stirred from it no more. This scandalous transaction was of course accounted to him for righteousness; and indeed Oriental religious controversies continue to be conducted on very similar lines to this day! The monastery of Rabban Hormizd has always been kept going ever since the date of its foundation; but now it is only the _Succursale_ of the big modern monastery established on the plains below it, and there are but some four or five monks still left in the old mother house. They are Uniat Nestorians who have submitted themselves to the Papacy, and are consequently not at all in charity with the independent Nestorian church from which they have seceded. Hearing that we were going to Tyari, the home of the independent Nestorians, they inquired artlessly "Pray, do you know anything of a deacon there? one Werda, a _very_ wicked person--a tall man with a red beard?" (Our deacon is short and rotund, and his beard is black). "I am _Shamasha_ Werda," replied that worthy with a twinkle. "Oh! but we don't think you can be the man we mean!" protested our hosts in some consternation. "Oh, yes! I am," persisted the delighted deacon.[71] Despite this _contretemps_, however, we got on with our hosts very amicably. They fed us with tea and cake, and wine from their own vineyard; and finished by conducting us over their monastery and showing us all the sights.