Mary-Ann tried to calm her mother, but the good woman could not and would not listen. Dimitri explained to her as fully as she would permit him, that the inhabitants of the village were nearly all charcoal-burners, and that their business very often took them into the mountains. In any case, the time was not lost: it was not later than eight o'clock, and they were sure to find within ten minutes' walk an inhabited house where breakfast would be all prepared. "What house?" demanded Mrs. Simons. "The farm at the Convent. The monks from Pentelicus have broad lands above Castia. They raise bees there. The good old man who carries on the farm always has wine, bread, honey and fowls; he will give us our breakfast." "He may have gone away like everyone else." "If he is away, it will not be far. The time for the swarming is near, and he would not wish to lose his bees." "Go and see: as for me, I have gone far enough since morning. I vow to you that I will not remount until after I have eaten." "Madame, you need not remount," said Dimitri, patient as are all guides. "We can hitch our horses to the fountain, and we shall quickly reach the place on foot." Mary-Ann influenced her mother to consent. She was dying to see the good old man, and his apiary. Dimitri hitched the horses to the watering trough, weighting each bridle with a huge stone. Mrs. Simons and her daughter looped up their habits and we started up a precipitous path, fit only for the goats of Castia. The green lizards which were warming themselves in the sun, discreetly retired at our approach, but each drew a piercing cry from Mrs. Simons, who had a horror of reptiles. After a quarter of an hour of these vocalizations, she had, at last, the joy of seeing an open house and a human face. It was the farmhouse and the old man. The house was a small one made of red bricks, topped with five cupolas, almost like a mosque to the village. At a distance, it possessed a certain elegance. Comely without and coarse within, it was a sample of the Orient. One saw, in the shelter of a hill covered with thyme, a hundred straw bee-hives, placed in a line like the tents in a camp. The king of this empire, the good old man, was a small, young man of twenty-five, round and merry. All Greek monks are honored with the title of "good old man," age having nothing to do with it. He was dressed like a peasant, except his bonnet, which was black instead of red; it was by this sign that Dimitri recognized him. The little man, seeing us running toward him, raised his arms to heaven, and appeared utterly amazed. "Here is an original," Mrs. Simons exclaimed; "what astonishes him so much? One would say that he had never seen any English people before." Dimitri, who had run on ahead, kissed the monk's hand, and said to him with a curious mixture of respect and familiarity: "Thy blessing, father! Wring the necks of two chickens, we will pay thee well." "Unhappy man: why do you come here?" "To breakfast."