perhaps caught from the legends of Moses the idea of making the daring attempt to assume the part of a Prophet of God; and that again he came after he had promulgated his visions, and met with success beyond his utmost belief, when he proudly assumed the role of protector. It gives one an idea of the age of the Convent, to remember that it is older than Mahomet: it was founded by the Emperor Justinian in the year 555, so that it has been standing more than thirteen centuries! The early monks felt the need of making friends with the new power which had just risen in Arabia, and was attacking and destroying on every side, and so sought and received from Mahomet a pledge of his protection. He could not write, but dipping his broad hand in ink (it might have been in blood, for the color is red), gave the imprint of his open palm. That was a signature which could not be mistaken. A copy of this bloody hand is hung up in the room in which I am now writing; the original is said to be in Constantinople, though I can hear of no one who has seen it; but tradition supports the fact of its existence; and to this pledge of the Prophet the monks have often appealed, and it is due to it that the Convent has not been long since destroyed.
Continuing our course, we began to wind round the base of the mountain. Now it seemed as if we were pilgrims to the heavenly Jerusalem. It did not need that a monk should be sitting by the wayside, as in the old time, to ask "Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord, or who shall stand in His holy place?" and after hearing our confession, to grant us absolution: for were we not beginning, where Bunyan's Pilgrim began, at the foot of Mount Sinai, a journey which was to end only at the Celestial City? Though our progress was slow, yet we were "stepping heavenward." There was something like one's Christian experience even in this indirect approach.
