instead of doing so he involuntarily strained his hearing. He wished to hear more. All was quiet. From the corner of the roof regular drops continued to fall into the tub below. Outside was a mist and fog eating into the snow that lay on the ground. It was still, very still. And suddenly there was a rustling at the window and a voice—that same tender, timid voice, which could only belong to an attractive woman—said:
“Let me in, for Christ’s sake!”
It seemed as though his blood had all rushed to his heart and settled there. He could hardly breathe. “Let God arise and let his enemies be scattered …”
“But I am not a devil!” It was obvious that the lips that uttered this were smiling. “I am not a devil, but only a sinful woman who has lost her way, not figuratively but literally!” She laughed. “I am frozen and beg for shelter.”
He pressed his face to the window, but the little icon-lamp was reflected by it and shone on the whole pane. He put his hands to both sides of his face and peered between them. Fog, mist, a tree, and—just opposite him—she herself. Yes, there, a few inches from him, was the sweet, kindly frightened face of a woman in a cap and a coat of long white fur, leaning towards him. Their eyes met with instant recognition: not that they had ever known one another, they had never met before, but by the look they exchanged they—and he particularly—felt that they knew and understood one another. After that glance to imagine her to be a devil and not a simple, kindly, sweet, timid woman, was impossible.
“Who are you? Why have you come?” he asked.
“Do please open the door!” she replied, with capricious authority. “I am frozen. I tell you I have lost my way.”
“But I am a monk—a hermit.”