A soft, Indian summer haze hangs over the lazy-lit valley; it is always so in the summer time.
Outside the city walls stretch the wheat-fields and the meadows, the vineyards and orchards, all snug in the nest of forest-crowned hills, whose lower slopes are spotted with broken herds of cattle and the more mobile flocks of sheep.

An air of tranquillity lies low over the entire vista; one dozes if he looks long into this peaceful bowl of plenty.
From the distant passes in the mountains to the east and north come the dull intonations of dynamite blasts, proving the presence of that disturbing element of progress which is driving the railroad through the unbroken heart of the land.
It is a good three hours' ride to the summit of Monastery Mountain.

And, after the height has been attained, one does not care to linger long among the chilly, whistling crags, with their snow-crevasses and bitter winds; the utter loneliness, the aloofness of this frost-crowned crest appals, disheartens one who loves the fair, green things of life.

In the shelter of the crags, at the base of the Monastery walls, looking out over the sunlit valley, one has his luncheon and his snack of spirits quite undisturbed, for the monks pay no heed to him.

They are not hospitable, neither are they unfriendly.