The world was in turmoil in Adrianople. From all the countries and villages of the neighborhood, men and women arrived with their children, all dressed in their best clothes and most precious jewels, to attend that nighttime festival of the Assumption, which at that time was celebrated with great reverence and luxury in the capital of Thrace.

All the inns, all the hostels were full. Even private houses were hosting relatives and friends, so that the last ones arriving at night could no longer find a bed or even a mattress to lie down on. At the open door of an inn, by the Evros river, after sunset, an old man stood pleading, trying to convince the innkeeper to let him in. He was neatly dressed, though modestly, and held the hand of a little girl about four or five years old, who, from exhaustion, was dragging her little feet. They had gone from house to house all afternoon and had been turned away everywhere, because there was no place left, and with sorrow the old man looked at the crowded hall where many people were eating and drinking, and with his eyes searched for a little corner to hide with his little girl.

– No, old man, forgive me, said the innkeeper, who, with a pitcher of wine in hand, was running from one guest to another, filling the tin cups. No bed or mattress, but I don’t even have straw to give you anymore. Move along.