When the lamp lighter on that September morning entered the simple room that served as his presbytery behind the Holy Patapius Church and lit the bare lamp hanging from the ceiling, the sleeping priest jumped up in fright. The next month, he was turning seventy-five, and regularly in his dreams, he envisioned the end of his earthly life. His departure and the reward awaiting him, as he was completely convinced that the Most High would appreciate sincere remorse for his minor sins, his miserable life, his faith in Christian duty, his priestly dedication, and, of course, his proverbial poverty. If it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the gates of Paradise, then I must pass through them with banners and applause, he thought more and more often lately, then he dismissed his troubling thoughts to avoid falling into the deadly sin of pride.

Nevertheless, the cunning, vain thought had sneaked insidiously into his subconscious, and every night during his limited sleep, he dreamt ecstatically of the bright light awaiting devout and faithful Christians immediately after their departure from this vain world. Thus, when the naked glow of sixty candles suddenly lit up, the half-sleeping Father Lampros believed he saw before him the fiery sword of the Archangel of Souls and jumped up, stammering, miserably repentant: “Have mercy on me, Lord! I didn’t know, poor thing, I had just been discharged from the Navy! The devil had entered into me and was ruling my flesh. He pushed me that night into the cursed house of Madame…”