Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - In the old Tower - III
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show him the way. Now and then he sank
down on his knees as if he had no more strength
to struggle on. Already the fields and forests,
the rivers and the seas lay under his feet, and
soon even the snow-capped mountains
disappeared in the mist of the vanishing earth.
Onwards, upwards went his way. Storm driven
clouds lifted him on their mighty shoulders and
carried him with vertiginous speed through the
vastness of the infinite, beckoning stars led him
nearer and nearer to the land that knows of no
night, no death. He stood at last before the
Gates of Heaven riveted with golden hinges to
the adamantine rock. The gates were closed.
Was it an eternity, was it a day, was it a minute
he knelt on the threshold hoping against hope
to be let in? Suddenly, moved by invisible
hands, the mighty doors swung wide open to
let pass a floating form with the wings of an
angel and the still face of a sleeping child. He
sprang to his feet and with the audacity of
despair he stole in through the Gates just as they
were closing before him.
“Who art thou, daring intruder?” a stern
voice called out. A tall figure, robed in a white
mantle, the golden key in his hands, stood
before me.
“Keeper of the Gates of Heaven, holy St.
Peter, I beseech Thee, let me stay!”
St. Peter glanced rapidly at my credentials,
the scanty records of my life on earth.
“It looks bad,” said St. Peter. “Very bad.
How did you come here, I am sure there must
be some mistake. . . .”
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