Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - In the old Tower - III
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“I say,” whispered Arcangelo Fusco, blinking
cunningly at me, “I think you’d better take no
unnecessary risks. If I were you I wouldn’t say
anything about the other shoemakers you spoke
about. I didn’t say anything about my
shoemaker since they didn’t ask me about him.
After all perhaps they never knew anything about
him—chi lo sa?”
The angel took me by the hand and led me
down the peristyle to the Hall of Judgment, vast
as the Hall of Osiris with columns of jasper and
opal and capitals of golden lotus flowers and
shafts of sunbeams supporting its mighty vault
all strewn with the stars of Heaven.
I lifted my head and I saw myriads of martyrs
and saints in their white robes, hermits,
anchorites and stylites, their wild features scorched
by the Nubian sun, naked cenobites with their
emaciated bodies covered by a fell of hair,
stern-eyed prophets, their long beards spread over
their chests, holy apostles with palm branches
in their hands, patriarchs and Fathers of all lands
and all creeds, a few popes in their glittering
tiaras and a couple of cardinals in their red robes.
Seated in a semicircle in front of me sat my
judges, stern and impassible.
“It looks bad,” said St. Peter handing them
my credentials, “very bad!”
St. Ignatius, the Grand Inquisitor, rose from
his seat and spoke:
“His life is sullied with heinous sins, his soul
is dark, his heart is impure. As a Christian and
as a saint I ask for his damnation, may the devils
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