Note: Translator Pauline Bancroft Flach died in 1966, less than 70 years ago. Therefore, this work is protected by copyright, restricting your legal rights to reproduce it. However, you are welcome to view it on screen, as you do now. Read more about copyright.
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20 THE MIR A CLES OF ANTICHRIST
and the mists lay and rolled about in the low valley
round the steep Monte Chiaro.
Old Fra Felice came running towards the town.
He ran so fast that he thought he felt the mountain
tremble beneath him. He ran so fast that the
blades of grass by the roadside had no time to
sprinkle his cloak with dew; so fast that the
scorpions had no time to lift their tails and sting him.
As the old man ran, his cloak flapped unfastened
about him, and his rope swung unknotted behind.
His wide sleeves waved like wings, and his heavy
hood pounded up and down on his back, as if it
wished to urge him on.
The man in the custom-office, who was still asleep,
woke and rubbed his eyes as Fra Felice rushed by,
but he had no time to recognize him. The
pavements were slippery with dampness; beggars lay
and slept by the high stone steps with their legs
heedlessly stretched out into the street; exhausted
domino-players were going home from the Caf6
reeling with sleep. But Fra Felice hastened onward
regardless of all obstructions.
Houses and gateways, squares and arched-over
alleys disappeared behind old Fra Felice. He ran
half-way up the Corso before he stopped.
He stopped in front of a big house with many
heavy balconies. He seized the door-knocker and
pounded until a servant awoke. He would not be
quiet till the servant called up a maid, and the maid
waked the signora.
“ Donna Micaela, Fra Felice is downstairs. He
insists on speaking to you.”
When Donna Micaela at last came down to Fra
Felice, he was still panting and breathless, but
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