LITMIR.BIZ

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High, high up, the air was lighted by their shining wings.

      At the moment when the star flamed out over the mountain-village all nature awoke, and the men who stood on the top of the Capitol were conscious of it. They felt fresh, but caressing breezes; sweet perfumes streamed up about them; the trees rustled; the Tiber murmured, the stars shone, and the moon stood high in the heaven and lighted the world. And out of the sky the two doves flew circling down, and lighted on the emperor’s shoulders.

      When this miracle took place Augustus rose up with proud joy, but his friends and his slaves fell on their knees. “Hail, Cæsar!” they cried. “Your genius has answered you! You are the god who shall be worshipped on the heights of the Capitol.”

      And the tribute which the men in their transport offered the emperor was so loud that the old sibyl heard it. It waked her from her visions. She rose from her place on the edge of the cliff, and came forward toward the people. It seemed as if a dark cloud had risen up from the abyss and sunk down over the mountain. She was terrifying in her old age. Coarse hair hung in thin tufts about her head, her joints were thickened, and her dark skin, hard as bark, covered her body with wrinkle upon wrinkle.

      Mighty and awe-inspiring, she advanced towards the emperor. With one hand she seized his wrist, with the other she pointed towards the distant east.

      “Look,” she commanded, and the emperor raised his eyes and saw. The heavens opened before his eyes and he looked away to the far east. And he saw a miserable stable by a steep cliff, and in the open door some kneeling shepherds. Within the stable he saw a young mother on her knees before a little child, who lay on a bundle of straw on the floor.

      And the sibyl’s big, bony fingers pointed towards that poor child.

      “Hail, Cæsar!” said the sibyl, with a scornful laugh. “There is the god who shall be worshipped on the heights of the Capitol.”

      Augustus shrank back from her as if from a maniac.

      But upon the sibyl fell the mighty spirit of the prophetess. Her dim eyes began to burn, her hands were stretched towards heaven, her voice did not seem to be her own, but rang with such strength that it could have been heard over the whole world. And she spoke words which she seemed to have read in the stars: —

      “On the heights of the Capitol the redeemer of the world shall be worshipped, Christ or Antichrist, but no frail mortal.”

      When she had spoken she moved away between the terrified men, went slowly down the mountain, and disappeared.

      Augustus, the next day, strictly forbade his people to raise him any temple on the Capitol. In its place he built a sanctuary to the new-born godchild and called it “Heaven’s Altar,” Aracoeli.

      II

      ROME’S HOLY CHILD

      On the summit of the Capitol stood a monastery occupied by Franciscan monks. It was, however, less a monastery than a fortress. It was like a watch-tower by the seashore, where watch was kept for an approaching foe.

      Near the monastery stood the magnificent basilica “Santa Maria in Aracoeli.” The basilica was built because the sibyl had caused Augustus to see Christ. But the monastery was built because they feared the fulfilment of the sibyl’s prophecy; that Antichrist should come to be worshipped on the Capitol.

      And the monks felt like warriors. When they went to church to sing and pray, they thought that they were walking on ramparts, and sending showers of arrows down on the assaulting Antichrist.

      They lived always in terror of Antichrist, and all their service was a struggle to keep him away from the Capitolium.

      They drew their hats down over their eyes and sat and gazed out into the world. Their eyes grew feverish with watching, and they continually thought they discovered Antichrist. “He is here, he is there!” they cried. And they fluttered up in their brown robes and braced themselves for the struggle, as crows gather on a crag when they catch a glimpse of an eagle.

      But some said: “What is the use of prayers and penitence? The sibyl has said it. Antichrist must come.”

      Then others said, “God can work a miracle. If it was of no avail to struggle, He would not have let the sibyl warn us.”

      Year after year the Franciscans defended the Capitol by penitences, and works of charity, and the promulgation of God’s word.

      They protected it century after century, but as time went on, men became more and more feeble and lacking in force. The monks said among themselves: “Soon the kingdoms of the earth can stand no longer. A redeemer of the world is needed as in the time of Augustus.”

      They tore their hair and scourged themselves, for they knew that he who was to be born again must be the Antichrist, and that it would be a regeneration of force and violence.

      As a sick man is tormented by his pain, so were they hunted by the thought of Antichrist. And they saw him before them. He was as rich as Christ had been poor, as wicked as Christ had been good, as honored as Christ had been humiliated.

      He bore powerful weapons and marched at the head of bloody evil-doers. He overturned the churches, murdered the priests, and armed people for strife, so that brother fought against brother, and each feared his neighbor, and there was no peace.

      And for every person of power and might who made his way over the sea of time, they cried out from the watch-tower on the Capitol: “Antichrist, Antichrist!”

      And for every one who disappeared, and went under, the monks cried: “Hosanna!” and sang the “Te Deum.” And they said: “It is because of our prayers that the wicked fall before they succeed in scaling the Capitol.”

      It was a hard punishment that in that beautiful monastery its monks could never feel at rest. Their nights were heavier than their days. Then they saw wild beasts come into their cells and stretch themselves out beside them on their beds. And each wild beast was Antichrist. But some of the monks saw him as a dragon, and others as a griffin, and others as a sphinx. When they got up from their dreams they were as weak as after a severe illness.

      The only comfort of these poor monks was the miracle-working image of Christ, which was kept in the basilica of Aracoeli. When a monk was frightened to desperation, he went into the church to seek consolation from it. He would go through the whole basilica and into a well-guarded chapel at the side of the great altar. There he lighted the consecrated wax candles, and spoke a prayer, before opening the altar shrine, which had double locks and doors of iron. And as long as he gazed at the image, he remained upon his knees.

      The image represented a little babe, but he had a gold crown upon his head, gold shoes upon his feet, and his whole dress shone with jewels, which were given to him by those in distress, who had called on him for help. And the walls of the chapel were covered with pictures, which showed how he had saved from dangers of fire and shipwreck, how he had cured the sick and helped all those who were in trouble. When the monk saw it he rejoiced, and said to himself: “Praise be to God! As yet it is Christ who is worshipped on the Capitol.”

      The monk saw the face of the image smile at him with mysterious, conscious power, and his spirit soared up into the holy realms of confidence. “What can overthrow you in your might?” he said. “What can overthrow you? To you the Eternal City bends its knees. You are Rome’s Holy Child. Yours is the crown which the people worship. You come in your might with help and strength and consolation. You alone shall be worshipped on the Capitol.”

      The monk saw the crown of the image turn into a halo, which sent out rays over the whole world. And in whatever direction he followed the rays he saw the world full of churches, where Christ was worshipped. It seemed as if a powerful conqueror had shown him all the castles and fortresses which defended his kingdom. “It is certain that you cannot fall,” said the monk. “Your kingdom will be everlasting.”

      And every monk who saw the image had a few hours of consolation and peace, until fear seized him again. But had the monks not possessed the image, their souls would not have found a moment’s rest.

      Thus had the monks of Aracoeli, by prayers and struggles, worked their way through the centuries, and there

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