"And now you shall hear what happened to me last night. The weather was superb; it was glorious moonlight, and I had gone out alone to take a quiet promenade around the Holy City. I walked outside the ring-wall on the narrow path that extends all round the wall, and my thoughts were borne so far back into distant ages that I scarcely remembered where I was. All of a sudden I began to feel tired. I wondered if I should not soon come to a gate in the wall, through which I might get into the city and thus return to my quarters by a shorter road. Well, just as I was thinking of this, I saw a man open a large gate in the wall directly in front of me. He opened it wide and beckoned to me that I might pa.s.s in through it. I was absorbed in my dreams and hardly knew how far I had been walking. I was somewhat surprised that there was a gate here, but I thought no more about the matter and walked through it. As soon as I had pa.s.sed through the deep archway, the gate closed with a sharp clang.

When I turned round, there was no opening visible, only a walled-up gate--the one called the Golden. Before me lay the temple place, the broad Haram plateau, in the centre of which Omar's Mosque is enthroned.

And you know that no gate in the ring-wall leads thither but the Golden, which is not only closed but walled up.

"You can understand that I thought I'd gone mad; that I dreamed I had tried in vain to find some explanation of this. I looked around for the man who had let me in. He had vanished and I could not find him. But, on the other hand, I saw him all the plainer in memory--the tall and slightly bent figure, the beautiful locks, the mild visage, the parted beard. It was _Christ_, soothsayer, _Christ_ once again.

"Tell me now, you who can look into the hidden, what mean my dreams?

What, more than all, can be the meaning of my having really and truly pa.s.sed through the Golden Gate? Even at this moment I do not know how it happened, but I have done so. Tell me, now, what these three things can mean!"

The interpreter translated this for Mesullam, but the soothsayer was all the while in the same suspicious and crabbed mood. "I am certain that this stranger wants to poke fun at me," he thought. "Perchance he would provoke me to anger with all this talk about Christ?"

He would have concluded not to answer at all; but when the interpreter insisted, he muttered a few words.

"What does he say?" asked the traveller eagerly.

"He says he has nothing to say to you but that dreams are dreams."

"Then tell him from me," retorted the stranger, somewhat exasperated, "that this is not always true. It depends entirely upon who dreams them."

Before these words had been interpreted to Mesullam, the European had arisen and with quick and elastic step had walked toward the long pa.s.sage-way.

But Mesullam sat still and mused over his answer for five minutes. Then he fell upon his face, utterly undone. "Allah, Allah! Twice on the same day Fortune has pa.s.sed by me without my having captured her. What hath thy servant done to displease thee?"

Why the Pope Lived to be so Old

It happened at Rome in the early nineties. Leo XIII was just then at the height of his fame and greatness. All true Catholics rejoiced at his successes and triumphs, which in truth were sublime. And, even for those who could not grasp the great political events, it was plain that the power of the Church was again coming to the front. Any one at all could see that new cloisters were going up everywhere and that throngs of pilgrims were beginning to pour into Italy, as in olden times. In many, many places one saw the old, dilapidated churches in process of restoration, damaged mosaics being put in order, and the treasure-vaults of the churches being filled with golden relic-boxes and jewelled exhibits.

Right in the midst of this progressive period the Roman people were alarmed by the news that the Pope had been taken ill. He was said to be in a very precarious condition; it was even rumored that he was dying.

His condition was, too, in a great degree serious. The Pope's physicians issued bulletins which inspired but little hope. It was maintained that the Pope's great age--he was then eighty years old--made it seem almost incredible that he could survive this attack.

Naturally, the Pope's illness caused great unrest. In all the churches in Rome prayers were said for his recovery. The newspapers were filled with communications regarding the progress of the illness. The Cardinals were beginning to take steps and measures for the new Papal election.

Everywhere they bemoaned the approaching demise of the brilliant leader.

They feared that the good fortune which had followed the Church's standard under Leo XIII might not be faithful to it under the leadership of his successor. There were many who had hoped that this Pope would succeed in winning back Rome and the Ecclesiastical States. Others, again, had dreamed that he would bring back into the bosom of the Church some of the large Protestant countries.

For each second that was pa.s.sing, fear and anxiety grew apace. As night came on, in many homes the inmates would not retire. The churches were kept open until long past midnight, that the anxious ones might have an opportunity to go in and pray.

Among these throngs of devotees there was certainly more than one poor soul who cried out: "Dear Lord, take my life instead of his! Let him, who has done so much for Thy glory, live, and extinguish instead my life-flame, which burns to no one's use!"

But if the Angel of Death had taken one of these devotees at his word and had suddenly stepped up to him, with sword raised, to exact the fulfilment of his promise, one might wonder somewhat as to how he would have behaved. No doubt he would have recalled instantly such a rash proffer and begged for the grace of being allowed to live out all the years of his allotted time.

At this time there lived an old woman in one of the dingy ramshackle houses along the Tiber. She was one of those who have the kind of spirit that thanks G.o.d every day for life. Every morning she used to sit at the market-place and sell garden truck. And this was an occupation that was very congenial to her. She thought nothing could be livelier than a market of a morning. All tongues were wagging--all were harking their commodities, and buyers crowded in front of the stalls, selected and bargained, and many a good sally pa.s.sed between buyer and seller.

Sometimes the old woman was successful in making a good deal and in selling out her entire stock; but even if she couldn't sell so much as a radish, she loved to be standing amongst flowers and green things in the fresh morning air.

In the evening she had another and an even greater pleasure. Then her son came home and visited with her. He was a priest, but he had been a.s.signed to a little church in one of the humble quarters. The poor priests who served there had not much to live upon, and the mother feared that her son was starving. But from this, also, she derived much pleasure, for it gave her the opportunity of stuffing him full of delicacies when he came to see her. He struggled against it, as he was destined for a life of self-denial and strict discipline, but his mother became so distressed when he said no that he always had to give in.

While he was eating she trotted around in the room and chattered about all that she had seen in the morning during market hours. These were all very worldly matters, and it would occur to her sometimes that her son might be offended. Then she would break off in the middle of a sentence and begin to talk of spiritual and solemn things, but the priest couldn't help laughing. "No, no, mother Concenza!" he said, "continue in your usual way. The saints know you already, and they know what you are up to."

Then she, too, laughed and said: "You are quite right. It doesn't pay to pretend before the good Lord."

When the Pope was taken ill, Signora Concenza must also have a share in the general grief. Of her own accord it certainly never would have occurred to her to feel troubled about his pa.s.sing. But when her son came home to her, she could neither persuade him to taste of a morsel of food nor to give her a smile, although she was simply bubbling over with stories and interpolations. Naturally she became alarmed and asked what was wrong with him. "The Holy Father is ill," answered the son.

At first she could scarcely believe that this was the cause of his downheartedness. Of course it was a sorrow; but she knew, to be sure, that if a Pope died, immediately there would come another. She reminded her son of the fact that they had also mourned the good Pio Nono. And, you see, the one who succeeded him was a still greater Pope. Surely the Cardinals would choose for them a ruler who was just as holy and wise as this one.

The priest then began telling her about the Pope. He didn't bother to initiate her into his system of government, but he told her little stories of his childhood and young manhood. And from the days of his prelacy there were also things to relate--as, for instance, how he had at one time hunted down robbers in southern Italy, how he had made himself beloved by the poor and needy during the years when he was a bishop in Perugia.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she cried out: "Ah, if he were not so old! If he might only be allowed to live many more years, since he is such a great and holy man!"

"Ah, if only he were not so old!" sighed the son.

But Signora Concenza had already brushed the tears from her eyes. "You really must bear this calmly," said she. "Remember that his years of life are simply run out. It is impossible to prevent death from seizing him."

The priest was a dreamer. He loved the Church and had dreamed that the great Pope would lead her on to important and decisive victories. "I would give my life if I could purchase new life for him!" said he.

"What are you saying?" cried his mother. "Do you really love him so much? But, in any case, you must not express such dangerous wishes.

Instead, you should think of living a good long time. Who knows what may happen? Why couldn't you, in your turn, become Pope?"

A night and a day pa.s.sed without any improvement in the Pope's condition. When Signora Concenza met her son the following day, he looked completely undone. She understood that he had pa.s.sed the whole day in prayer and fasting, and she began to feel deeply grieved. "I verily believe that you mean to kill yourself for the sake of that sick old man!" said she.

The son was hurt by again finding her without sympathy, and tried to persuade her to sympathize a little with his grief. "You, truly, more than any one else, ought to wish that the Pope might live," he said. "If he may continue to rule, he will name my parish priest for bishop before the year shall have pa.s.sed and, in that event, my fortune is made. He will then give me a good place in a cathedral. You shall not see me going about any more in a worn-out ca.s.sock. I shall have plenty of money, and I shall be able to help you and all your poor neighbors."

"But if the Pope dies?" asked Signora Concenza breathlessly.

"If the Pope dies, then no one can know--If my parish priest doesn't happen to be in favor with his successor, we must both remain where we now are for many years to come."

Signora Concenza came close to her son and regarded him anxiously. She looked at his brow, which was covered with wrinkles, and at his hair that was just turning gray. He looked tired and worn. It was actually imperative that he should have that place at the cathedral right away.

"To-night I shall go to church and pray for the Pope," thought she. "It won't do for him to die."

After supper she bravely conquered her fatigue and went out on the streets. Great crowds of people thronged there. Many were only curious and had gone out because they wished to catch the news of the death at first hand; but many were really distressed and wandered from church to church to pray.

As soon as Signora Concenza had come out on the street, she met one of her daughters, who was married to a lithographer. "Oh, mother, but you do right to come out and pray for him!" exclaimed the daughter. "You can't imagine what a misfortune it would be if he were to die! My Fabiano was ready to take his own life when he learned that the Pope was ill."

She related how her husband, the lithographer, had but just struck off hundreds of thousands of the Pope's pictures. Now, if the Pope were to die, he wouldn't be able to sell half of them--no, not even a quarter of them. He would be ruined. Their entire fortune was at stake.

She rushed on to gather some fresh news, wherewith she might comfort her poor husband, who did not dare venture out, but sat at home and brooded over his misfortune. Her mother stood still on the street, mumbling to herself: "It won't do for him to die. It will never do for him to die!"

She walked into the first church she came to. There she fell upon her knees and prayed for the life of the Pope.

As she arose to leave, she happened to lift her eyes to a little votive tablet which hung on the wall just above her head. The tablet was a representation of Death raising a terrifying two-edged sword to mow down a young girl, while her mother, who had cast herself in his path, tries in vain to receive the blow in place of her child.

She stood long before the picture, musing. "Signor Death is a careful arithmetician," she remarked. "One has never heard of his agreeing to exchange an old person for a young one."

She remembered her son's words that he would be willing to die in the Pope's stead, and a shudder pa.s.sed through her whole body. "Think, if Death were to take him at his word!"

"No, no, Signor Death!" she whispered. "You mustn't believe him. You must understand that he didn't mean what he said. He wants to live. He doesn't want to leave his old mother, who loves him."