Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - In the old Tower - III
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He stopped abruptly as a tiny messenger angel
alighted swiftly in front of us. Folding his
purple wings he adjusted his short tunic of
gossamer and petals of roses, all glistening with
morning dew. His little legs were bare and rosy
like the rose petals, on his tiny feet were golden
sandals. Cocked on one side of his curly head
he wore a fairy cap of tulips and lilies of the
valley. His eyes were full of sunglitter and his
lips were full of joy. In his small hands he held
an illuminated missal, which he presented to
St. Peter with a smiling air of importance.
“They always turn to me when they are in
trouble,” frowned St. Peter as he read the
missal. “When all is well, they pay no heed
to my warnings. Tell them,” he said to the
messenger angel, “tell them I am coming at
once, tell them to answer no questions till I am
with them.”
The messenger angel lifted his rosy finger to
his tulip cap, unfolded his purple wings and flew
away swift as a bird and singing like one.
St. Peter looked perplexedly at me with his
scrutinizing eyes. Turning to an aged
archangel who, leaning on his drawn sword, stood on
guard by the golden curtain, St. Peter said
pointing towards me:
“Let him await my return here. He is
audacious and cunning, his tongue is smooth,
see that he does not unloosen yours. We all
have our weaknesses, I know which is yours.
There is something strange about this spirit, I
cannot even understand how he came here. For
all I know he may belong to that same tribe
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