First the Conclave, the three scrutators, and himself as one of them.

The first scrutiny, the second scrutiny, the third scrutiny and his own

name going up, up, up, as he proclaimed the votes in a loud voice so

that all in the chapel might hear. One vote more to his own name,

another, still another; his fear, his fainting; the gentle tones of an

old Cardinal, saying, "Take your time, brother; rest, repose a while."

Then the election, the awful sense of being God's choice, the almost

unearthly joy of the supreme moment when he became the Vicar of Christ

on earth.

Then the stepping forth from the dim conclave into the full light of day

to be proclaimed the representative of the Almighty, the living voice of

God, the infallible one. The sunless chapel, the white and crimson

vestments, the fisherman's ring, the vast crowd in the blazing light of

the piazza, the sudden silence, and the clear cry of the Cardinal Deacon

ringing out under the blue sky, "I announce to you joyful tidings--the

Most Eminent and Reverend Cardinal Leone, having taken the name of Pius

X., is elected Pope." Then the call of silver trumpets, the roar of ten

thousand human throats, the surging mass of living men below the

balcony, and the joy-bells ringing out the glad news from every church

tower in Rome, that a new King and Pontiff had been given by God to His

World.

Somewhere in the dark hours the Pope dozed off, and then Sleep, the

maker of visions, dispelled his dream. Another picture--a picture which

had pursued him at intervals both in sleeping and waking hours, ever

since the great day when he stepped out on to the balcony and was

saluted as a god--came to him again that night. He called it his

presentiment. The scene was always the same. A darkened room, a chapel,

an altar, himself on his knees, with the sense of Someone bending over

him, and an awful voice saying into his ears:--"You, the Vicar of Jesus

Christ; you, the rock on which the Saviour built His Church; you, the

living voice of God; you, the infallible one; you, who fill the most

exalted dignity on earth--remember you are but clay!"

The Pope awoke with a start, and to break the oppression of painful

thoughts he turned on the light, propped himself up in bed, and taking a

book from the night table, he began to read. It was the Catholic legend

of a father doomed to destroy his son, or suffer the son to destroy the

father. They had been separated early in the son's life, and now that

they met again they met as foes, and the son drew his sword upon his

father without knowing who he was!




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