He began again to sing the pilgrim song in his clear voice and went up to the altar. But as he came nearer to the image, he broke off in his song again. He stopped and looked at the image with staring eyes. Then he stretched out his hand, took the crown and brought it close to his eyes. “It is written there; it is written there,” he murmured. And he let the crown fall from his hand and roll down on the stone floor. From that moment Father Gondo knew that the outcast from Aracoeli was before him. But he did not immediately cry it out to the people, but said instead, with his usual gentleness,-- “My friends, I wish to tell you something strange.” He told them of the Englishwoman who had wished to steal the Christ-image of Aracoeli. And he told how the image had been called Antichrist and had been cast out into the world. “I still remember old Fra Simone,” said Father Gondo. “He never showed me the image without saying: ‘It was this little hand that rang. It was this little foot that kicked on the door.’ “But when I asked Fra Simone what had become of the other image, he always said: ‘What should have become of him? The dogs of Rome have probably dragged him away and torn him to pieces.’” When Father Gondo had finished speaking, he went, still quite slowly and quietly, and picked up the crown that he had just let fall to the floor. “Now read that!” he said. And he let the crown go from man to man. The people stood with their wax-candles in their hands and lighted up the crown with them. Those who could read, read; the others saw that at least there was an inscription. And each one who had held the crown in his hand instantly extinguished his candle. When the last candle was put out, Father Gondo turned to his pilgrims who had gathered about him. “I have brought you here,” he said to them, “that you might find one who gives the soul peace and an entry to God’s kingdom; but I have brought you wrong, for this one has no such thing to give. His kingdom is only of this world. “Our unfortunate sister has gone mad,” continued Father Gondo, “because she came here and hoped for heavenly benefits. Her reason gave way when her prayers were not heard. He could not hear her, for his kingdom is only of this world.” He was silent a moment, and they all looked up at him to find out what they ought to think of it all. He asked as quietly as before: “Shall an image which bears such words in its crown any longer be allowed to desecrate an altar?” “No, no!” cried the pilgrims. The people of Diamante stood silent. Father Gondo took the image in his hands and carried it on his outstretched arms through the church and towards the door. But although the Father had spoken gently and humbly, his eyes had rested the whole time sternly and with compelling force on the crowd of people. There was not one there whom he had not subdued and mastered by the strength of his will. Every one had felt paralyzed and without the power of thinking independently.