you up on a high
mountain, and from there you shall overlook the whole world. You see,
Olof, it is now Whitsuntide; it was at this time the Holy Ghost came
down and filled the Apostles--nay, all humanity. The spirit of the Lord
has descended upon me. I feel it, and for that reason they shut me up
like one demented. But now I am free again, and now I shall speak the
word; for now, Olof, we are standing on the mountain. Behold the people
crawling on their knees before those two men seated on their thrones.
The taller holds two keys in one hand and a thunderbolt in the other.
That is the Pope. Now he hurls his thunderbolt, and a thousand souls
pass into perdition, while the rest kiss his foot and sing Gloria
Deo--but he who is seated on the throne turns about and smiles. Now
behold his companion. He has a sword and at sceptre. Bow down before
the sceptre, lest the sword smite you. When he knits his brows all the
people tremble. (He turns toward the man on the other throne, and both
smile.) They are two pillars of Baal. Then is heard a sound out of
heaven as of a host muttering. "Who is grumbling?" exclaims the Pope,
shaking his thunderbolt. "Who is muttering?"--and the Emperor shakes
his sword. Nobody answers, but still there is grumbling in the air, and
roaring, and a cry of "Think!" The Pope cowers, and the Emperor, turning
pale, demands: "Who was it that cried 'Think'? Bring him here, and I
will take his life!" The Pope shouts: "Bring him here, and I will take
his soul!" The cry came out of heaven, and was uttered by no one. But
still the sound of it rises; a storm wind springs up; it sweeps over the
Alps and goes roaring across Fichtelgebirge; it stirs up the Baltic and
echoes from the shores, and the cry is repeated a thousand times all
over the world: "Freedom, freedom!" The Pope throws his keys into the
sea, and the Emperor sheathes his sword, for against that cry they
avail nothing.--Oh, Olof, you wish to smite the Pope, but you forget the
Emperor--the Emperor, who is killing his people without counting them
because they dare to sigh when he tramples on their chests. You want to
smite the Pope at Rome, but, like Luther, you want to give them a new
pope in Holy Writ. Listen! Listen! Bind not the spirits with any fetters
whatsoever! Forget not the great Whitsunday! Forget not your great goal:
spiritual life and spiritual freedom! Listen not to the cry of death:
"And behold, it is all good!" For then the millennium, the