The Angel at the Gate — Divine Comedy

The fair consort of old Tithonus looks palely over the eastern cliff, lucent with jewels in the sign of that chill animal who smites fearful nations. Two steps of night's ascent are past; the third is closing its wing. Dante, who has so much of Adam with him, sinks on the grass where all five sit. Near dawn, when the swallow renews her sad lay and minds are less restrained, he seems to see a golden-feathered eagle hovering, in that place from which Ganymede was snatched. It wheels, then rushes terrible as lightning, and snatches him even to the fire. Both burn. Sleep breaks. He shakes as Achilles woke at Scyros, deadly pale, ice-struck, the sun more than two hours aloft, his looks turned to the sea. Fear not, Virgil says. Thou art come to Purgatory now. Lo the cliff that bounds it; lo the entrance. Before dawn, while the wearied soul slept, a lady came: I am Lucia. Suffer me to take this man who slumbers; easier so his way shall speed. Sordello and the others tarried. She bore him; Virgil followed; she showed the entrance with her eyes, then vanished with the sleep.

Terror turns to comfort. They climb toward a portal, three steps of different colour, and one who watches without a word, seated on the highest, a naked sword glancing rays so hard the eye fails. Speak from whence ye stand. What would ye? Where is your escort? A heavenly dame told them even now, Virgil says. The keeper bids them come. The lowest stair is marble white so smooth Dante sees his form distinct. The next is darker than sablest grain, rough, singed, cracked lengthwise and across. The third is porphyry, flaming red as life-blood from a vein. The angel's feet rest on a diamond threshold. Ask with humble heart that he unbar the bolt. Dante casts himself, praying for pity, and first falls thrice on his bosom. Seven times the letter of inward stain is inscribed with the blunted sword. When entered, wash these scars away.

The robe is the colour of ashes or dry earth. From it the keeper draws two keys, gold and silver. The pallid first, then the burnished, ply the gate. If either fail in the keyhole, expect access in vain. One is more precious; the other needs skill and sagacity before it will disengage the knot. From Peter he holds them, instructed rather to err in opening than in keeping fast, so but the suppliant implore. He thrusts the door: enter, but hear this warning: he forth again departs who looks behind. The hinges grate like the Tarpeian when Metellus was bereft. Dante hears, as thunder first, We praise thee, O God, blended with sweet melody, now high and clear like organ and chant, now floating indistinct away.