Apparently, Brother Leo had not denied himself the pleasure of telling about the miracle that had just occurred, for their way was marked by popular demonstrations and by miraculous cures. Everyone wanted to see and touch the stigmatic of La Verna, who had become as a living relic, endowed with supernatural virtue. Even his donkey’s bridle was believed to help mothers in difficult childbirth obtain a happy delivery.

Francis, meanwhile, humble and absorbed in God, did not hear the murmurs of veneration by which he was accompanied. Pulling the sleeves of his habit over his bandaged hands, he extended only his fingertips to be kissed by his admirers, not even looking around him.

“Shall we reach Borgo San Sepolcro soon?” he inquired, long after they had passed the town. They made a short halt at the hermitage of Monte Casale, where he restored an epileptic friar to health. Stopping also at Citta di

Castello, he delivered a possessed woman who “barked like a dog,” and cured a young boy “whose wound healed over in the form of a red rose.”

Already the first snows had made their appearance on the mountains. One night when our travelers, prevented by a storm from reaching shelter, had been forced to take refuge under an overhanging rock for the night, they were unable to light a fire—a thing which put the muleteer in a bad humor. “It is all Francis’s fault,” he grumbled, “that we are in this fix and liable to freeze to death.”

The saint touched the grumbler on the back, and (writes St. Bonaventure) the mere touch of his stigmatized hand made the shivering man warm again. A few minutes later he dozed off, and as he himself related later on, he never slept better in his life.

Pained but with Purpose

No sooner had Francis arrived at the Portiuncula than, as though filled with new zeal, he wanted to resume his apostolic tours. But the aggravation of his gastric disorders and the pain caused by the stigmata and his weakness from the loss of blood, troubled the friars. They begged him to seek medical treatment, but he gaily calmed their fears. Did not his honor as Christ’s knight require him to die in harness? And throughout that winter and the following spring, mounted on a donkey, Francis continued to go about Umbria, preaching in as many as three or four villages in a day.

At Foligno, Brother Elias told him of a dream he had had about him: an old priest all in white appeared to him, warning him that Francis would die in two years. This announcement filled the Poverello with joy, but his infirmities soon increased to the point that the friars feared lest he should succumb before that date. He became almost blind and suffered from excruciating headaches.

As Honorius III and the Curia, driven from Rome by a popular uprising, were lodged in Rieti, Cardinal Hugolin urged Francis to consult Teobaldo Saraceni, the pope’s physician. Now the saint had a horror of doctors, and in order to get him to agree to treatment, Elias had to appeal to his spirit of obedience and quote this Scripture verse: “The Most High hath created medicines out of the earth, and a wise man will not abhor them” (see Sirach 38:4).

It was in the summer of 1225 that Francis consented to go to Rieti. Taking with him those who remained his nurses to the end—Brother Masseo and the Three Companions—he decided first to take leave of St. Clare, whom he feared never to see again. Upon his arrival, his condition became so grave that he had to give up going any farther. He stayed about seven weeks at San Damiano, where St. Clare had the consolation of caring for her spiritual father. She had a hut of reeds built for him between the chaplain’s house and the convent, like the one he occupied at the Portiuncula; but before getting any rest there, he spent some dreadful hours.

One would have thought that, “summoned by the devil, all the mice in the country had met there to torment him.” The wattles of his cabin were full of them, and the ground was covered with them. They climbed up on the table where he ate and into the bed in which he was attempting to sleep, and scurried squeaking over his face. One night, his patience exhausted, and tempted to despair, the Poverello cried out to God who seemed to have forsaken him. It was then that a familiar voice was heard:

“Francis, if in exchange for all these evils, you were to receive a treasure so great that the whole earth—even if it were changed into gold would be nothing beside it, would you not have reason to be satisfied?”

“Certainly, Lord!”

“Then, be happy, for I guarantee that one day you shall enjoy the Kingdom of Heaven, and this is as certain as if you possessed it already.

What did they matter now—after such an assurance—the mice, the suffering, and the other inventions of the Evil One? The divine words filled Francis with heavenly joy; the cabin of torments became a place of delight; and this malefic night inspired the invalid, overwhelmed by every ill, with the most optimistic song ever to spring from a human heart.

We like to think that it was at San Damiano that the Poverello composed it. For did not everything in this place which had seen the birth of his vocation, recall God’s mercies toward him? The cave in which he had hidden to escape his father’s “prison.” The stone bench where the old priest had sat and talked to him. The miraculous crucifix that had shown him his way. And this chapel rebuilt by him, whence in the silent night he could hear the chant of the Poor Ladies. No doubt, the thought of Sister Clare—the perfect incarnation of his ideal—the nearness of the four good brothers who cared for him with such tender devotion, and the thought of so many more of his sons who followed the Gospel so well in their poor hermitages, were added consolations.

So Francis blessed his fruitful and beautiful existence. He blessed all nature and life, victorious over death and evil; he blessed the sun that illumines man’s joys and sorrows, his struggles and triumphs; he blessed the earth, where man may merit heaven; and he thanked God for having created him. When the sun had risen, he called his companions and said to them: “The Lord has deigned to assure me that I shall one day enter His Kingdom. So to show Him my gratitude, I desired to compose this new song which you are about  to hear.” And the blind saint, for whom the least ray of light was a torture, sang to them what he called “The Canticle of the Creatures”:

Most High Almighty Good Lord,
Yours are praise, glory, honor and all blessing.
To You alone, Most High, do they belong, And no man is worthy to mention You.
Be praised, my Lord, with all Your creatures, Especially Sir Brother Sun,
Who is daylight, and by him You shed light on us.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor.
Of You, Most High, he is a symbol.
Be praised, my Lord for Sister Moon and the Stars.
In heaven You have formed them clear and bright and fair.
Be praised, my Lord, for Brother Wind
And for air and cloud and clear and all weather,
By which You give Your creatures nourishment.
Be praised, my Lord, for Sister Water,
For she is very useful, humble, precious and pure.
Be praised, my Lord, for Brother Fire,
By whom You light up the night,
For he is fair and merry and mighty and strong.
Be praised, my Lord, for our Sister Mother Earth,
Who sustains and rules us
And produces varied fruits with many-colored flowers and plants.
Praise and bless my Lord
And give Him thanks and serve Him with great humility.

Such is the hymn that won for the Poverello the title of the “Orpheus of the Middle Ages,” the incomparable psalm which Renan considered the “most beautiful piece of religious poetry since the Gospels.” Sister Clare probably was the first to hear it, she who loved poetry and music and who also showed herself so grateful to God for the gift of life. Francis dictated it in Italian, such as we still have it; then had it sung by his companions to a melody he had adapted for it. And he himself was so pleased with it that for a moment he thought of sending Brother Pacifico through Europe to sing it to everyone.

An occasion did come soon to call on the talents of the former troubadour.

A violent quarrel had once more set the civil and religious authorities of Assisi at loggerheads. Bishop Guido had excommunicated the podesta Oportulo who had countered by forbidding all relations between the bishop and the officials. Nothing could be more painful to the saint than to see his fellow citizens at odds. Immediately adding a new stanza to his poem, he called Brother Pacifico and said: “Go find the podesta for me, and invite him with his worthies to come to the bishop’s palace to hear my song.”

There was a great crowd in the bishop’s courtyard when the King of Verse appeared with his musicians: “You are about to hear,” he announced, “the ‘Canticle of the Creatures’ which Francis has just composed to the glory of God, and for the edification of his neighbor. And he himself asks you through me to hear it with great devotion.” Brother Pacifico then intoned:

Most High Almighty Good Lord,
Yours are praise, glory, honor and all blessing.
To You alone, Most High, do they belong,
And no man is worthy to mention You.
Be praised, my Lord, with all Your creatures,
Especially Sir Brother Sun,
Who is daylight, and by him You shed light on us.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor.
Of You, Most High, he is a symbol.

Alternating with their leader, the friars repeated the stanza in unison. Meanwhile the podesta, writes the author of the Speculum, “had risen, and, with hands joined and tears in his eyes, was listening with reverent attention.” The entire audience imitated him, moved by these accents of a beloved voice and at hearing their dear saint singing the beauties of a world he could no longer see.

Be praised, my Lord for our Sister Mother Earth,
Who sustains and rules us and produces varied
fruits with many-colored flowers and plants.

It was at this point that Francis had introduced his plea for pardon and peace, his true heart’s message to his fellow citizens:

Be praised, my Lord, for those who grant pardon for love of You,
And bear sickness and tribulation.
Blessed are they who shall bear them in peace,
For by You, Most High, they shall be crowned.

At these words, the emotion of the assemblage was at its height, and sobs choked them as the podesta turned toward the bishop. Falling on his knees before him, he said: “Even if he had killed my own son,  there is not a man in the world that I would not want to forgive now, for love of God and His servant Francis. With much greater reason, my Lord, I am ready to make whatever satisfaction you may desire.”

Bishop Guido was no less prompt to admit his own errors. Raising the podesta to his feet and warmly embracing him, he said: “I likewise ask your forgiveness. Pardon me for not fulfilling my charge with proper humility and for having yielded once more to anger.”

They separated completely reconciled; and, thanks to Francis, charity and peace won out once more among the people of Assisi. As soon as he was able to be moved, the saint left Sister Clare, whom he was never to see again, and with his companions, headed for Rieti, fifty miles away. They passed near Terni, then along the winding course of the Velino, coming at last into a lovely plain at the end of which was to be seen—etched against the somber mass of Monte Terminillo—the smiling city where the papal Curia was staying.

Rieti was preparing a triumphal welcome for the stigmatized saint of La Verna. To avoid it, or because of his exhausted state, three miles before reaching his destination Francis asked hospitality of the parish priest of San Fabiano. He was a poor priest whose income was derived from a vineyard. He gave Francis and his escort a warm welcome, but was soon to repent having a saint in his home. For his house was invaded by crowds of pilgrims. The horses of the prelates of the Curia trampled down his garden, and the thirsty throngs picked his choicest grapes and ravaged his vineyard. As he was blustering against the people who had ruined him, Francis observed: “Father, there’s no use in crying over spilled milk. But tell me, how much does your vineyard bring you in the best years?”

“Fourteen measures.”

“Well, then! If you will agree not to call people names any more, I’ll guarantee you twenty from this vintage. And if you fall short, I promise to make up the difference.”

St. Francis Arrives

But the saint did not have to make up anything, for when the grapes were harvested, the priest had his twenty measures. And this was a real miracle, for his vineyard had never yielded more than fourteen before.

The arrival of Francis at Rieti gave full scope to the popular devotion. The bishop’s palace, where Hugolin installed him, was the scene of sometimes stormy demonstrations. People fought over his garments, his combings. A farmer who had collected the water in which Francis had washed his hands, sprinkled his sick flock of sheep with it and they were immediately healed. The case is also told of a canon named Gideon, who was also sick, but as a result of his debaucheries, and who came up to Francis weeping and asking him to bless him.

“How can I make the sign of the cross over you,” Francis asked him, “a man who lives only for the flesh? I will bless you, though, in Christ’s name; but know that evil will befall you again, if you ever return to your vomit.”

And the prediction came true; for when the cured canon went back to his sinful life, he alone was killed when the roof fell in at the house of a fellow canon where he was passing the night. Meanwhile, the saint’s condition grew steadily worse. His stomach, liver, and spleen were seriously affected, while he continued to suffer horribly in his head and eyes. At that time, wishing to hear some music, he summoned a friar who had been a troubadour in the world, and begged him to borrow a viol and give him a little concert. “It would do Brother Body so much good,” he remarked, “to be a little distracted from his sufferings.”

But the former troubadour, who believed that a saint ought to stay in character, observed that some people might be scandalized. “Then let’s not say any more about it,” replied Francis, “for we do have to make concessions to public opinion.”

But the next night, a mysterious visitor came and played the viol under his windows. In the morning, Francis sent for the scrupulous friar. “God consoles the afflicted,” he observed. “Last night, to make up for the concert you refused me, He permitted me to hear one infinitely more beautiful than all the music of earth.”

Not wanting, however, to tarry longer in the palace of the Bishop of Rieti, he asked to be taken to the hermitage of Fonte Colombo. It was there that he underwent treatment by a doctor.

The treatment consisted of cauterizing with a red hot iron the flesh around the more affected eye, from ear to eyebrow.

The sick man shuddered at the sight of the preparations, then addressed the glowing iron: “Brother Fire, the Most High has made you strong and beautiful and useful. Be courteous to me now in this hour, for I have always loved you, and temper your heat so that I can endure it.”

“We fled,” confessed his companions, “so as not to witness his sufferings. But our Father said to us: ‘Men of little faith, why did you run away, when I did not feel anything at all?’ Then turning to the doctor, he said: ‘If it wasn’t done right, you may do it again!’”

And this the doctor did, for he opened the veins over Francis’s temple, after which another physician thought it his duty to pierce both ears with a red-hot iron.

With all this, Francis enjoyed great spiritual happiness. Sometimes the brothers heard him singing new hymns, whose words and music he had composed. Some of them he sent to St. Clare, who was also ill and much worried about him. His heart was more eager than ever, and his head teemed with impossible projects. “Brothers,” he would say, “let us start serving our Lord, for so far we have done nothing.”

For Francis would have liked to live his life over again, seeking new apostolic and knightly adventures. Since this was impossible, he began to dictate letters, two of which, at least, have come down to us.

In one, addressed to the “rulers, consuls, judges, and governors of all countries,” Francis urged these highly placed personages to “think of death which waits for no man, not to transgress God’s Commandments, and to receive frequently our Lord’s sacred body and blood.” Then perhaps recalling what he had seen in Muslim lands, he begged them to “appoint a public crier or other means to invite the people every night to praise and thank the Lord.”

In the other letter, addressed to all the guardians of his Order, he asked them to urge clerics and bishops to venerate the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ above everything else, and to use only proper chalices, corporals, and linens at the altar. And so it was that the Little Poor Man spent his last winter on earth.

When spring came again, Elias and Hugolin had Francis taken to Siena, where it seems there were also some very celebrated physicians. It was during this journey in the plain extending south of San Quirico d’Orcia, that a meeting occurred that has become legendary.

Francis saw three old women coming toward him, so perfectly alike in age, height, and features, that one would have thought them triplets. As they passed him, they bowed reverently and greeted him: “Welcome, Lady Poverty!” “Never,” writes Thomas of Celano, “did a greeting give so much pleasure to St. Francis.” Believing them to be beggar women, he requested the doctor who accompanied him to give them something. Dismounting, the latter gave each of them some money. Thereupon the three sisters disappeared so suddenly that our travelers, who had turned around almost at once, were unable to see what had become of them. “It was doubtless a celestial vision,” writes St. Bonaventure, “symbolic of the virtues of poverty, chastity, and obedience, to which Francis had always been so faithful. But as poverty,” he adds, “was incontestably his chief title to glory, it was natural that it was this virtue these mysterious virgins wished especially to honor in him.”

The reception Francis received at Siena was no less enthusiastic than that of Rieti. Clergy and laity vied with one another in their display of both curiosity and veneration. The biographers tell us that a knight made Francis the gift of a pheasant that did not want to leave him and that refused to eat whenever it was separated from him. They also speak of a learned Dominican who came to propose to him a theological difficulty from which he extricated himself with honor. They further declare that it was there, with the connivance of Brother Pacifico, that a friar of Brescia succeeded in seeing the sacred stigmata. “I forgive you,” said the saint later to the King of Verse, “but you have caused me much pain.”

As for the doctors of Siena, their efforts were as ineffectual as those of the pope’s physician. One night the saint vomited such a quantity of blood that the friars believed his last hour had come. Gathered round his pallet, they were inconsolable: “What is to become of us,” they mourned, “poor orphans that we are, abandoned by him who was father, mother, and good shepherd to us?”

Death’s Door

They besought him to leave them a written testimony of his last wishes, to guide them in the future. Francis had Brother Benedict of Pioraco, who had celebrated Mass several times at his bedside, summoned. “Write,” he said, “that I bless all my friars present and to come. And as I am not able to speak longer, here, in a few words, is what I want them to know: In memory of me who have blessed them, let them always love and honor one another. They must ever love and honor our Lady holy Poverty, and they must ever humbly and faithfully obey the prelates and clergy of our holy Mother the Church.”

Meanwhile, Brother Elias, who had been alerted, hastened to the invalid to take him “home” to die. Francis himself desired to breathe his last at the Portiuncula; while his fellow citizens, who had just been despoiled by the people of Bettona of the body of St. Crispolto, did not intend to be dispossessed this time.

Assuredly, it is rather painful to observe the preoccupation of Elias and the Assisians during the last months of the Poverello’s life. But we must remember that the people of the Middle Ages were a little less hypocritical than we; and we should likewise recall the development that the cult of relics had taken on at this period. Nothing outweighed for a city the advantage of possessing the body of a servant of God to place on its altars. Piety, patriotism, and self-interest were here in accord; and men were as willing to shed their blood then for holy relics as they have since been for assuredly more futile motives.

Led by the Minister General, the cortege wended its way toward Cortona; and the invalid stopped for a few days at the hermitage of Le Celle, a league from the city. There, a poverty-stricken man who had just lost his wife and had several children to care for, came to Francis to ask for alms. Francis gave him his cloak, saying, “It is very fine, as you see. That is why, if you dispose of it, be sure to make whoever wants it pay you well.”

It was a new cloak, for it replaced the one the saint had taken off on the same trip to give another poor man. The brothers lost no time trying to get it back; but the beggar held on to it so stubbornly that they had to hand him a good sum to make him give it up.

Some time after returning to the Portiuncula, with the onslaught of the summer heat, they decided to take Francis up to the healthier air of the hermitage of Bagnara, in the mountains east of Nocera. Later, while there, the saint seemed at death’s door. The swelling of his legs had gone up to his abdomen, and he could not take any nourishment. Fearing the worst, the municipality of Assisi dispatched its men at arms to meet the cortege. Thus escorted, the group reached the village of Satriano in the mountains. There, driven by hunger and thirst, the knights and their retinue attempted in vain to procure some provisions. “It’s up to you, then,” they said laughingly to the friars, “to feed us, since the people here refuse to sell us anything whatever.”

“You should have gone about it differently,” replied Francis, “and put your trust in God and not in flies.” By flies he meant their money. “Ever since man sinned, all earthly goods are alms that God gives with equal kindness to good and evil men. So go to them and ask them for what you need for the love of God.” They obeyed and this time obtained all they desired.

The arrival at Assisi was in the nature of a triumph. “Everybody exulted,” writes Celano; “for they hoped that the Saint would soon die, and they blessed God for bringing him back to their city.”

But in the spring of 1206, all that was there among the wheat fields sparsely set with olive trees was a ruinous chapel. Within, suspended over the altar, hung a mild and serene Byzantine crucifix. Although the church was no longer frequented, an indigent priest was still attached to it, living, no doubt, on alms and the suffrages of the faithful.

“Now one day as Francis was passing, he entered the chapel. Kneeling before the wooden crucifix, he began to pray, when suddenly the figure of Christ, parting its painted lips, called him by name and said, ‘Francis, go repair My house, which is falling in ruins;’

“It would be impossible,” the biographer continues, “to describe the miraculous effect that these words produced on the hearer, since the latter declared himself incapable of expressing it. But one may reverently conjecture that Christ then impressed on his heart the sacred wounds with which he was later to mark his stigmatized body.

For how many times in the future was not the blessed man to be met along the road, shedding compassionate tears over the Savior’s Passion?”

It was not a rare thing for knights to become builders of churches, in expiation of the faults committed in their adventure-filled lives. Had not one of the four sons of Aymon, men said, abandoned his military career to help build the Cathedral of Cologne? Francis may have believed himself called on to imitate him; for, taking literally an order evidently applying to the Church of Christ itself, he at first thought that he was to restore the chapel of San Damiano. He at once offered the priest money for oil and a lamp, so that a suitable light might burn before the image of Christ crucified.

But where was he to find the necessary resources for rebuilding the chapel?

That need not be an obstacle! Francis thought of his horse and the bales of cloth at home. He returned home, made up a bundle of the most precious stuffs, then fortifying himself with the sign of the cross, leaped to the saddle and set off at a gallop for Foligno. There (as he usually did) he met customers who bought his merchandise.

He also sold them his horse, so that he had to make the ten miles back to Assisi on foot. When he returned, the priest of San Damiano was in the chapel. Francis kissed his hands, detailed his plans to him, and attempted to give him the receipts for his sale. But the priest took this at first for a practical joke. Was not this risky money, which might embroil him with Francis’s family? And then, how was a man to believe in the sudden conversion of this young fop, who even yesterday was scandalizing the whole town by his follies? So, Francis did not succeed in having his gift accepted. But he did win the priest’s confidence and got his permission to stay with him. As for the purse that was burning his fingers, he tossed it like a dead weight into the corner of a window and thought no more about it.

Meanwhile, Peter Bernardone was in a towering rage and deeply distressed at learning what his son had done. Assembling his friends and neighbors, he rushed to San Damiano “to seize the fugitive and bring him home.”

Fortunately, the new hermit had taken care to secure a place of refuge—a sort of dugout under a house that no one, except a friend, knew about. As the conspirators drew near, he ran and hid in it, and let them shout it out. He hid for a whole month, eating in his cave the little food that was brought him, and beseeching God to help him carry out his plans. And in this dark retreat, the Lord sent him such consolation and delight as he had never known.

The time came, however, when, blushing at his fears, he left the hiding place; and resolved to face the music, he headed for town. He was exhausted by his austerities. People seeing him gaunt and wan—he who a short time before had been so full of life—thought that he had lost his mind, and began to yell, “Lunatic! Madman!” Urchins slung stones and mud at him; but he went on, without appearing to notice their taunts.

Hearing the hullabaloo, Peter Bernardone came out of the house and saw that it was his son they were harrying. He became furious. Hurling himself on Francis like a fierce wolf on an innocent lamb, he dragged him into the house, where he chained him and shoved him into a dungeon. He spared neither arguments nor blows to wear down the rebel, but the latter refused to be shaken.

Personal business, however, obliged the father to leave; and Francis’s mother profited by this to try her hand at swaying her son.

Seeing that he remained inflexible, one day when she was alone in the house, she broke his chains and set him free. The father’s fury knew no bounds, when, on his return, he learned of the prisoner’s escape. He launched into reproaches against his wife; then attempted a final move at San Damiano, where Francis had again settled.

But trial had steeled his courage. He went forth now with assurance, with peaceful heart and joyous mien. He calmly walked up to his father, declaring that he no longer feared either irons or blows and that he was ready to endure all things for the love of Christ. Feeling that all hope was lost for the time being, Peter Bernardone concerned himself only with recovering the Foligno sales money and sending the young rebel into exile. This respectable citizen hoped in this way to get the son who shamed him out of the way, and perhaps by cutting off his living, to bring him back home someday.

Shouting angrily on the way, he rushed to the palace of the commune, and swore out a warrant before the consuls. The magistrates charged a town crier to summon Francis to appear before them.

But the young man, who was bothered neither about exile nor about giving back the money, refused to obey; and claiming that having gone into God’s service, he was no longer under civil jurisdiction, he declined to appear. The consuls declared themselves incompetent and rejected the plaintiff’s claim, leaving him with no recourse but to appeal to the jurisdiction of the Church.

The Bishop of Assisi at that time was Lord Guido, who occupied his diocese until after the saint’s death. He formally bade the accused to appear before his tribunal. “I will go before the bishop,” replied Francis, “for he is the father and master of souls.” The judgment was most probably rendered in public, in the piazza of Santa Maria Maggiore, in front of the bishop’s palace.

“Put your trust in God,” said the bishop to the accused, “and show yourself courageous. However, if you would serve the Church, you have no right, under color of good works, to keep money obtained in this way. So give back such wrongly acquired goods to your father, to appease him.”

“Gladly, my Lord,” replied Francis, “and I will do still more.” He went within the palace and disrobed; then, with his clothing in his hands, he reappeared, almost entirely nude, before the crowd.

“Listen to me, everybody!” he cried. “Up to now, I have called Peter Bernardone my father! But now that I purpose to serve God, I give him back not only this money that he wants so much, but all the clothes I have from him!” With this, Francis threw everything on the ground. “From now on,” he added, “I can advance naked before the Lord, saying in truth no longer: my father, Peter Bernardone, but: our Father who art in Heaven!”

At this dramatic climax the bishop drew Francis within his arms, enveloping him in the folds of his mantle. The spectators, catching sight of the hair shirt that the young man wore on his skin, were dumbfounded, and many of them wept. As for Peter Bernardone, unhappy and angry, he hurriedly withdrew, taking with him the clothing and purse.

And that was the way Francis took leave of his family. One would like to think that he saw his mother again, and from time to time showed some mark of tenderness toward this woman who admired him and had had an intuition of his sublime destiny.

But the biographers make no further mention of her. For some time after that, Francis did no more about San Damiano. The funds on which he had counted had vanished, and he had not yet learned that poverty sufficeth for all things. He had first to go in search of suitable clothing, since all that he had to cover him was a little coat full of holes that the bishop’s gardener had given him after the scene of the day before. He drew a cross on it with chalk by way of a coat of arms; then he set out through the woods singing the Lord’s praises in French at the top of his lungs.

His heart was overflowing with joy. There was to be no more now of circumspection and feeling his way. A pathway of light opened straight before him. He was consecrated to the Master’s service; he had just been made Christ’s knight and had solemnly espoused Lady Poverty. God was rewarding him by making him happy. He was making the woods ring with his songs when some robbers, scenting a prey, rushed up.

This man with his threadbare cloak was a disappointment to them. “Who are you?” they asked. “I am the herald of the Great King!” replied Francis with assurance. As he did not yet have the gift of taming wild beasts, the robbers beat him up and threw him into the snow at the foot of a ravine. “There you are, oaf!” they shouted as they made off. “Stay there, God’s herald!”

Francis climbed out of the slush-filled hole only with great effort, and when the ruffians were out of sight and hearing, he went on his way, singing louder than ever. He then directed his footsteps to a monastery, where he thought the monks would consent to clothe him in exchange for work.

The monks took him on as a kitchen helper but gave him nary a stitch to cover him. For food, they let him skim off a little of the greasy water they fed the pigs. It is true that afterward, when Francis’s reputation for sanctity began to be established, the prior was ashamed at the way he had treated him and came to beg his forgiveness. And he obtained it easily, for the saint said that he had very pleasant memories of the few days spent in his kitchen.

It was at Gubbio that an old friend gave him something to wear. So afterward men saw him wearing a hermit’s garb—a tunic secured at the waist by a leather belt, sandals on his feet, and a staff in his hand. He next stayed a while with the lepers, living in their midst, bathing their sores, sponging off the pus from their ulcers, and giving them loving care for the love of God.

Then he went back to San Damiano.

There, the chaplain still recalled recent events, and Francis had to reassure him by telling him of the bishop’s encouragement and approval. After this, the restoration of the chapel could begin. As Francis had no money with which to buy materials, he was obliged to beg for them. He went through the city crying, “Whoever gives me a stone will receive a reward from the Lord! Whoever gives me two will have two rewards! Whoever gives me three will receive three rewards!” Sometimes, like a jongleur who sings in order to earn his salary and repay his benefactors, the collector would interrupt his rounds to sing to the glory of the Most High.

And whether he addressed himself to God or to men, whether he begged for hewn stone or celebrated the divine attributes, the Little Poor Man (his biographers observe) “always spoke in a familiar style, without having recourse to the learned and bombastic words of human wisdom.” Is this an allusion to the jargon and to the false science that flourished in the schools? One thing certain is that here you have defined the man and the style, which go together in St. Francis.

Simple he was in his person, having but one aim and one object, honestly and openly sought. Simple he was in speech, knowing what he said, and saying only what he knew; avoiding lengthy, pompous, and obscure discourse, speaking—like Jesus in the Gospels—to make himself understood and to be useful to others. Picturesque and sublime, his talks, coming from the heart, reached men’s hearts, delivering them from their sadness and their sins, and revealing to them the happiness that comes from belonging to God.

Moreover, if many still held the new hermit to be a madman and persisted in insulting him, many already were beginning to understand him; and, moved to the depths of their being, they wept as they listened to his words. They saw him carrying stones on his back and striving to interest everyone in his project. Standing on his scaffolding, he would joyously hail the passersby. “Come here a while, too,” he would shout, “and help me rebuild San Damiano!”

It may be that crews of masons responded to his appeals, and working under his direction, helped him in his tasks. It was then, accounts tell us, that he predicted that virgins consecrated to God would soon come and take shelter in the shadow of the rebuilt chapel. One can imagine how he drove himself—he who had always been petted and pampered by his parents. Taking pity on him, his priest-companion began—poor as he was—to prepare better food for him than that with which he himself was satisfied.

Francis, at first, raised no objections; but seeing that he was being mollycoddled, he said to himself: “Francis, are you expecting to find a priest everywhere who will baby you? This is not the life of poverty that you have embraced! No! You are going to do as the beggars do! Out of love for Him who willed to be born poor and to live in poverty, who was bound naked to the cross, and who did not even own the tomb men laid Him in, you are going to take a bowl and go begging your bread from door to door!” So Francis went begging through the town, a large bowl in his hands, putting everything that people gave him into it. When it came to eating this mess, he felt nauseated. He managed, however, to get it down, and found it better than the fine food he used to eat at home.

He thereupon thanked God for being able—frail and exhausted as he was—to adjust himself to such a diet; and from then on, he would not let the priest prepare anything special for him. Let no one imagine, however, that he was not sometimes subject to false shame. For instance, one day when oil was needed for the chapel lamp, he went up to a house where a party was in progress, with merrymakers overflowing into the street. Recognizing some old friends and blushing to appear before them as a beggar, he started back. But he soon retraced his steps and accused himself of his cowardice before them all. Then, making his request in French, he set off again with his oil.

Thomas of Celano observes here that “it was always in French that St. Francis expressed himself when he was filled with the Holy Ghost; as if he had foreseen the special cult with which France was to honor him one day,” and wanted to show himself grateful in advance.

No one, though, ever loved his homeland more than he did, or was more beloved by its people. But the veneration of his fellow citizens did not come in a day. A considerable number of them began by mocking him at will, including his brother, Angelo, eager to show himself for once witty at Francis’s expense. This happened very likely in a church, where Francis was praying one wintry morning, shivering with cold beneath his flimsy rags.

Passing near him with a friend, the brother remarked to his companion, “Look! There’s Francis! Ask him if he won’t sell you a penny’s worth of his sweat!” Francis could not help smiling. “It’s not for sale,” he replied gently. “I prefer to keep it for God, who will give me a much better price for it than you.”

The barbed shafts no longer struck home. Only one thing continued to distress him, and that was his father’s attitude toward him. For every time that Peter Bernardone met his son, he became infuriated and cursed him.

A son like Francis could not remain under the spell of a father’s curses. So, to an old beggar named Albert, he made the following offer: “Adopt me as your son, and I will share the alms I receive with you. Only whenever we meet my father and he curses me, you make the sign of the cross over me and give me your blessing.”

The arrangement was to Albert’s advantage, and we may be sure that he had no scruples about giving so many blessings as there were curses to ward off. So, addressing the wrathful merchant, Francis would say to him, “You see that God has found a way to offset your curses, for he has sent me a new father to bless me.”

Evidently Peter Bernardone was sensitive to ridicule and ended by taking things more calmly, for we hear no more of him in the biographies. No doubt, he lived long enough to behold the rising star of the Little Poor Man. And who knows if, on seeing his son honored by important personages, he did not put as much zeal into acknowledging him as he had into denying him?

The deep friendship and rich dialogue between St. Francis of Assisi and Sultan Malik al-Kamil centuries ago can inform interfaith dialogue in our own times.

Toward the year 1219, the relations of the Little Poor Man with his followers were no longer the same. Up to this time, almost everyone had followed him as a venerated father and infallible oracle. But from now on, many would oppose his ideal and attempt to evade his authority. It was inevitable that, growing and spreading as it did, the Brotherhood should become less homogeneous and less fervent. The friars who had received their training at Rivo Torto were now submerged in the mass. The immense majority of the Order was composed of religious who had not been formed by St. Francis.

A great many hardly knew him. The superiors or ministers were recruited for the most part among the outstanding and influential clerics, to many of whom it was repugnant to be led by “a man without learning,” a man indeed considered an impractical and even dangerous visionary by some prelates in high places

Certainly, in coming to the Chapter of 1219, these ministers did not bring with them a definite reform slate; but they nonetheless made no effort to conceal their dissatisfaction and their own inclinations. What they wanted, in fine, was for the Order to bear a closer resemblance to other religious congregations, to be able to devote themselves to study, to practice a poverty less strict, and to profit by ecclesiastical favors.

They had a good opportunity, for instance, to show how the friars, for lack of official references, had been expelled from countries of the Empire and were threatened with a similar fate in France. Now, if Francis did not reproach others for having recourse to Bulls, exemptions, and privileges, he himself would have none of them. It was not his idea to be either protected or preserved. Had not his beloved Christ been compelled to flee before his enemies? Had he availed himself of immunity and protection at the scourging and crucifixion?

So, far from displeasing him, persecution which made him like to our Lord delighted him. This was the concept he instilled into Brother Leo, giving him the most astounding definition of perfect joy that men had heard since the Gospel passage: Blessed are they who suffer persecution. The famous dialogue must have taken place about this time. Together with the Canticle of the Sun, it constitutes St. Francis’s masterpiece. To the religiously minded of all time, the Poverello repeats that it is not in performing wonders, but in sacrifice and suffering that man’s true nobility and earthly happiness consist.

“Brother Leo, God’s Little Sheep, take your pen. I am going to dictate something to you,” declared Francis.

“I am ready, Father.”

“You are going to write what perfect joy is.”

“Gladly, Father!”

“Well, then, supposing a messenger comes and tells us that all the doctors of Paris have entered the Order. Write that this would not give us perfect joy. And supposing that the same messenger were to tell us that all the bishops, archbishops, and prelates of the whole world, and likewise the kings of France and England, have become Friars Minor, that would still be no reason for having perfect joy. And supposing that my friars had gone to the infidels and converted them to the last man….”

“Yes, Father?”

“Even then, Brother Leo, this would still not be perfect joy. If the Friars Minor had the gift of miracles and could make cripples straight, give light to the blind and hearing to the deaf, speech to the dumb, and life to men four days dead, if they were to speak all languages and know the secrets of men’s consciences and of the future, and were to know by heart everything that has been written since the beginning of the world until now, and were to know the course of the stars, the location of buried treasure, the natures of birds, fishes, rocks, and all creatures, understand and write it on your paper, Brother Leo, that this would still not be perfect joy.”

“Father! For the love of God, please tell me then just what is perfect joy?”

“I’ll tell you. Supposing that in the winter, coming back from Perugia, I arrive in pitch darkness at the Portiuncula. Icicles are clinging to my habit and making my legs bleed. Covered with mud and snow, starving and freezing, I shout and knock for a long time. ‘Who is there?’ asks the porter when he finally decides to come. ‘It is I, Brother Francis.’ But he doesn’t recognize my voice. ‘Off with you, prankster!’ he replies. ‘This is no time for jokes!’ I insist, but he won’t listen. ‘Will you be off, you rascal? There are enough of us without you! And there is no use in your coming here. Smart men like us don’t need idiots like you around. Go, try your luck at the Crosiers’ hospice!’

“Once more, I beg him not to leave me outside on a night like that, and implore him to open up. He opens up, all right. ‘Just you wait, impudent cur! I’ll teach you some manners!’ And, grabbing a knobby club, he jumps on me, seizes me by the hood, and drags me through the snow, beating me and wounding me with all the knobs in his cudgel…. Well, Leo, if I am able to bear all this for love of God, not only with patience but with happiness, convinced that I deserve no other treatment, know, remember, and write down on your paper, God’s Little Sheep, that at last I have found perfect joy.”

Among the friars present at St. Mary of the Angels in 1219, there were a certain number who would have preferred joys less perfect, convents less poverty-stricken, and in general more comfort and security. Was it this year that Francis, on arriving at the Chapter, was surprised to discover a stone edifice suddenly sprung up alongside St. Mary of the Angels? At any rate, he was indignant. What? In this dear Portiuncula that was to serve as a model to the whole brotherhood, they had dared to make a mock of holy poverty? It was in vain that the culprits explained that this new building was owing to the solicitude of the Assisians. Climbing at once on the roof, and calling on his friars to help, the saint began hurling down the tiles. It was plain to be seen that this was only the beginning; and to keep the whole building from being torn down, the friars shouted to the knights of Assisi, who stood close by, ready to intervene.

“Brother,” they remonstrated. “In the name of the commune we represent, and which is the owner of the building, we implore you to stop!”

“Since this house belongs to you,” Francis replied, “I have no right to touch it.” And sick at heart, he broke off his work.

A still more painful scene occurred one day when “several wise and learned friars got Cardinal Hugolin to urge Francis to be guided by the wiser brethren.” To their way of thinking, it was from the way of life of Sts. Benedict, Augustine, or Bernard that inspiration for revising the statutes of the Brotherhood should be taken. The cardinal carried their request to the saint. Francis made no reply, but taking the prelate by the hand, he presented himself with him before the Chapter.

“Brothers! Brothers!” he cried, overcome by emotion, “the way that I have entered is one of humility and simplicity! If it is a new way, know that it was taught me by God Himself, and that I will follow no other. So do not speak to me about the Rules of St. Benedict, St. Augustine, or St. Bernard. The Lord wishes me to be a new kind of fool in this world, and will not lead me by any other way. As for you, may He confound you with your wisdom and learning, and make the ministers of His wrath compel you to return to your vocation, should you dare to leave it!”

These maledictions terrified the assembly and even the cardinal; and this time, at least, no one dared to insist.

The Chapter of 1219 maintained the decisions relative to the division of the Order in provinces. Their number was even increased, since France from then on had three provinces. Friars were appointed to go to Christian lands where they had not yet penetrated or to return to those from which they had been driven. But the great innovation of this Chapter was the creation of missions in foreign lands.

Brother Giles left for Tunis, where the Christians of the city, fearing that his zeal might compromise them, thrust him in a boat to force his return. Great was his disappointment at seeing the crown of martyrdom escape him; but he consoled himself when it was given him to realize that certain vexations of the devil outdid all other tortures in cruelty. Other friars, whom we shall meet soon again, headed for Morocco. Francis himself, ever eager to shed his blood for Christ, chose to go to Egypt.

After appointing two vicars to replace him at the head of the Brotherhood, Francis left the Portiuncula at the beginning of June and went to Ancona to take passage on one of the ships conveying crusaders to the East. A large number of friars accompanied him, but not all of them could be accommodated. Francis said to them, “Since the sailors refuse to take all of you, and since I, who love you all equally, haven’t the heart to make a choice, let us ask God to manifest His will to us.” Calling a young boy who was playing on the wharf, he asked him to point out twelve friars at random, and it was with them that he embarked. Among them were Peter Catanii, the former jurist, Illuminato of Rieti and Leonard, two former knights, and Brother Barbaro, one of the first disciples.

They set sail on June 24, 1219, St. John’s Day, and first put into port at the island of Cyprus. They reached St. John d’Acre about the middle of July, and a few days later Damietta in the Nile delta, which had been under siege by the crusaders for a year. Duke Leopold of Austria, their leader, had all sorts of men under his command. If some had taken the cross out of holy zeal, many were mere adventurers, attracted to the Orient by the hope of pillage and pleasure. The license and disunity reigning in this army was sufficient explanation of its previous failures.

When, on the morning of August 29, Francis learned that the army was going to attempt a decisive assault, he said to his companion, “The Lord has revealed to me that the Christians are running into a new defeat. Should I warn them? If I speak, they will call me crazy. If I keep still, my conscience will reproach me. What do you think, Brother?”

“The judgment of men matters little!” replied his companion. “After all, this will not be the first time you have been taken for a madman! Unburden your conscience then, and tell them the truth!”

The leaders mocked Francis’s warnings and the attack took place. The result was, as we know, a disaster in which the crusaders lost over four thousand men, killed or captured. Francis had not the heart to witness the battle; but he sent messengers three times for news. When his companion came to him to announce the defeat, he wept much, says Thomas of Celano, especially over the Spanish knights whose bravery had led nearly all of them to their deaths.

The saint remained there for several months. At first, his apostolate among the crusaders had marvelous results. He was hailed as a prophet ever since, in opposition to the leader, he had dared to predict defeat. His courage and knightly bearing filled the warriors with admiration and his guilelessness and charm won their hearts. “He is so amiable that he is venerated by all,” wrote Jacques de Vitry to his friends in Lorraine.

The celebrated chronicler who at that period occupied the episcopal see of St. John D’Acre and made frequent visits to the crusaders’ camp, added that many abandoned the profession of arms or the secular priesthood to become Friars Minor. “This Order which is spreading through the whole world,” he wrote further, “imitates the primitive Church and the life of the Apostles in all things. Colin the Englishman, our clerk, has entered their ranks, with two others, Master Michael and Dom Matthew, to whom I had entrusted the parish of the Holy Cross. Only with difficulty do I hold back the Chanter and Henry and others.” Jacques de Vitry also announced to his correspondents that “Brother Francis has not feared to leave the Christian army to go to the enemy camp to preach the faith.”

The idea of converting the Saracens must have appeared singularly fantastic to men who up to then had thought only of cutting their throats. It is true that the Moors asked only to do likewise; for, quite apart from an eternal reward, every Muslim who brought a Christian head to the Sultan received a golden bezant from him. Cardinal Pelagio, who now arrived in Damietta with reinforcements, was far from encouraging Francis in his project. If not actually forbidding the undertaking, he at least declined all personal responsibility, charging Francis not to compromise thereby the Christian name and Christian interests.

The saint took Brother Illuminato with him and set out toward the enemy lines, singing, “Though I walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” To comfort his less reassured companion, Francis showed him two ewes peacefully grazing in this perilous spot. “Courage, Brother!” he cried joyously. “Put your trust in Him who sends us forth like sheep in the midst of wolves.”

However, the Saracens appeared, jumped on the two religious, and began to beat them. “Soldan! Soldan!” shouted Francis as long as he was able. The soldiers thought that they were dealing with envoys and brought them in chains to their camp. Francis explained in French that he desired to see the Sultan and convert him to the Gospel. Had he said this anywhere else, it would have meant instant death; but the court of Al-Malik al-Kamil included skeptics who liked to discuss the respective merits of the Koran and the Gospel, and who likewise were chivalrous in their deportment.

The Sultan also doubtless saw in the arrival of the Friars Minor an opportunity for diversion and ordered the evangelizers to be shown in. It is said that in order to cause them embarrassment, he had a carpet strewn with crosses laid down in the room in front of him. “If they walk on it,” he said, “I will accuse them of insulting their God. If they refuse, I will reproach them for not wishing to approach me and of insulting me.”

Francis walked unhesitatingly over the carpet, and as the prince observed that he was trampling the Christian cross underfoot, the saint replied: “You must know that there were several crosses on Calvary, the cross of Christ and those of the two thieves, the first is ours, which we adore. As for the others, we gladly leave them to you, and have no scruples about treading on them, whenever it please you to strew them on the ground.”

Al-Malik al-Kamil soon conceived a warm friendship for the Poverello and invited him to stay with him. “I would do so gladly,” replied the saint, “if you would consent to become converted to Christ together with your people.” And he even offered, writes St. Bonaventure, to undergo the ordeal by fire in his presence.

“Let a great furnace be lit,” said he. “Your priests and I will enter it; and you shall judge by what you see which of our two religions is the holiest and truest.”

“I greatly fear that my priest will refuse to accompany you into the furnace,” observed the Sultan.

And indeed, at the simple announcement of this proposal, the venerable dean of that priestly group hastily disappeared. “Since that is the way things are,” said Francis, “I will enter the fire alone. If I perish, you must lay it to my sins. But if God’s power protects me, do you promise to acknowledge Christ as the true God and Savior?”

The Sultan alleged the impossibility of his changing his religion without alienating his people. But as his desire to keep this charming messenger at his court was as strong as ever, he offered him rich presents. These were, as we may well imagine, refused. “Take them at least to give to the poor!” he urged. But Francis accepted, it appears, only a horn which later on he used to summon people when he was about to preach.

He departed very sad as soon as he perceived the uselessness of his efforts. The Sultan had him conducted in state back to the Christian camp. “Remember me in your prayers,” he begged as Francis left, “and may God, by your intercession, reveal to me which belief is more pleasing to Him.”

Thanks to the reinforcements of Cardinal Pelagio, Damietta fell on November 5, 1219. Francis was present at the taking of the city; but this victory of the crusaders drew more tears from him than did their recent defeat. The streets were strewn with corpses and the houses filled with victims of the plague. The captors fought like wolves over the immense booty, selling the captives at auction, except the young women reserved for their pleasure.

When Francis saw that Damietta had become a pandemonium in which his voice was lost in the clamor of unleashed instincts, the saint left the country and took ship for St. John d’Acre. There he met Brother Elias, Provincial of Syria, and among Elias’s recruits, Caesar of Speyer who had fled Germany to escape the relatives of those whom he had enrolled in the crusade and the husbands of the women he had converted.

It was also at St. John d’Acre that Francis learned that five of his sons had just shed their blood for the faith. They were Brothers Otho, Bernard, Peter, Accursus, and Adjutus, who had left the Portiuncula at the same time he did; and who, as we have seen, set out for Morocco by way of Spain.

Truly these five had left no stone unturned to obtain the grace of martyrdom. Arriving first in Seville, which was still in the power of the Moors, they had entered the mosque and began to preach. It was a good place to meet Muslims, but a bad one in which to insult their prophet, Mohammed. They were hustled out and beaten. They then went to the royal palace.

“Who are you?” the king asked them.

“We belong to the regions of Rome.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“We have come to preach faith in Jesus Christ so that you may obtain everlasting life like us.”

The prince, beside himself with fury, ordered them to be beheaded; but seeing the joy his sentence caused them, he took pity on them and attempted to win them by presents. “May your money go to perdition with you!” they replied.

They were taken in chains to the summit of a tower. They were then shut up in the public prison where they still attempted to convert their jailors and fellow prisoners. They were again brought before the king, who gave them the choice of returning to Italy or of being deported to Morocco. “Do whatever pleases you,” they replied, “and may God’s will be done!” It was decided that they should go to Morocco. Shortly after their arrival, the Amir al-Muminin Yusuf, who commanded in Africa in the king’s name, had them brought before him, half-naked and in chains. “Who are you?” he asked.

“We are disciples of Brother Francis, who has sent his friars throughout the world to teach all men the way of truth.”

“And what is this way?”

Brother Otho, who was a priest, began to recite the Creed; and he was starting to comment on it, when the Miramolin stopped him, saying, “It is surely the devil who speaks by your mouth.” He thereupon handed them over to his torturers. These used their cruelest devices against their victims. All night long the poor friars were flogged until they bled, dragged by the throat over pebbles, and doused with boiling oil and vinegar, while, their hearts failing them, they exhorted one another in a loud voice to persevere in the love of Christ.

The following day, January 16, 1220, the Miramolin summoned them at dawn to learn if they persisted in despising the Koran. All proclaimed that there is no other truth than the holy Gospels. The prince threatened them with death. “Our bodies are in your power,” they replied, “but our souls are in the power of God.”

These were their last words, for Abu-Jacob thereupon had his sword brought and cut off their heads in the presence of his women attendants. When these facts were reported to Francis, he is said to have exclaimed, “Now I can truly say that I have five Friars Minor.” But when the account of their martyrdom was read before him, he interrupted the reading as soon as he perceived that a few words praising him had been inserted.

Syria, at this period, was partly Christian and partly Muslim. Thanks to a permit received from Conradin, Sultan of Damascus and brother of Al-Malik al-Kamil, Francis could travel anywhere in the country without paying tribute. He made use of this privilege, says Angelo Clareno, to visit the Holy Places. How we would like to have a contemporary account of those who saw him or accompanied him to Palestine—showing us the Little Poor Man celebrating Christmas in Bethlehem, weeping on Good Friday at Gethsemane and Calvary, and communicating on Easter morning at the Holy Sepulchre! But, unfortunately, the records are silent about these months in the life of St. Francis.

They only break the silence again to state that during the summer of 1220, an emissary from the Portiuncula named Brother Stephen arrived in Syria bearing bad news. His message was that the vicars were leading the Order to ruin, and that the faithful friars implored their father, if he was still of this world, to come back at once and save his work.

This was adapted from St. Francis of Assisi: A Biography.