This is the legend of Francis, the Little Bedesman of Christ. Seven
hundred years ago was he born in Assisi, the quaint Umbrian town among
the rocks; and for twenty years and more he cherished but one thought,
and one desire, and one hope; and these were that he might lead the
beautiful and holy and sorrowful life which our Lord lived on the
earth, and that in every way he might resemble our Lord in the purity
and loveliness of His humanity.
Home and wealth and honour he surrendered, and the love of a wife and
of little prattlers on his knees; for none of these things were the
portion of Christ.
No care he took as to how he should be sheltered by night or wherewith
he should be clothed by day; and for meat and drink he looked to the
hand of God, for these were to be the daily gift of His giving. So
that when he heard the words of the sacred Gospel read in the little
church of St. Mary of the Angels--"Provide neither gold nor silver nor
brass in your purses, nor scrip for your journey, neither two coats,
neither shoes, nor yet staves"--he went out and girt his coarse brown
dress with a piece of cord, and cast away his shoes and went barefoot
thenceforth.
Even to this day the brethren of the great Order of religious men which
he founded are thus clothed, and girt with a cord, and shod with
nakedness. And this Order is the Order of the Lesser Brethren, the
Fratres Minores; and often they are called Franciscans, or the Friars
of St. Francis.
But as to the thought he bestowed on his eating and drinking: once when
he and Brother Masseo sat down on a broad stone near a fresh fountain
to eat the bread which they had begged in the town, St. Francis
rejoiced in their prosperity, saying, "Not only are we filled with
plenty, but our treasure is of God's own providing; for consider this
bread which has come to us like manna, and this noble table of stone
fit for the feasting of kings, and this well of bright water which is
beverage from heaven;" and he besought God to fill their hearts with an
ardent love of the affluence of holy poverty.
[Illustration: _St. Francis of Assisi_]
Even the quiet and blessed peace of the cloister and the hermitage he
denied himself; for he remembered that though the Lord Christ withdrew
into the hills and went into the wilderness to refresh His soul with
prayer and communion with His Heavenly Father, it was among the sons of
men that He had His dwelling all His days. So he, too, the Little
Bedesman, often tasted great happiness among the rocks and trees of
solitary places; and his spirit felt the spell of the lonely hills; and
he loved to pray in the woods, and in their shadow he was consoled by
the visits of Angels, and was lifted bodily from the earth in ecstasies
of joy. But the work which he had set his hands to do was among men,
and in villages and the busy streets of cities.
It was not in the first place to save their own souls and to attain to
holiness that he and his companions abandoned the common way of life.
Long afterwards, when thousands of men had joined his Order of the
Lesser Brethren, he said: "God has gathered us into this holy Order for
the salvation of the world, and between us and the world He has made
this compact, that we shall give the world a good example, and the
world shall make provision for our necessities."
Yet, though he preached repentance and sorrow for sin, never was it his
wish that men and women who had other duties should abandon those
duties and their calling to follow his example. Besides the Order of
the Lesser Brethren, he had founded an Order of holy women who should
pray and praise while the men went forth to teach; but well he knew
that all could not do as these had done, that the work of the world
must be carried on, the fields ploughed and reaped, and the vines
dressed, and the nets cast and drawn, and ships manned at sea, and
markets filled, and children reared, and aged people nourished, and the
dead laid in their graves; and when people were deeply moved by his
preaching and would fain have followed him, he would say: "Nay, be in
no unwise haste to leave your homes; there, too, you may serve God and
be devout and holy;" and, promising them a rule of life, he founded the
Third Order, into which, whatever their age or calling, all who desired
to be true followers of Christ Jesus might be admitted.
Even among those who gave themselves up wholly to the life spiritual he
discouraged excessive austerity, forbidding them to fast excessively or
to wear shirts of mail and bands of iron on their flesh, for these not
only injured their health and lessened their usefulness, but hindered
them in prayer and meditation and delight in the love of God. Once,
too, when it was revealed to him that a brother lay sleepless because
of his weakness and the pinch of hunger, St. Francis rose, and, taking
some bread with him, went to the brother's cell, and begged of him that
they might eat that frugal fare together. God gave us these bodies of
ours, not that we might torture them unwisely, but that we might use
their strength and comeliness in His service.
So, with little heed to his own comfort, but full of consideration and
gentleness for the weakness of others, he and his companions with him
went about, preaching and praising God; cheering and helping the
reapers and vintagers in the harvest time, and working with the
field-folk in the earlier season; supping and praying with them
afterwards; sleeping, when day failed, in barns or church porches or
leper-hospitals, or may be in an old Etruscan tomb or in the shelter of
a jutting rock, if no better chance befell; till at last they came to
be known and beloved in every village and feudal castle and walled town
among the hills between Rome and Florence. At first, indeed, they were
mocked and derided and rudely treated, but in a little while it was
seen that they were no self-seekers crazed with vanity, but messengers
of heaven, and pure and great-hearted champions of Christ and His poor.
In those days of luxury and rapacity and of wild passions and ruthless
bloodshed, it was strange to see these men stripping themselves of
wealth and power--for many of the brethren had been rich and noble--and
proclaiming the Gospel of the love and gentleness and purity and
poverty of Christ. For not only were the brethren under vow to possess
nothing whatever in the world, and not only were they forbidden to
touch money on any account, but the Order itself was bound to poverty.
It could not own great estates or noble abbeys and convents, but was as
much dependent on charity and God's providing as the humblest of its
friars.
Was it a wonderful thing that a great affection grew up in the hearts
of the people for these preachers of the Cross, and especially for the
most sweet and tender of them all, the Little Bedesman of Christ, with
the delicate and kindly face worn by fasting, the black eyes, and the
soft and sonorous voice? Greatly the common people loved our Lord, and
gladly they listened to Him; and of all men who have lived St. Francis
was most like our Lord in the grace and virtue of His humanity. I do
not think that ever at any time did he say or do anything till he had
first asked himself, What would my Lord have done or said?
And certain it seems to me that he must have thought of the Thief in
Paradise and of the divine words Christ spoke to him on the cross, when
Brother Angelo, the guardian of a hermitage among the mountains, told
him how three notorious robbers had come begging; "but I," said the
Brother, "quickly drove them away with harsh and bitter words." "Then
sorely hast thou sinned against charity," replied the Saint in a stern
voice, "and ill hast thou obeyed the holy Gospel of Christ, who wins
back sinners by gentleness, and not by cruel reproofs. Go now, and
take with thee this wallet of bread and this little flask of wine which
I have begged, and get thee over hill and valley till thou hast found
these men; and when thou comest up with them, give them the bread and
the wine as my gift to them, and beg pardon on thy knees for thy fault,
and tell them that I beseech them no longer to do wrong, but to fear
and love God; and if this they will do, I will provide for them so that
all their days they shall not lack food and drink." Then Brother
Angelo did as he was bidden, and the robbers returned with him and
became God's bedesmen and died in His service.
Not to men alone but to all living things on earth and air and water
was St. Francis most gracious and loving. They were all his little
brothers and sisters, and he forgot them not, still less scorned or
slighted them, but spoke to them often and blessed them, and in return
they showed him great love and sought to be of his fellowship. He bade
his companions keep plots of ground for their little sisters the
flowers, and to these lovely and speechless creatures he spoke, with no
great fear that they would not understand his words. And all this was
a marvellous thing in a cruel time, when human life was accounted of
slight worth by fierce barons and ruffling marauders.
For the bees he set honey and wine in the winter, lest they should feel
the nip of the cold too keenly; and bread for the birds, that they all,
but especially "my brother Lark," should have joy of Christmastide, and
at Rieti a brood of redbreasts were the guests of the house and raided
the tables while the brethren were at meals; and when a youth gave St.
Francis the turtle-doves he had snared, the Saint had nests made for
them, and there they laid their eggs and hatched them, and fed from the
hands of the brethren.
Out of affection a fisherman once gave him a great tench, but he put it
back into the clear water of the lake, bidding it love God; and the
fish played about the boat till St. Francis blessed it and bade it go.
"Why dost thou torment my little brothers the Lambs," he asked of a
shepherd, "carrying them bound thus and hanging from a staff, so that
they cry piteously?" And in exchange for the lambs he gave the
shepherd his cloak. And at another time seeing amid a flock of goats
one white lamb feeding, he was concerned that he had nothing but his
brown robe to offer for it (for it reminded him of our Lord among the
Pharisees); but a merchant came up and paid for it and gave it him, and
he took it with him to the city and preached about it so that the
hearts of those hearing him were melted. Afterwards the lamb was left
in the care of a convent of holy women, and to the Saint's great
delight, these wove him a gown of the lamb's innocent wool.
Fain would I tell of the coneys that took refuge in the folds of his
habit, and of the swifts which flew screaming in their glee while he
was preaching; but now it is time to speak of the sermon which he
preached to a great multitude of birds in a field by the roadside, when
he was on his way to Bevagno. Down from the trees flew the birds to
hear him, and they nestled in the grassy bosom of the field, and
listened till he had done. And these were the words he spoke to them:
"Little birds, little sisters mine, much are you holden to God your
Creator; and at all times and in every place you ought to praise Him.
Freedom he has given you to fly everywhere; and raiment He has given
you, double and threefold. More than this, He preserved your kind in
the Ark, so that your race might not come to an end. Still more do you
owe him for the element of air, which he has made your portion. Over
and above, you sow not, neither do you reap; but God feeds you, and
gives you streams and springs for your thirst; the mountains He gives
you, and the valleys for your refuge, and the tall trees wherein to
build your nests. And because you cannot sew or spin, God takes
thought to clothe you, you and your little ones. It must be, then,
that your Creator loves you much, since He has granted you so many
benefits. Be on your guard then against the sin of ingratitude, and
strive always to give God praise."
And when the Saint ceased speaking, the birds made such signs as they
might, by spreading their wings and opening their beaks, to show their
love and pleasure; and when he had blessed them with the sign of the
cross, they sprang up, and singing songs of unspeakable sweetness, away
they streamed in a great cross to the four quarters of heaven.
One more story I must tell of the Saint and the wild creatures.
On a time when St. Francis was dwelling in the town of Agobio, there
appeared in that countryside a monstrous grey wolf, which was so savage
a man-eater that the people were afraid to go abroad, even when well
armed. A pity it was to see folk in such fear and danger; wherefore
the Saint, putting his whole trust in God, went out with his companions
so far as they dared go, and thence onward all alone to the place where
the wolf lay.
The wild beast rushed out at him from his lair with open mouth, but St.
Francis waited and made over him the sign of the most holy cross, and
called him to him, saying, "Come hither, Brother Wolf! In the name of
Christ I bid you do no harm, neither to me nor to any one." And when
the wolf closed his jaws and stopped running, and came at the Saint's
bidding, as gentle as a lamb, and lay down at his feet, St. Francis
rebuked him for the slaying of God's creatures, the beasts, and even
men made in God's image. "But fain would I make peace," he said,
"between you and these townsfolk; so that if you pledge them your faith
that you will do no more scathe either to man or beast, they will
forgive you all your offences in the past, and neither men nor dogs
shall harry you any more. And I will look to it that you shall always
have food as long as you abide with the folk of this countryside."
Whereupon Brother Wolf, by movements of body and tail and bowing of
head, gave token of his good will to abide by that bargain. And in
sign that he plighted his troth to it he gave the Saint his paw, and
followed to the market-place of Agobio, where St. Francis repeated all
that he had said, and the people agreed to the bargain, and once more
the wolf gave pledge of his faith by putting his paw in the Saint's
hand.
For two years thereafter Brother Wolf dwelt in Agobio, going tame and
gentle from house to house and in and out at will, doing hurt to none,
but much loved of the children and cared for in food and drink and
kindness by the townsfolk, so that no one lifted stone or stick against
him, neither did any dog bark at him. At the end of those years he
died of old age, and the people were grieved that no more should they
see his gentle coming and going.
Such was the courtesy and sweet fellowship of St. Francis with the wild
creatures.
It remains yet to say of him that he was ever gay and joyous as became
God's gleeman. Greatly he loved the song of bird and man, and all
melody and minstrelsy. Nor was it ill-pleasing to God that he should
rejoice in these good gifts, for once lying in his cell faint with
fever, to him came the thought that the sound of music might ease his
pain; but when the friar whom he asked to play for him was afraid of
causing a scandal by his playing, St. Francis, left alone, heard such
music that his suffering ceased and his fever left him. And as he lay
listening he was aware that the sound kept coming and going; and how
could it have been otherwise? for it was the lute-playing of an Angel,
far away, walking in Paradise.
Sweet new songs he made in the language of the common people, folk of
field and mountain, muleteers and vine-dressers, woodmen and hunters,
so that they in turn might be light of heart amid their toil and
sorrow. One great hymn he composed, and of that I will speak later;
but indeed all his sayings and sermons were a sort of divine song, and
when he sent his companions from one village to another he bade them
say: "We are God's gleemen. For song and sermon we ask largesse, and
our largesse shall be that you persevere in sorrow for your sins."
Seeing that ladies of the world, great and beautiful, took pleasure in
the songs of the troubadours sung at twilight under their windows, he
charged all the churches of his Order that at fall of day the bells
should be rung to recall the greeting with which Gabriel the Angel
saluted the Virgin Mother of the Lord: "Hail, full of grace, the Lord
is with thee, blessed art thou among women." And from that day to this
the bells have rung out the Angelus at sunset, and now there is no land
under heaven wherein those bells are not heard and wherein devout men
hearing them do not pause to repeat that greeting angelic.
In like fashion it was great delight to him (the Pope having given him
leave) to make in the churches of the Order a representation of the
Crib of Bethlehem on the feast of the Nativity. Of these the first was
made at the hermitage of Greccio. Thither the peasants flocked on
Christmas Eve, with lanterns and torches, making the forest ring with
their carols; and there in the church they found a stable with straw,
and an ox and an ass tethered to the manger; and St. Francis spoke to
the folk about Bethlehem and the Shepherds in the field, and the birth
of the divine Babe, so that all who heard him wept happy tears of
compassion and thankfulness.
And as St. Francis stood sighing for joy and gazing at the empty
manger, behold! a wondrous thing happened. For the knight Giovanni,
who had given the ox and the ass and the stable, saw that on the straw
in the manger there lay a beautiful child, which awoke from slumber, as
it seemed, and stretched out its little hands to St. Francis as he
leaned over it.
Even to this day there is no land in which you may not see, on
Christmas Eve, the Crib of Bethlehem; but in those old days of St.
Francis many souls were saved by the sight of that lowly manger from
the sin of those heretics who denied that the Word was made flesh and
that the Son of God was born as a little child for our salvation.
The joy and gaiety of St. Francis were of two kinds. There was the joy
of love, and there was the joy of suffering for love. And of this last
he spoke a wonderful rhapsody as he journeyed once with Brother Leo, in
the grievous cold of the early spring, from Perugia to St. Mary of the
Angels. For, as Brother Leo was walking on before, St. Francis called
aloud to him:--
"O Brother Leo, although throughout the world the Lesser Brethren were
mirrors of holiness and edification, nevertheless write it down, and
give good heed to it, that not therein is perfect joy."
And again, a little further on, he called aloud:
"O Brother Leo, though the Lesser Brother should give the blind sight,
and make the misshapen straight, and cast out devils, and give hearing
to the deaf, and make the lame to walk and the dumb to speak; yea,
should he even raise the four days' dead to life, write it down that
not herein is perfect joy."
And yet a little further on he cried out:
"O Brother Leo, if the Lesser Brother should know all languages, and
every science, and all the Scriptures, so that he could foretell not
solely the hidden things of the future but also the secrets of the
heart, write down that not therein is perfect joy."
A little further yet, and once again he cried aloud:
"O Brother Leo, God's little sheep, though the Lesser Brother were to
speak with the tongue of the Angels, and know the courses of the stars
and the virtues of herbs, and though the treasures of the earth were
discovered to him, and he had craft and knowledge of birds and fishes
and of all living creatures, and of men, and of trees and stones, and
roots and waters, write it down that not therein is perfect joy."
And once more, having gone a little further, St. Francis called aloud:
"O Brother Leo, even though the Lesser Brother could by his preaching
convert all the unbelievers to the faith of Christ, write down that not
therein is perfect joy."
And when, after St. Francis had spoken in this manner for the space of
two miles, Brother Leo besought him to reveal wherein might perfect joy
be found, St. Francis answered him:
"When we are come, drenched with rain and benumbed with cold and
bespattered with mud and aching with hunger, to St. Mary of the Angels,
and knock at the door, and the porter asks wrathfully, 'Who are you?'
and on our answering, 'Two of your brethren are we,' 'Two gangrel
rogues,' says he, 'who go about cheating the world and sorning the alms
of the poor; away with you!' and whips the door to, leaving us till
nightfall, cold and famished, in the snow and rain; if with patience we
bear this injury and harshness and rejection, nowise ruined in our mind
and making no murmur of complaint, but considering within ourselves,
humbly and in charity, that the porter knows well who we are, and that
God sets him up to speak against us--O Brother Leo, write down that
therein is perfect joy."
And perfect joy, he added, if, knocking a second time, they brought the
porter out upon them, fuming, and bidding them betake themselves to the
alms-house, for knaves and thieves, and nevertheless they bore all with
patience and with gladness and love. And yet again, he continued, if a
third time they knocked and shouted to him, for pity of their hunger
and cold and the misery of the night, to let them in, and he came,
fierce with rage, crying, "Ah, bold and sturdy vagabonds, now I will
pay you," and caught them by the hood, and hurled them into the snow,
and belaboured them with a knotty cudgel; and if still, in despite of
all pain and contumely, they endured with gladness, thinking of the
pains of the blessed Lord Christ, which for love of Him they too should
be willing to bear--then might it be truly written down that therein
was perfect joy.
This was the perfect joy of the Saint most like to Christ of all the
Saints that the world has seen. And of all joys this was the most
perfect, seeing that it was by the patient way of tears and
tribulation, of bodily pain and anguish of spirit, of humiliation and
rejection, that a man might come most nearly to a likeness of Christ.
Through all his gaiety and gladness and benignity he carried in his
heart one sorrow, and that was the memory of the Passion of our Lord.
Once he was found weeping in the country, and when he was asked whether
he was in grievous pain that he wept, "Ah!" he replied, "it is for the
Passion of my Lord Jesus that I weep; and for that I should think
little shame to go weeping through the whole world."
Two years before his death there befell him that miraculous
transfiguration, which, so far as it may be with a sinful son of Adam,
made perfect the resemblance between him and the Saviour crucified.
And it was after this manner.
In the upper valley of the Arno stream there towers above the pines and
giant beeches of the hills a great basalt rock, Alvernia, which looks
over Italy, east and west, to the two seas. That rock is accessible by
but a single foot-track, and it is gashed and riven by grim chasms, yet
withal great oaks and beech-trees flourish atop among the boulders, and
there are drifts of fragrant wild flowers, and legions of birds and
other wild creatures dwell there; and the lights and colours of heaven
play about the rock, and the winds of heaven visit it with wholesome
air.
Now a great and wealthy gentleman of Tuscany, Orlando of Chiusi, gave
St. Francis that mountain for a hermitage where he could be remote from
men, and thither, with three of the brethren most dear to him, the
Saint went to spend the forty days of the Fast of St. Michael the
Archangel.
Two nights they slept on the way, but on the third day, so worn was St.
Francis with fatigue and illness, that his companions were fain to beg
a poor peasant to lend them his ass. As they proceeded on their
journey the peasant, walking behind the ass, said to St. Francis, "Tell
me now, art thou Brother Francis of Assisi?" and when St. Francis said
he was, the peasant rejoined, "Look to it, then, that thou strive to be
as good as folk take thee to be, so that those who have faith in thee
be not disappointed in what they expect to find in thee." And
instantly St. Francis got down from the ass, and, kneeling on the
ground, kissed the peasant's feet, and thanked him for his brotherly
admonition.
So onward they journeyed up the mountain till they came to the foot of
Alvernia, and there as St. Francis rested him under an oak, vast
flights of birds came fluttering and blithely singing, and alighted on
his shoulders and arms, and on his lap, and about his feet. "Not
ill-pleased is our Lord, I think," said he, "that we have come to dwell
on this mountain, seeing what glee our little brothers and sisters the
Birds show at our coming."
Under a fair beech on the top of the rock the brethren built him a cell
of branches, and he lived alone in prayer, apart from the others, for
the foreknowledge of his death had overshadowed him. Once as he stood
by the cell, scanning the shape of the mountain and musing on the
clefts and chasms in the huge rocks, it was borne in upon him that the
mountain had been thus torn and cloven in the Ninth Hour when our Lord
cried with a loud voice, and the rocks were rent. And beside this
beech-tree St. Francis was many times uplifted into the air in rapture,
and many times Angels came to him, and walked with him for his
consolation.
A while later, the brethren laid a tree across a chasm, and St. Francis
hid himself in a more lonely place, where no one might hear him when he
cried out; and a falcon, which had its nest hard by his cell, woke him
for matins, and according as he was more weary or sickly at one time
than another, that feathered brother, having compassion on him, woke
him later or sooner, and all the long day was at hand to give him
companionship.
Here in this wild place, in September, on Holy Cross Day, early in the
morning, before the dawn whitened, St. Francis knelt with his face
turned to the dark east; and praying long and with great fervour, he
besought the Lord Christ Jesus for two graces before he died. And the
first was this, that, so far as mortal flesh might bear it, he might
feel in his body the torture which our Lord suffered in His Passion;
and the second, that he might feel in his heart the exceeding great
love for which He was willing to bear such torture.
Now even while he was praying in this wise a mighty six-winged Seraph,
burning with light unspeakable, came flying towards him; and St.
Francis saw that the Seraph bore within himself the figure of a cross,
and thereon the image of a man crucified. Two of the six wings of the
Seraph were lifted up over the head of the crucified; and two were
spread for flying; and two veiled the whole of the body on the cross.
Then as the Seraph drew nigh, the eyes of Christ the crucified looked
into the eyes of St. Francis, piercing and sweet and terrible; and St.
Francis could scarce endure the rapture and the agony with which that
look consumed him, and transfigured him, and burned into his body the
similitude of Christ's Passion. For straightway his hands and his feet
were pierced through and through with nails; and the heads of the nails
were round and black, and the points were bent backward and riveted on
the further side of hand and foot; and his right side was opened with
the deep thrust of the spear; and the gash was red and blood came
dropping from it. Terrible to bear was the ache of those wounds; and
for the nails in his feet St. Francis scarce could stand and could not
walk at all.
Such was the transfiguration of the Little Bedesman of Christ into His
visible semblance on the holy rock Alvernia.
For two years he sustained the ecstasy and anguish of that likeness,
but of his sayings and of the wonders he wrought in that time I will
not speak.
In those days he composed the Song of the Sun, and oftentimes sang it,
and in many a village and market-place was it sung by the brethren
going two by two in their labour for souls. A mighty hymn of praise to
the Lord God most high and omnipotent was this Song of the Sun; for in
this manner it was that St. Francis sang:
"Praised be Thou, my Lord; by all Thy creatures praised; and chiefly
praised by Brother Sun who gives us light of day.
"Through him Thou shinest; fair is he, brilliant with glittering fire;
and he through heaven bears, Most High, symbol and sense of thee.
"Praised by Sister Moon be Thou; and praised by all the Stars. These
hast Thou made, and Thou hast made them precious and beautiful and
bright.
"Praised by Brother Wind be Thou; by Air, and Cloud that lives in air,
and all the Weathers of the world, whereby their keep Thou dost provide
for all the creatures Thou hast made.
"Praised by Sister Water, Lord, be Thou; the lowly water, precious,
pure, the gracious handmaiden.
"Praised by Brother Fire, by whom Thou makest light for us i' the dark;
and fair is he and jocund, sturdy and strong.
"Praised by our Sister Mother-Earth, which keeps us and sustains, and
gives forth plenteous fruit, and grass, and coloured flowers.
"Praised be Thou, Lord my God, by those who for Thy love forgive, and
for Thy love endure; blessed in their patience they; by Thee shall they
be crowned."
As he drew nigh to his end at St. Mary of the Angels, he cried out,
"Welcome, Sister Death!" and when his brethren, as he had bidden them,
sang once more the Song of the Sun, he added another verse:
"Praised by our Sister Death be Thou--that bodily death which no man
may escape. Alas for those who die in mortal sin, but happy they
conforming to Thy will; for these the second death shall nowise hurt."
In the tenth month, on the fourth day of the month, in the
forty-and-fifth year of his age, having recited the Psalm, "I cried
unto Thee, O Lord, and said: Thou art my hope and my portion in the
land of the living," St. Francis died very joyfully. At the fall of
the night he died, and while still the brethren were gazing upon his
face there dropped down on the thatch of the cell in which he lay larks
innumerable, and most sweetly they sang, as though they rejoiced at the
release of their holy kinsman.
He was buried at the great church at Assisi; but though it is thought
he lies beneath the high altar, the spot is unknown to any man, and the
hill-folk say that St. Francis is not dead at all, but that he lives
hidden in a secret crypt far down below the roots of wall and pillar.
Standing there, pale and upright, with the blood red in the five wounds
of his crucifixion, he waits in a heavenly trance for the sound of the
last trumpet, when the nations of the earth shall see in the clouds Him
whom they have pierced.
Long after his death it was the custom of the brethren of a certain
house of his Order to go chanting in procession at midnight once in the
year to his resting-place. But the way was long and dark; the weather
often bleak and stormy. Little by little devotion cooled, and the
friars fell away, till there remained but one old monk willing to go on
this pilgrimage. As he went into the dark and the storm, the road
among the woods and rocks grew luminous, and in place of the cross and
torches and canticles of the former days, great flocks of birds
escorted him on his way, singing and keeping him company. The little
feathered brothers and sisters had not abated in their love of the
Little Bedesman who had caressed and blessed them.