“He did, indeed. He was called ‘Le debonair Francois.’ He loved the Provencal songs, and indeed learned to sing his sweet melodies to Christ after the mode of those songs of earthly love. His eyes danced with life, he went singing about all day long, and through the glorious Italian night. But even then he loved his neighbour. No beggar asked of him in vain. Liberalis et hilaris was Francis.”
“And did he ever fight?”
“Yes. When a mere lad, he lay a year in prison at Perugia, having been taken captive in fighting for his own city Assisi. But even then he was the joy of his fellow captives, from his bright disposition.”
“When did he give up all this?”
“Not till he was ten years older than thou art. One night he was made king of the feast, at a drinking bout, and went forth, at the head of his companions, to pour forth their songs into the sweet Italian moonlight. A sudden hush fell upon him.
“‘What ails thee, Francis?’ cried the rest. ‘Art thinking of a wife?’
“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of one more noble, more pure, than you can conceive, any of you.’”
“What did he mean?”
“The yearning for the life which is hid with Christ in God had seized him. It was the last of his revels.
“‘Love set my heart on fire,’