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heard, 'your soul is the dove, the hawk pursuing you is Satan. Come into my bosom.' These were the very words I myself had composed and set to the music of the lute. Each midnight I had stood beneath a window and sung them. But now, now for the first time, Brother Leo, I understood why I had composed those words and what their hidden meaning was."

    He remained silent for a moment, a smile upon his lips. Then, as though in a trance, he bowed his head and repeated in a whisper: "Francis, Francis, your soul is the dove, the hawk pursuing you is Satan. Come into my bosom."

    Once more he fell silent. He had grown calm; I felt I could touch him now without being burned. Leaning forward, I took his hand and kissed it. "Brother Francis," I said, "every man, even the most atheistic, has God within him deep down in his heart, wrapped in layers of flesh and fat. It was God inside you who pushed aside the flesh and fat and called to you."

    Francis closed his eyes. He had lain awake the whole night and was sleepy.

    "Go to sleep, Francis," I said to him softly. "Sleep is one of God's angels; you can surrender yourself to it with confidence."

    But he drew himself up with a start. "What am I to do now?" he asked in a stifled voice, his eyes protruding out of their sockets. "Advise me."

    I felt sorry for him. Hadn't I been roaming for years now in the very same way, seeking advice?

    "Keep your head against your breast and listen to your heart," I answered. "This 'Someone Else' inside you will definitely speak again. When He does, do what He tells you."

    I heard the street door being opened quietly, then firm footsteps echoing in the courtyard. Lady Pica was returning from Mass--alone. I sighed with relief. Sior Bernardone must have mounted his horse and was probably already on the road to Florence. "Your mother is back, Francis," I said. "Go to sleep. I'm leaving."

    "Don't go. The old man is away. You'll sleep here. Don't leave me alone, I tell you!"

    He seized my hand. "Don't leave me alone in danger!" he shouted.

    "You're not alone any more, Francis. You know that! A mighty companion is within you; you heard His voice. What are you afraid of?"

    "But don't you understand, Brother Leo? It's precisely Him I'm afraid of. Don't go."

    I placed my hand on his forehead. It was burning. His mother entered, smiling.

    "I bring you greetings from the statue of the Virgin, my child. May they be a comfort and bolster to your soul." This said, she placed a sprig of basil in his palm.

    HOW MANY days, how many nights did Francis' sickness last? I am able to measure everything, but not time. All I remember is that the moon grew small, grew large and then small again--and Francis still had not left his bed. You felt he was wrestling in his sleep. One moment he would cry out in a rage and spring up; the next he would shrink into one corner of the bed, shivering. Later, when he became well, he informed us that during his entire sickness he had been struggling, first with the Saracens--he saw himself entering Jerusalem, clutching the Holy Cross on his shoulder; then with demons that rose from the soil, descended from the trees, darted out from the bowels of night, pursuing him.

    His mother and I were the only ones who remained at his bedside. Lady Pica would get up at intervals, hide herself in a corner, and weep. Then she would wipe her eyes with her tiny white handkerchief, sit down again, take up a fan of peacock feathers, and cool her son, who was burning with fever.

    One night the patient had a dream. He related it to us the next day, not in the morning--the disturbance still upset his mind--but in the evening, after the cool darkness had fallen and the bronze oil lamps were lighted and the world about us had grown sweet. He had dreamt he was dying. As he lay in the throes of his final agony the door opened and Death entered. He wasn't holding a scythe, the way Francis had seen him depicted on paintings, but a pair of long iron pincers like