About thirty miles from Assisi he was taken ill with an attack of his life-long enemy—the fever—and forced to lie by. He chafed a good deal at this, and wondered and pondered over the mysterious actions of a Providence which had so manifestly sanctioned his expedition.

One evening he was lying half unconscious when he thought he heard the same voice that spoke to him before he started.

"Francis," it asked, "what could benefit thee most, the Master or the servant, the rich man or the poor?"

"The Master and the rich man," answered Francis in wonderment.

"Why, then," went on the voice, "dost thou leave God, Who is the Master and rich, for man, who is the servant and poor?"

"Then, Lord, what wilt Thou that I do?" queried Francis.

"Return to thy native town, and it shall be shown thee there what thou shalt do," said the voice.

It was characteristic of all Francis' after life that he never stopped to query what looked like contradiction of orders, but as soon as ever he was well enough he travelled back home again. His ambition for future greatness, and earthly distinction and honor, all seemed to be lost sight of when the Divine voice spoke. For Francis was convinced that God had spoken to him.

It was certainly not easy for a nature like his to return home whence a few short days before, he had departed with such pomp and glory. His father was not over rejoiced to welcome him back, but his friends, who worshipped him, "the flower of Assisi," as they called him, received him gladly. Things had been dull without Francis. His merry songs and jests were missed at the evening feast. For a time he took up the life he had quitted. There was nothing else to do as far as he could see. But he was changed. Even his companions were forced to own that. He sang, and laughed, and jested as usual, but the heart had gone out of his song and laughter, and he was prone to fall into deep fits of meditation.

It was a far from satisfactory life. He cared no longer for what was once his very existence, and he knew not as yet to what God would have him turn. He desired to serve God, and gave himself to almsgiving. He made a pilgrimage to Rome, only to be disgusted with the miserable offerings put into the treasury by the pilgrims.

"Is this all they spare to God?" he cried, and pulling out his purse flung its contents among the rest.

He was tormented and haunted by recollections of his past mis-spent life, and for days he mourned over what was beyond recall.

There was a certain old woman in Assisi, horribly deformed and hideously ugly. Francis, with his innate love of the beautiful, recoiled in horror every time he met her. She was a nightmare to him, and he would go far to avoid seeing her. The devil, who is ever ready to work on the weakness of a human soul, used this old woman to torture him.

"See," he said, "a picture of what you will become if you persist in mortifying yourself, and leading a life devoted to God. You will become as ugly and repulsive as that old woman in time."

The bare idea was agonizing to Francis. The old woman turned up continually, and seemed to pursue him like a phantom. The temptation may seem to stronger souls an ignoble one, but it was an intense and severe one to Francis. He conquered by yielding himself up to the will of God. He accepted everything—deformity, ugliness, pain—if it were God's plan for him. Then and only then had he rest.

As soon as he had given up his warlike ambitions and returned to Assisi, he had been in the habit of going off by himself into a cave or grotto, and there being alone with his thoughts. Many a conflict did that cave see, as Francis with tears and cries entreated the Lord to show him how best to employ his life. It was during one of these seasons that his spiritual eyes were opened. Hitherto he had followed blindly an almost unknown God, but he had followed and sought, and the end of his faith was sight.

It came upon him all at once. Christ—His love for the sinner, His love for him—Christ, bleeding, dying, suffering, for very love—Christ the pure, long-suffering, merciful, patient—Christ the Son of God made Man for us. A wave of great joy swept over Francis, and he wept for very gladness of heart. Here was his Master, his Lord. He had found Him, and henceforth following was easy.

Not one of the many translations of the life of Francis, omits to mention his self-imposed mission to the lepers. Assisi, like most foreign towns of the age, was infested with lepers. They were not allowed to live in the towns, but had houses (lazaretti) built for them quite outside. Francis had a deep-rooted repugnance to a leper, and, in passing a lazaretto, always carefully covered up his nose lest any bad odour might reach him, and he always rode far away in the opposite direction, if he chanced to see one in the plains. Nothing shows the change in Francis more than his alteration towards the lepers. One day, when out riding, he saw a leper approaching. His first instinct was his natural one to get away at once. His second, that God required something more of him. Who was he, to loathe and avoid a fellow-creature. Riding up to the leper, he dismounted, gave him some money, and then without a shudder, kissed the dreadful hand held out to him. He had done the impossible, and from this time he constantly visited the lazaretti, putting himself in personal contact with the lepers, giving them money, and doing all he could to lessen their sufferings.

Of this period of his experience he writes long years after:—

"When I was in sin it was very bitter to me to behold lepers, but the Lord Himself having led me amongst them, I exercised mercy towards them, and when I left them I felt that what had seemed so bitter to me was changed into sweetness for my soul and body."

CHAPTER III.

A Lonely Struggle.

A rough, stony uphill path, or rather track, under grey-green olive trees, leading to a perfect tangle of cypresses and pines. Somewhere in the tangle of cypresses almost hidden from sight, lay a dilapidated ancient church, which, long ago had been dedicated to the martyr Damian. Up this stony track one day, stumbled Francis.

His was now a solitary life. He was a complete puzzle to parents and friends, and, indeed to a great extent he was a puzzle to himself. His life in his father's house was far from pleasant. Pietro's vanity had received a serious blow from what he regarded as his son's "ignominious" return to Assisi. He had been more than willing to give him ample means for every pleasure, so that he might mingle on an equal footing with the young nobles of the land, but to see his money given lavishly to the beggars in the street, and the lepers in the lazar-houses was more than he could stand. A serious, ever widening breach had formed between father and son. Pica, poor woman, knew that, sooner or later, a rupture would come, and much as she loved her strange son, she could do nothing to prevent it. There was literally no one who could comprehend Francis, much less render him any spiritual aid. One faithful companion there had been, who used to follow him round into the woods when he went to pray, and stand at the doors of caves and