There was muffled whispering among the notables and people, but the bishop restored silence with a wave of his hand. He turned to Francis, who had been listening with bowed head.
"What do you have to say in your defense, Francis, son of Christ?"
Francis raised his head.
"Nothing," he answered. "Only this--"
And, before any of us could prevent him, with a sudden movement he threw off the velvet clothes he was wearing, rolled them up into a bundle, and calmly, without uttering a word, stooped and placed them at Bernardone's feet.
Then, as naked as the day his mother brought him into the world, he went and stood before the bishop's throne.
"Bishop," he said, "even these clothes belonged to him. I am returning them. He no longer has a son; I no longer have a father. Our accounts are settled."
We all stood with gaping mouths; many eyes had filled with tears. Bernardone bent down, seized the bundle, and placed it beneath his arm.
The bishop descended from his throne. His eyes were wet. Removing his cloak, he wrapped it around Francis, covering his nakedness.
"Why did you do it, my child?" he asked in a melancholy, reproachful voice. "Weren't you ashamed before these people?"
"No, Bishop, only before God," Francis replied humbly. "I am ashamed only before God. Forgive me, Bishop."
He turned to the notables and the people:
"Brothers, hear what God has commanded me to do. Until now I called Sior Pietro Bernardone my father. Henceforth I shall say: 'Our Father who art in heaven.' I am breaking the links which bound me to earth; I am gaining momentum so that I may return to my home, to heaven. This, brothers-- listen to it--this is the new madness."
Old Bernardone was unable to restrain himself any longer. Frothing at the mouth, he pounced on Francis, his fist raised. But the bishop managed to seize hold of him in time.
"You have no more power over him," he said. "Control your anger, Sior Bernardone!"
Bernardone threw a ferocious glance around the room. Smoke was rising from his head. Biting his lips to keep himself from cursing, he squeezed the bundle under his arm and left, banging the door furiously behind him.
The bishop turned then to me. "Go and ask the gardener to give you one of his old garments to cover Francis' nakedness."
I ran out and returned in a few moments with an ancient coat that had been patched and repatched a thousand times. Francis traced a cross on the back with chalk and put the coat on.
He bowed, kissed the bishop's hand, then turned to the notables and the people. "Farewell my brothers," he said to them. "May God have mercy upon your souls!"
The bishop escorted Francis a short distance out into the courtyard. Bending over, he said to him in a hushed voice, "Careful, Francis. You're overdoing it."
"That's how one finds God, Bishop," Francis answered.
The bishop shook his head. "Even virtue needs moderation; otherwise it can become arrogance."
"Man stands within the bounds of moderation; God stands outside them. I am heading for God, Bishop," said Francis, and he proceeded hastily toward the street door. He had no time to lose.
The bishop clasped his hand compassionately. "Do not be in a hurry, my child. I see the air round about your head filled with struggle, anguish, and blood. Do not depart for the contest, my child, before you come to see me. I am old; I have experienced much that is unpleasant. What you are now going through, I have already gone through. I think I can help you."
"I shall come to ask for your blessing, Bishop," said Francis, and he strode across the threshold.
I ran behind, and we issued into the street. The moon had not yet risen; it was pitch dark outside. Clouds covered the sky. A damp wind was blowing: apparently rain had already fallen on the mountains.
The street was deserted. In the houses the lamps were being lit and people were sitting down for dinner. We both stood for some time in the middle of the road. Where should we go? In which direction--toward the plain or toward the mountain: the wilderness or the abode of men? God was to our left and to our right, both on the plain and on the mountain. Every route was a hallowed one.
Francis still had not chosen. He stood motionless in the middle of the street.
"And where are we going now, Brother Francis?" I asked him.
Francis laughed quietly, childishly. "To heaven," he replied. "Don't you understand? We've booted the earth goodbye; we've taken the leap. Forward, Brother Leo, in God's name."
He turned to the right, the direction of Mount Subasio.
Leaving through the northern gate, we entered a wild, deserted area and began the ascent. Francis did not speak for a long time. He went ahead of me in the darkness and his slender body seemed to me like a sword splitting the road in two, while his oversize, tattered coat flapped in the wind like a pair of wings.
As for me, I was tired, hungry; I halted and looked down at Assisi. The lights were still burning. You could still hear the bustle of humans and the barking of dogs. A sliver of moon, crushed, full of affliction, appeared over the rim of the sky.
As soon as Francis did not hear my footsteps behind him, he turned. "Why are you hesitating, Brother Leo?" he called, seeing me with my eyes fixed on the benighted city in back of me. "Why are you looking behind you? Don't you remember Christ's instruction? Shake off the dust of Assisi from your feet; the dust of your father and mother, the dust of men!"
"Don't worry, Brother Francis, that's just what I'm doing: I'm shaking off the dust," I answered.
Alas! God had made me neither a hero nor a coward, and my soul flitted constantly between the two.
We started out again. Francis was happy, satisfied, and he had begun to sing softly, again in his mother's native tongue. Once more he had carried out God's command: he had sung and danced in the middle of Assisi, had abandoned his mother and father, broken the chains which were binding him to the earth, and saved himself. Had he not sung in the same way when he fulfilled God's first command by rebuilding San Damiano's? The second task had been more difficult, and for that reason the joy was greater.
We were in a forest of wild oaks now. The moon threw a pale, doleful light onto the branches and stones; from time to time an owl flew silently over our heads. Suddenly in the midst of Francis' singing we heard the heavy tread and breathing of human beings behind the trees. Francis cut short his song, and we stood motionless.
"Bandits have their hideaways here," I said. "We're lost!"
"How can you be lost when you have nothing to lose?" Francis replied. "Don't be afraid."
As we were speaking we heard the snapping of twigs: the footsteps were coming closer. All at once five or six ferocious men darted out in front of us with lifted daggers. Two of them grabbed me and threw me to the ground; the rest pounced on Francis.
"Who are you?" they shouted at him, grinding their teeth.
"I am the emissary of the Great King," Francis answered tranquilly.
"And what business do you have here?"
"I have come to invite my brothers the bandits to enter heaven. The Great King is holding a wedding. His son is being married, and the King asks you to take part in the festivities."
One of the bandits held a lighted torch near Francis and stared at his pale, hungry face, his bare, blood-stained feet, and his tattered coat. They all laughed.
"You the emissary of the Great King? You, a barefooted beggar, a ragamuffin!" they exclaimed sarcastically, and they began to search him to find his purse.
But they found nothing. Next, they examined the sack which I had on my back, and again found nothing--not even a crust of bread. They stared at Francis again in the light of the torch.
"He must be crazy," one of them said. "We're wasting our time."
"Let's give them a good beating and toss them in that ditch," said another. "By doing that at least we won't have wasted our time completely."
They lifted the oxtails they were holding and began to thrash us pitilessly. I howled with pain; but Francis, every time he received a blow from the lash, crossed himself and murmured, "Glory be to God!"
The bandits laughed.
"Good God, this fellow isn't a lunatic, he's a saint," said one of them.
"It's the same thing, isn't it?" replied another who appeared to be the leader. "We've settled their hash nicely. Lift them up now and toss them in the ditch."
They seized us by the feet and shoulders, threw us into the ditch, and then left, laughing and hurling insults at us.
Francis held out his hand and stroked my back.
"Does it hurt, Brother Leo?" he asked.
"And am I to suppose yours doesn't, Brother Francis?" I replied irritably. "My back is made of flesh, you know, and there comes a time when--"
"Do not blaspheme against the flesh, Brother Leo. Remember what we said one day: sooner or later it too can become spirit. And indeed it has already! I don't feel the slightest pain, Brother Leo, none at all--I swear to you."
The ditch was deep. We struggled to climb out of it, but kept slipping and rolling back down again to the bottom.
"This place is as good as any, Brother Leo," said Francis. "We were looking for a shelter to pass the night, weren't we? Well, here it is--the Lord sent it to us out of His abounding grace. So let's sleep here and in the morning God will dispatch the sun to show us the way."
Huddling against each other because of the cold, we closed our eyes. My back was still stinging me, but I was exhausted and I slept. Did Francis sleep also? I don't know. I rather doubt it, however, because from time to time in my sleep I heard a voice, a voice that was singing.
When morning came we scrambled out of the ditch on all fours and resumed our wanderings. Sometimes we remained silent for a considerable period, sometimes we exchanged a few words about God, or the weather, or the approaching winter. And each time we saw a village in the distance, Francis would pull my sleeve joyfully.
"Come, Brother Leo," he would say to me, "come, don't be slow. Inside those little houses there must be a soul longing to be saved. Let's go and find it!"
We would enter the village and Francis, as though he were the town crier, would shout:
"Halloo, villagers! Come and see! I bring new wares which I'm going to distribute to you free of cost. First come first served! Free! Free! Free!"
We had found a large ram's bell on the road. This Francis rang in the village streets while he shouted; and the inhabitants would hear and run--men, women, and children --to see what we were bringing and distributing free. Then Francis would step up onto a stone and begin to speak about love: we should love God and men, friends and enemies; we should love animals and birds and the very earth we step on. Carried away, he would speak about love, and when he could no longer find words to express himself, he would burst into tears. Many laughed when they heard him; some grew angry. The children bombarded him with stones. A few people came up to him in secret and kissed his hand. Afterwards, we would make a quick round of the doors with outstretched hands, begging. People gave us a few pieces of stale bread. Then, taking a drink from the village well, we would leave, headed for another village. It is impossible for me to remember how many days or weeks went by in this way. Time is round, and it rolls quickly.
In one small city--I forget its name--we encountered an old friend of Francis' who once upon a time used to accompany him on his revels. He had seen Francis stand himself in the middle of the square and begin to dance, sing, and hawk his new wares. Astonished, he ran up to him.
"Francis, my old friend," he shouted, "how did you come to this? Who brought you to such a state?"
"God," answered Francis with a smile. "Your silk clothes and the red feather in your hat and your gold rings: where are they all?"
"Satan lent them to me. Now I have returned them to him."
The friend eyed him questioningly from top to toe, examined the coat that had been patched and repatched a thousand times, the bare feet, the uncovered head. But still he continued to be perplexed.
"Where are you coming from, Francis?" he asked finally, his voice full of compassion.
"From the next world," Francis replied.
"And where are you going?"
"To the next world."
"And why do you sing?"
"To keep from losing my way."
The friend shook his head in despair. He must have had a kind heart, this young man, because he took Francis by the hand and signaled me to follow. I ran behind them.
"If I understand correctly, Francis, my old friend, you want to save the world. But listen to me please: it's winter, come home with me and let me give you a warm coat. Otherwise you'll die of cold--and how will you save the world then?"
"I'm wearing God," said Francis. "I'm not cold."
The friend laughed. "You're wearing God," he said, "but that's not enough. You need a warm coat as well. You pity worms and try not to step on them; well, pity your body also. It too is a worm; wrap a coat around it. . . . And don't forget," he added, seeing Francis hesitate, "don't forget that your body is needed if you are going to save the world. Without the body--"
"You're right," said Francis. "That's the result of education: you're a sharp-witted fellow. Yes, the body is still needed. Lead on!"
We reached the house. It was obvious that the friend was rich. He went into one of the rooms and came out holding a long, thick woolen coat, a pair of sandals--the kind worn by shepherds--and a shepherd's crook.
"These are my shepherd's clothes," he said. "Put them on."
Francis looked at the woolen garment and held it up against him to judge its size. It came down to his feet. He tried on the hood, took it off. He was laughing like a child.
"I like it," he said finally. "I like it because it is the same color as the ploughed fields in autumn: it reminds one of the soil. Ruffino, in the name of Christ, give a similar one to my companion here, Brother Leo."
The friend was delighted to hear this.
"What a fine thing it will be," he said, "if I live in the memory of mankind because I gave you this coat which you've made into a monk's frock! Do you intend to found an order like Saint Benedict?" "Do I intend to, or does God? He's the one you must ask-- the one I ask."