The form in which such an expedition set out was characteristic, and impressive in its simplicity. The monks, having been assembled by sound of the bell, all the community went down upon their knees. After a long silence, the Abbot intoned a psalm; then, taking a cross of wood from the altar, he handed it, as the token of office, to the new Abbot. The latter received it in silence, kissed it, still without speaking, and left his stall, followed by twelve other monks, symbols of the Christ and apostles. All the brothers then ranged themselves in the cloister, while, with heads bowed, the thirteen passed between them. Silently the gates of the monastery swung open, revealing to all a glimpse of the dangerous world beyond. The pilgrims filed out; and the clang of closing gates announced the termination of the ceremony. We have not space to follow further the career of the "Last of the Fathers," as he was called, or to trace in detail the growth of an influence so extraordinary, that about the year 1148, we find Pierre le Vénérable, Abbot of Cluny, writing of "Bernard of Clairvaux, the splendid and immovable column that sustains not the monastic order only, but the entire church," while Bernard himself, broken down by the weight of affairs pressing upon him, writes to Eugène III: "People are pretending everywhere that you are not pope, but I; and all who have business, flock to me for help," (Aiunt non vos esse papam, sed me). Geoffrey, Bernard's secretary and successor, writing two years after his master's death, said: "Whoso has met Bernard has seen Christ. For in him the whole Christ dwelt."[105] Without, indeed, going so far in praise as did his secretary, we may agree that Bernard's character comprised most of those elemental virtues, that, blended, make the perfect man. In him, calmness and vehemence, tenderness and serenity, tenacity and flexibility, vivid imagination and unswerving rectitude, were all present; ever ready to meet the necessities of any occasion that might arise. With all these varied gifts he never flattered, never betrayed the truth, never dissembled the sacred ardour that burned within him. Everywhere he was listened to with profound respect; his stern voice was heard in the cottages of the poor, and in the palaces of kings. Neither his enthusiasm, nor his ceaseless activities, caused him to lose lucidity nor precision of argument in debate. His repartee was gentle and penetrating; swift to disentangle truth from error, without practising the subtleties of the schools. He was that rarest of phenomena, a practical idealist, an enlightened fanatic. And with all these varied faculties, high above men of his time though his intellect was, he remained ever a true son of the Church, nor sought to free himself from the yoke of Catholic authority. Therein lay the secret of his subsequent bitter antagonism to the teachings of Abélard.