It is not to the discredit of the personal character of Louis IX. that he was not entirely free from the bigotry and superstition of his age. He treated heresy as of the nature of rebellion, and did not stay the heavy hand of persecution in some instances. He especially revered relics. When a nail, which was believed to have been one of those that pierced the hands of Jesus, was temporarily missing from its casket, he cried, “I would rather that the best city in my kingdom had been swallowed up in the earth.” With joy he paid a large price to Baldwin II., the Latin King of Constantinople, for our Saviour’s crown of thorns. The “Holy Chapel,” which he built to shield the precious relics, still remains one of the finest monuments of mediæval times. In private life Louis would have preferred the daily routine of a monk to the diversions of the court. He prided himself on the hard haircloth worn next his skin as a token of perpetual humility more than he cared for his royal robe. At his waist hung, instead of silken tassels, a scourge of iron chains, which drew blood from his back once a week. He never laughed on a Friday. Except where the dignity of his throne required public defence, Louis scarcely maintained his royal self-respect, so meek did he try to be. A common woman once brazenly said to him, “You are unfit for a king of France, fit only to be a king of monks and priests.” Louis humbly replied, “You say the truth,” and with a smile gave her a handful of money. As early as 1239, when Louis IX. was twenty-four years of age, he manifested great zeal for the crusades, and sent Amaury de Montfort to fight as his personal representative on the field. Five years later (1244) he was afflicted with such serious illness that at one moment he was believed to be dead. The watchers were startled by his sepulchral voice: “He, by God’s grace, hath visited me—He who cometh from on high hath recalled me from among the dead.” Reviving from his swoon, he bade the Bishop of Paris place upon his shoulder the cross of the voyage over the sea. Three years passed, during which he seemingly forgot the vow, but an incident proved that the holy enthusiasm still burned in his heart. Allusion being made one day to the cross he wore as having been assumed at a moment when he was of wavering mind through bodily weakness, the king instantly undid the emblem from his shoulder and gave it to the Bishop of Paris; he then added, “Now assuredly I am in my senses. He that knoweth all things knoweth that until that cross is replaced upon my shoulder no food shall enter my lips.”