“Yes, now I am clothed, and in my right mind, like the lunatic who had been cutting himself with stones. But, my father, take me in, I cannot trust myself out of the shelter of the priory.” “Then thou art not fit to enter it, for we want men whom we may send out into the world without fear. No! the first vacant cell shall be thine, but I will not hasten the time by a day. Thou must prove thy vocation, and then thou mayst join the brotherhood of sweet Saint Francis.” “Tell me, my father, how old was the saint when he renounced the world? Did Francis ever love it?” “He did, indeed. He was called ‘_Le debonair Francois_.’ He loved the Provencal songs, and indeed learned to sing his sweet melodies to Christ after the mode of those songs of earthly love. His eyes danced with life, he went singing about all day long, and through the glorious Italian night. But even then he loved his neighbour. No beggar asked of him in vain. _Liberalis et hilaris_ was Francis.” “And did he ever fight?” “Yes. When a mere lad, he lay a year in prison at Perugia, having been taken captive in fighting for his own city Assisi. But even then he was the joy of his fellow captives, from his bright disposition.” “When did he give up all this?” “Not till he was ten years older than thou art. One night he was made king of the feast, at a drinking bout, and went forth, at the head of his companions, to pour forth their songs into the sweet Italian moonlight. A sudden hush fell upon him. “‘What ails thee, Francis?’ cried the rest. ‘Art thinking of a wife?’ “‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of one more noble, more pure, than you can conceive, any of you.’” “What did he mean?” “The yearning for the life which is hid with Christ in God had seized him. It was the last of his revels. “‘Love set my heart on fire,’ “—He used afterwards to sing. It was at that moment the fire kindled.” “I wish it would set mine on fire.” “Perhaps the fire is already kindled.” “Nay, think of last night.” “And what makes thee loathe last night? Other young men do not loathe such follies.” “Shame, I suppose.” “And what gives thee that divine shame? It is not thine own sinful nature. There is something in thee which is not of self.” “You think so? Oh, you think so?” “Indeed I do.” “Then you give me fresh hope.” “Since you ask it of a fellow worm.” “But what can I do? I want to be up and doing.” “Keep out of temptation. Avoid the causeway after vespers. Meanwhile I will enrol thy name as an associate of the Order, and thou shalt go forth as Francis did, while not yet quite separated from the world. Do you know the story of the leper?” “Tell it me.”