giant had rushed forward and grabbed Francis by the scruff of the neck. It was his father, Sior Bernardone.
"Come with me!" he roared, shaking his son furiously.
But Francis was able to catch hold of one of the columns of the temple.
"Where?" he shouted. "I'm not going anywhere!"
"Home!" "My home is here--here in the square. And these men and women who are hooting me: they are my father and mother."
Old Bernardone went wild. Grasping his son around the waist with both his arms, he tried to wrench him away from the column.
"I'm not going!" screamed Francis, throwing his arms more firmly around the column. "I have no father, no mother; I have no home--only God!"
He was quiet for an instant, and then he began at once to shout again: "Only God! Only God!" The crowd roared with laughter.
"We haven't any buffoon to help us pass the time," said someone with a face like a mouse. (It was Sabbatino; I recognized him.) "Now, praise the Lord, we have Bernardone's son! Hello there, Francis, God's trained bear! Jump for us! Dance!"
Everyone roared with laughter.
At that moment the Bishop of Assisi happened to be walking across the square. He was a venerable old man, a good, simple soul with a gentle voice; a man who trembled when he thought of hell, trembled when he thought of heaven, and who was continually begging Satan to repent and return to Paradise quietly, supplicatingly, with no more thought of resistance.
This evening he had made his accustomed rounds of the poorer sections of the city. Behind him came the deacon with an empty hamper which the bishop had had filled with food to be distributed to the poor. As he was walking, his long ivory-hilted crosier in his hand, he heard the cries and stopped. Francis was still shouting, "I have no home--only God! Only God!" and the people were splitting their sides with laughter.
It seemed to the bishop that someone was in danger and desired aid from him, God's representative in Assisi. He quickened his pace as much as he could, and approached.
The darkness had not fallen; the last gleams of twilight still remained, and the bishop was able to see Francis and recognize him. And there on top of him was old Bernardone, struggling to drag him away. The bishop raised his crosier.
"Sior Bernardone," he said in a severe voice, "it is shameful for one of the leading men of the region to provide a theatrical show for everyone to see. If you have any differences with your son, let both of you come to our residence so that we may render judgment."
He turned to Francis. "My child, do not resist. You were calling God. I am God's representative in Assisi. Come with me!"
Francis released his grip on the column. He saw me next to him.
"You come too, Brother Leo," he said. "The ascent is beginning."
The bishop led the way, followed by Francis and me, with old Bernardone behind us, grumbling. And still further behind, keeping a respectable distance, came the agitated populace, their eyes fixed abjectly on the ground.
Francis turned to me for a moment. "Brother Leo, are you afraid, are you ashamed?" he asked in a low voice. "I repeat to you: if you want to turn back, you can. Why should you become involved? Go!"
"As long as I'm with you, Brother Francis, I'm neither afraid nor ashamed. I'll never leave you as long as I live."
"You've still got time," he insisted. "I feel sorry for you. Go!"
At this I was no longer able to restrain myself, and I burst into tears.
Francis touched my shoulder tenderly.
"All right, all right, little lion of God. You can stay."
We reached the bishop's palace and entered the benighted courtyard. Behind us a large number of the townspeople squeezed their way inside, as did several notables who had raced to admire the state to which Bernardone's son had fallen.
The servants lit the chandelier, illuminating the great hall. Above the episcopal throne was a crucifix which showed Christ beautiful and well fed, with plump, rosy cheeks.
"Come with me!" he roared, shaking his son furiously.
But Francis was able to catch hold of one of the columns of the temple.
"Where?" he shouted. "I'm not going anywhere!"
"Home!" "My home is here--here in the square. And these men and women who are hooting me: they are my father and mother."
Old Bernardone went wild. Grasping his son around the waist with both his arms, he tried to wrench him away from the column.
"I'm not going!" screamed Francis, throwing his arms more firmly around the column. "I have no father, no mother; I have no home--only God!"
He was quiet for an instant, and then he began at once to shout again: "Only God! Only God!" The crowd roared with laughter.
"We haven't any buffoon to help us pass the time," said someone with a face like a mouse. (It was Sabbatino; I recognized him.) "Now, praise the Lord, we have Bernardone's son! Hello there, Francis, God's trained bear! Jump for us! Dance!"
Everyone roared with laughter.
At that moment the Bishop of Assisi happened to be walking across the square. He was a venerable old man, a good, simple soul with a gentle voice; a man who trembled when he thought of hell, trembled when he thought of heaven, and who was continually begging Satan to repent and return to Paradise quietly, supplicatingly, with no more thought of resistance.
This evening he had made his accustomed rounds of the poorer sections of the city. Behind him came the deacon with an empty hamper which the bishop had had filled with food to be distributed to the poor. As he was walking, his long ivory-hilted crosier in his hand, he heard the cries and stopped. Francis was still shouting, "I have no home--only God! Only God!" and the people were splitting their sides with laughter.
It seemed to the bishop that someone was in danger and desired aid from him, God's representative in Assisi. He quickened his pace as much as he could, and approached.
The darkness had not fallen; the last gleams of twilight still remained, and the bishop was able to see Francis and recognize him. And there on top of him was old Bernardone, struggling to drag him away. The bishop raised his crosier.
"Sior Bernardone," he said in a severe voice, "it is shameful for one of the leading men of the region to provide a theatrical show for everyone to see. If you have any differences with your son, let both of you come to our residence so that we may render judgment."
He turned to Francis. "My child, do not resist. You were calling God. I am God's representative in Assisi. Come with me!"
Francis released his grip on the column. He saw me next to him.
"You come too, Brother Leo," he said. "The ascent is beginning."
The bishop led the way, followed by Francis and me, with old Bernardone behind us, grumbling. And still further behind, keeping a respectable distance, came the agitated populace, their eyes fixed abjectly on the ground.
Francis turned to me for a moment. "Brother Leo, are you afraid, are you ashamed?" he asked in a low voice. "I repeat to you: if you want to turn back, you can. Why should you become involved? Go!"
"As long as I'm with you, Brother Francis, I'm neither afraid nor ashamed. I'll never leave you as long as I live."
"You've still got time," he insisted. "I feel sorry for you. Go!"
At this I was no longer able to restrain myself, and I burst into tears.
Francis touched my shoulder tenderly.
"All right, all right, little lion of God. You can stay."
We reached the bishop's palace and entered the benighted courtyard. Behind us a large number of the townspeople squeezed their way inside, as did several notables who had raced to admire the state to which Bernardone's son had fallen.
The servants lit the chandelier, illuminating the great hall. Above the episcopal throne was a crucifix which showed Christ beautiful and well fed, with plump, rosy cheeks.
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