The doors of houses and of hearts were
alike closing upon him, but the interior voice was about to speak out
with irresistible force and make itself forever obeyed.

Among the numerous chapels in the suburbs of Assisi there was one which
he particularly loved, that of St. Damian. It was reached by a few
minutes' walk over a stony path, almost trackless, under olive trees,
amid odors of lavender and rosemary. Standing on the top of a hillock,
the entire plain is visible from it, through a curtain of cypresses and
pines which seem to be trying to hide the humble hermitage and set up
an ideal barrier between it and the world.

Served by a poor priest who had scarcely the wherewithal for necessary
food, the sanctuary was falling into ruin. There was nothing in the
interior but a simple altar of masonry, and by way of reredos one of
those byzantine crucifixes still so numerous in Italy, where through the
work of the artists of the time has come down to us something of the
terrors which agitated the twelfth century. In general the Crucified
One, frightfully lacerated, with bleeding wounds, appears to seek to
inspire only grief and compunction; that of St. Damian, on the contrary,
has an expression of inexpressible calm and gentleness; instead of
closing the eyelids in eternal surrender to the weight of suffering, it
looks down in self-forgetfulness, and its pure, clear gaze says, not "_I
suffer_," but, "_Come unto me_."[3]

One day Francis was praying before the poor altar: "Great and glorious
God, and thou, Lord Jesus, I pray ye, shed abroad your light in the
darkness of my mind.... Be found of me, Lord, so that in all things I
may act only in accordance with thy holy will."[4]

Thus he prayed in his heart, and behold, little by little it seemed to
him that his gaze could not detach itself from that of Jesus; he felt
something marvellous taking place in and around him. The sacred victim
took on life, and in the outward silence he was aware of a voice which
softly stole into the very depths of his heart, speaking to him an
ineffable language. Jesus accepted his oblation. Jesus desired his
labor, his life, all his being, and the heart of the poor solitary was
already bathed in light and strength.[5]

This vision marks the final triumph of Francis. His union with Christ is
consummated; from this time he can exclaim with the mystics of every
age, "My beloved is mine, and I am his."

But instead of giving himself up to tra