ecame the universal subject of conversation.
It was all the more talked about because the chief of the expedition,
ruined perhaps by the revolution of 1202 or by the expenses of a long
captivity, was constrained to order things much more modestly.[5] But
with Francis kindliness was much stronger than love of display. He gave
his sumptuous clothing to a poor knight. The biographies do not say
whether or not it was to the very one whom he was to accompany.[6] To
see him running hither and thither in all the bustle of preparation one
would have thought him the son of a great lord. His companions were
doubtless not slow to feel chafed by his ways and to promise themselves
to make him cruelly expiate them. As for him, he perceived nothing of
the jealousies which he was exciting, and night and day he thought only
of his future glory. In his dreams he seemed to see his parents' house
completely transformed. Instead of bales of cloth he saw there only
gleaming bucklers hanging on the walls, and arms of all kinds as in a
seignorial castle. He saw himself there, beside a noble and beautiful
bride, and he never suspected that in this vision there was any presage
of the future which was reserved for him. Never had any one seen him so
communicative, so radiant; and when he was asked for the hundredth time
whence came all this joy, he would reply with surprising assurance: "I
know that I shall become a great prince."[7]

The day of departure arrived at last. Francis on horseback, the little
buckler of a page on his arm, bade adieu to his natal city with joy, and
with the little troop took the road to Spoleto which winds around the
base of Mount Subasio.

What happened next? The documents do not say. They confine themselves to
reporting that that very evening Francis had a vision which decided him
to return to Assisi.[8] Perhaps it would not be far from the truth to
conjecture that once fairly on the way the young nobles took their
revenge on the son of Bernardone for his airs as of a future prince. At
twenty years one hardly pardons things like these. If, as we are often
assured, there is a pleasure unsuspected by the profane in getting even
with a stranger, it must be an almost divine delight to get even with a
young coxcomb upon whom one has to exercise so righteous a vengeance.

Arriving at Spoleto, Francis took to his bed. A fever was consuming him;
in a few hours he had seen all his dreams crumble away. The very next
day he to