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mouth, break his whole jaw in return. Do not try to make people love you; try to make them fear you. Do not forgive: strike!' . . . And my mother, her voice trembling within me, says to me softly, fearfully, lest my father hear her: 'Be good, dear Francis, and you shall have my blessing. You must love the poor, the humble, the oppressed. If someone injures you, forgive him!' My mother and my father wrestle within me, and all my life I have been struggling to reconcile them. But they refuse to become reconciled; they refuse to become reconciled, Brother Leo, and because of that, I suffer."

    And truly, Sior Bernardone and Lady Pica had joined together inside Francis' breast and were tormenting him. But outside their son's breast each had his own separate body, and this Sunday, one next to the other, they had just entered church to do worship.

    I closed my eyes. From within the building I could hear the fresh voices of the choirboys against the sound of the organ pouring forth from the heights of the choir loft and convulsing the air. This is God's voice, I was thinking; God's voice, and the severe, all-powerful voice of the people. . . . I continued to listen, happy, my eyes closed; and thus, astride the marble Hon as I was, it seemed to me that I was a horseman entering Paradise. What else can Paradise be but gentle psalmody, sweet incense, and your sack filled with bread, olives, and wine? What else--because I, and may God forgive me for saying so, understand nothing of what the wise theologians declare about wings, spirits, and souls without bodies. If so much as a crumb falls to the ground, I bend over, pick it up, and kiss it because I know positively that this crumb is a little bit of Paradise. But only beggars can understand this, and it is to beggars that I am addressing myself.

    While I was ambling through Paradise astride the marble lion, a shadow fell across me. I opened my eyes and saw Francis standing before me. The Mass was finished. I must have fallen asleep: the mules with their precious merchandise had vanished from the square in front of the church.

    Francis stood before me livid, panic-stricken, his lips trembling, his eyes filled with visions. I heard his hoarse voice:

    "Come, I need you."

    He went in the lead, supporting himself on an ivory-hilted cane. From time to time his knees gave way beneath him and he had to cling to a wall.

    "I'm ill," he said, turning. "Hold me up so that I can reach home and lie down. And stay near me; I have something to ask you."

    In the square the tightrope walkers had finished driving their poles and stretching out their ropes. They were dressed in motley and had pointed red caps with bells. Today being Sunday they were preparing to display their skill and then to pass the hat. Old men and simple peasant women, their baskets in their laps, were sitting cross-legged on the ground and selling chickens, eggs, cheese, medicinal herbs, balms for wounds, amulets against the evil eye. One crafty graybeard offered to tell your fortune by means of a white mouse he had in a cage.

    "Stop and have your fortune read, Sior Francis," I said. "I've heard these mice come from Paradise--even Paradise has mice, you know, which explains why they're white. They know many secrets."

    But Francis was clutching one of the poles, breathing with difficulty. I supported him on my arm and we reached Sior Bernardone's house.

    Good Lord, how can the rich bear to die! What marble staircases, what rooms, all with gilded ceilings, what sheets of linen and silk! I laid him down on his bed and he closed his eyes at once, exhausted.

    As I bent over him I saw alternate flashes of light and shadow cross his pale face; his eyelids kept fluttering as though being wounded by an intense brightness. I had a premonition that some terrifying, visible presence was above him.

    Finally he uttered a cry, opened his eyes, and sat up in bed, horror-stricken. I quickly got a feather pillow which I placed behind him