Cap. VII pag. 151-159
To Brother Leo only was vouchsafed some glimpse of that secret strife, and he depicted it afterwards in those bodily images which were the simple expression of his spiritual insight, telling of fasting and mortification, of night-long watchings, of weeping and prayer ; of conflict with invisible demons, of angelic visits and consolation, of music from celestial viols breathing around the recluse such intolerable sweetness that all bodily feeling left him for the time.

Once, when his master did not answer to the gentle matin call, the faithful disciple, instead of going away, sought him out where he was praying in the moonlit woods and was witness to ineffable things, which he could only explain afterwards as wondrous apparitions and miraculous voices talking with the holy man. But Francesco, alarmed by the rustle of his feet upon the dead leaves, turned and saw him, and Leo was overcome by fear and penitence. Moved by his simplicity and devotion, the Saint only upbraided him gently. And when they had read together in the Scriptures, opening the Book at hazard three separate times as their innocent custom was and always alighting on the story of the Passion, he sent the disciple away and bade him watch him no more. With Brother Leo we too stand afar off and by the outward manifestations strive to learn something of the motions of the spirit. The flesh indeed played a significant part in that drama of a soul, witnessing to it in a new and marvellous manner. When Francesco's companions saw him deny and discipline his body for its sinfulness, as they supposed, was it not rather suffering a glorious fellowship with the strong spirit within? Francesco was no abhorrer of the body. In that pessimistic age, penetrated with the Manichean idea of the inherent evil of the flesh, when men thought to obtain grace by senselessly torturing themselves, he vindicated the honour of that human vesture which the Son of God had put on, and which the Christian expected to resume at the Resurrection and wear in eternal life. The strange pleasure in blood, which mingled with the medireval Italian's mystic worship of the Cross, prompting now a mad ecstasy of devotion, now an inhuman self-immolation, was absent from his strong clean soul. He who saw that Nature was beautiful and good, who loved all God's creatures with a fraternal love, called his body also his brother.

And did he not himself bear witness at the end of his life that this body, which from privation and rigour was already well-nigh dead, had in all things been obedient, had never stinted in giving itself, had shunned no labour, refused no discomfort? In this il and I agreed perfectly, that without any reluctance we served the Lord Christ. (Thomas of Ce1ano) "Gaude, frater corpus!" he cries. And we see the willing limbs, grown so light that earthly gravitation scarcely holds them, joyously consenting to the exaltation of the spirit, mounting upwards to that consecration which was to give them new sanctification.

In the rapture of privation, released almost from mortal, burdens, the fleshly vessel wears ever more exquisitely fine till it becomes a transparent crystal lamp for the flame within.

Was it not in the body that Christ died for us? Francesco's deep intimate searchings into the all-suffering heart of the Man of Sorrows ùttered itself continually in an anguish of love and pity for the wounded Body. To suffer with it, to share its martyrdom became an irresistible need. The intolerable ecstasy of the soul had to find outward expression, brand itself upon the flesh.          .

There carne a moment when pain and joy transcended their bounds and united in one unutterable emotion. Body and soul consummated a new union ; heaven and earth mingled and met. Very early one morning Francesco knelt upon the mountain-top, his long night of vigil over. The day broke in the sapphire east and he saw before him a seraph stretched upon a cross and felt upon his flesh a mysterious touch. When the vision was gone, he found himself signed with the Five Wounds of Christ.

It was the 14th of September, the Feast of the Holy Cross. Strange things are said to have happened that morning. The mountain shone with a bright light, so that the shepherds watching their flocks upon the hills were greatly afeard, and certain muleteers who were resting in a hostelry not far off rose and set their packs upon their beasts, thinking that the real sun was risen. But Francesco told no one what was done unto him. Concea1ing his hands and his feet as much as he could with his cloak, he came forth presently from hjs retreat and prepared to descend from the mountain. He took only Brother Leo with him, and commended the Sacred Mount very especially to the care and reverence of Fra Masseo, Frate Angelo and the other brothers left behind. He bade a long, touching farewell to them and to the place which he loved so well, weeping as he went on his way and repeating again and again:

 "A Dio tutti, a Dio Monte, a Dio, a Dio Monte Alverna, a Dio carissimo, a Dio carissimo."

Throughout the seven centuries that have passed since the mystic vision came to Francesco d'Assisi upon the mount, La Verna has been regarded as a peculiarly holy place. Where that one man knelt and prayed alone, the prayers of hundreds have gone up unceasingly since. Hundreds of hundreds have hastened up that steep path first trodden by him, that they might live like him in obedience to the three vows. Wherever his foot stepped, there has sprung up a chapel, an oratory, or a shrine; it is as if every sigh of his heart had embodied itself in enduring stone. So potent was the effect of his preaching and so great the fame of the mysterious sanctification which he had suffered on the Mount that the rich and powerful very soon began to build chapels and monastic dwellings there in memory of the mirac1e of the Stigmata. The barons of the Casentino, especially the Conti Guidi di Battifolle, were some of the most zealus of these patrons. Before long a splendid convent had taken the place of the anchorite's cell, a change far indeed from the intention of the saint. It was inevitable perhaps that his ideal of the perfect apostolic life should suffer modification. But Lady Poverty, whom he so anxiously desired that his disciples should in no way offend, has not been dethroned. This Franciscan palace in the snows and clouds is nearer to the sky than other earthly habitations, and life there is austere enough. By continual prayer, by fasting and nightly vigil, by discipline of body and soul, the followers of Poverty seek those spiritual joys for which they have abandoned the world. Unsparing of themselves they carry on the work of their master, and up and down the long steep way and over the solitary mountain tracks, through storm and snow or summer beat, the hardy, brown-frocked figures may be seen, two by two, striding barefoot about their business of preaching the Gospel to the dwellers in the valleys and cities below. Kindliness, gentleness and simplicity, those virtues which belonged so peculiarly to Francesco and his first disciples, still flourish in the fresh pure air at La Verna, breathing the sweet Franciscan poesy over the savage rocks and forests. And nowhere does the traveller find a more courteous and hospitable welcome. The brothers give refreshment, and lodging if needed, to everyone who comes ; they show the pilgrim all their sanctuaries and shrines, their many treasures of art, and the natural wonders of the Rock, and admit him readily to their most sacred ceremonies.

Bibbiena is the nearest town to La Verna, which is distant from it two hours or more by carriage. The road descends and ascends by turns sharply for two or three miles over the low intervening hills, between hedges thick in May with heavy-scented honeysuckle, till you come to a deep valley at the foot of the mountain upon which the Rock rises. Here a lovely stream, the Corsalone, darts like a silver streak on its solitary course between the hills, to empty itself before long into the Arno. Crossing its wide, shallow bed by a wooden bridge, you begin the ascent through the oak woods which clothe the mountain side, delicious flowery solitudes, in which some sylvan spirit seems to lurk, delicate, joyous, kindly. For since San Francesco came up, the wilderness has lost its terrors, and is found to be inhabited by gentleness and peace. In holes blasted by old thunderbolts one perceives lichens and young green things growing. lf the sunshine, which spreads its living gold between the deep shadows of the trees, burn too fiercely, a fountain will surely spring up beside the path. The air grows purer and lighter, the heart more free and glad, as one presses up beneath the glowing blue. After a long climb the wood emerges in a wide moorland, covered with sweet thin herbage and scattered with rocks; a world so pale and fresh and pure that it seems hardly of this earth. Scanty flocks of lean sheep crop between the boulders. The children who herd them are fair, and there is infinite pathos in their large, simple gaze; over just such pecorelle, the prey then of many ravening wolves, the heart of Francesco long ago yearned with love and pity.

And there, dose before you, rises the Sacred Mount, a strange outcrop of pallid grey rock, rearing itself upon the hill-top in gigantic precipices, cleft with deep ravines and heavily curtained with woods. Seen across the sterile wilderness at its foot, after the long day's journey through the forest, it may well have been to him who first approached like the Dark Tower to which Childe Roland carne. Now upon the solitary road below a tall cross stands, for - a sign that from the enchanted precinct guarded by the symbol of love the devils have fled away. The space beyond, at the foot of the Rock, seems indeed like the borderland of some earthly paradise. Here spread fresh green lawns and the pleasant shade of trees. Cold winds do not visit this sheltered spot, and even in the winter months the sun's rays are so enhanced by reflection from the towering limestone wall that summer seems still to be there. In the spring the grass. is enamelled with a million vari-coloured flowerets, and upon the rocks the white rock cress hangs thick, and the leopard's bane is a glory of gold, while in the fields dose by the sweet narcissus springs freely.

The convent stands on the verge of the precipice, its campanile and buildings enwalled by the huge grey buttresses of the Rock like a fortress of giants. The steep ascent is scaled by a broad path now, very different to the rough track up which the weary feet of the Poverello climbed seven hundred years ago. The great tree which gave him shade is no longer here; it was withered long ago by the depredations of pilgrims upon its bark. Nor do the birds come now to welcome the wayfarer; only a lonely twitter in the silence of the woods around reminds one that a few of them still survive in these days of guns. But at the turn of the path there is a little chapel, called of the Birds and built in 1602 by means of alms collected by a devout brother, which commemorates that sweet moment of intimacy between man and Nature.

A great arched portal, planted upon the rocks, admits into the precincts above. How holy this place is into which you are about to pass you are reminded by the inscription upon the arch: Non est in toto sanctior orbe mons. And in the solemn shadow beneath it sit, quite unafraid and unabashed, a group of poor folk, who know that they are we1come whereever the Brothers Minor dwell, in the name of him whose heart went out with so much tenderness to the poor and needy that if he had nothing else to give he would cut off a piece of his only garment for them.

Within the great entrance, where was once the boulder-strewn ground, spread with mosses and pillared' and roofed only by the soaring beeches, there is now a fine piazza, surrounded by churches and cloisters and conventual buildings. Facing the gateway is the low picturesque portico of the oldest sanctuary upon the Mount, Sta. Maria degli Angeli, commonly called the Chiesina, and to the right is the ancient archway and dark vaulted passage leading into the interior of the convent. The Chiesina is said to have been founded by San Francesco himself, according to directions and measurements given to him in a vision on the spot by the Mother of God herself. To her he dedicated the sanctuary when by the help of Count Orlando it had been built, giving it, like the church he had founded at Assisi, the title of Sta. Maria degli Angeli. When pilgrims began to throng to the Mount after San Francesco's death it was found necessary to enlarge and rebuild the church, but the upper part, which is of earlier date than the lower and is divided from it by a screen or low wall, shows traces of ancient gothic windows and doors, and is said to preserve the miraculous dimensions of the original church. The building was restored in the fifteenth century by one Domenico Bartoli, and later alterations have deprived it of architectural interest.