It was never the way of Francis to demand sacrifices from others that he was not ready to make himself, and for the third time he sailed from Italy in the hope of turning the followers of the Crescent of Mahomet into soldiers of the Cross of Christ. Strong in his faith, he set sail for Damietta on one of the mouths of the Nile, where so many years later St. Louis of France was to land his crusading army—and entered the Moslem camp. At his own request he was at once led into the presence of the sultan whom, he says himself, he had great hopes of making a Christian.

The sultan received him kindly—in reality he thought his guest a little mad—and listened politely while Francis first preached to him, and then offered to prove his faith in his religion.

He was ready, said the missionary, to pass through a fire if only one of the Moslem priests, or Imaums, would pass through with him. The sultan gazed at him wonderingly but declined to put him to the test, nor was he more encouraging when Francis next proposed to cast himself into the fire and be burned, provided the sultan and the whole nation would become Christians. A guard was summoned to take charge of him and put him on board a ship bound for Italy, with special orders from the sultan himself to treat him with all care and kindness. Never do we hear of anyone—except his father long ago—being rough and rude to him, he was so gentle and good to all.

Thus ended St. Francis' last attempt at crusading. The next few years he spent in wandering over Italy, and many stories are told of his adventures both at that time and earlier. He had one or two friends who went with him everywhere, when he would allow them to do so; and some of his most faithful companions had been, in the beginning, the greatest hinderers of his work. One of these, Silvester by name, formerly owner of a quarry near Assisi, was filled with envy at seeing Francis divide a large sum of money, given him by a rich noble, among the people of a poor village who sorely needed it. Silvester cast about in his mind for some excuse by which he could obtain part of it, and at length he found one he thought would do. Francis, he said, never have you paid me the debt you owe me for the stones you bought of me long ago to rebuild your church. Now therefore, that gold is in your possession, give me what is mine.

Francis did not answer at once. He knew that Silvester was not speaking the truth, and that Silvester himself knew it. But he also knew that his friend Bernard, who was standing by, had in his wallet the prices of all his goods which he had sold to give to the poor, and that what was Bernard's was likewise his. So turning, he took from the wallet two handsful of money, and held it out to Silvester, saying, If you will have more, I will give it you.

No reproaches could have shamed the thief and the liar as bitterly as those few words. For three nights he dreamed that St. Francis stood before him with a cross of gold stretching up from his mouth to heaven. His eyes were opened, and he beheld the gulf between their two souls, and he repented, and gave away all that he had, and straightway became a member of the Order.

But, in spite of all the cares on his shoulders, and the thousands of people that looked to him for guidance, Francis still kept something of the old gaiety which had made him such a favourite in his youth at Assisi. On a journey with Brother Masseo through Tuscany, preaching and visiting as they went, they reached a spot where three great roads met, one leading to Florence, another to Arezzo, and a third to Siena. Here Francis halted and looked about him.

Which road shall we take, Father, asked Masseo.

That which God wills, my son, answered the saint.

And how can we tell which He wills? inquired Masseo.

He has given me a sign, replied Francis, and it is this: I command you,—and see that you break not your vow of obedience,—I command you, in the road where you now stand, to turn round and round as the children do, until I tell you to stop.

So poor Masseo twirled and twirled, till he fell down from giddiness. Then he got up and looked beseechingly at the saint; but the saint said nothing, and Masseo, remembering his vow of obedience began again to twirl his best. He continued to twirl and to fall for some time, till he seemed to have spent all his life in twirling, when, at last, he heard the welcome words:

Stop, and tell me whither your face is turned.

To Siena, gasped Masseo, who felt the earth rock round him.

Then to Siena we must go, said Francis, and to Siena they went.

He was passing with two or three friends through the little city of Agobio, when he perceived that the people were all in mortal terror of a great wolf which lay in hiding near the walls, and slew every creature, man or beast, which ventured outside. Nobody dared walk about alone, said the inhabitants, and when they were forced to travel to some distant place they were obliged to form companies of six or seven men, armed with bows and spears, lest the wolf should attack them.

Such was their tale; and, after it was ended, Francis answered them:

Fear nothing; I and my friends will speak to that wolf, and he stepped towards the gate.

Oh, Father! Father, no! they cried. It is bad enough that he should slay us and our children, but we cannot spare you.

Fear nothing, repeated Francis, the wolf has no power over me, and he went through the gate and out into the country, followed boldly by his friends.

And the people stood on the walls, watching.

At a little distance from the town was a small wood, and as Francis drew near, a curious snarl was heard coming from it. At the sound his companions turned and fled wildly to the gates, which swung open to receive them. But Francis did not seem to know that they had forsaken him at the moment of danger, and continued his path without even looking back.

And the people on the walls stood watching. As they watched, a large grey body flew through the air, and, those who had good eyes, saw a gleam of white teeth, and a long, red tongue. They held their breath and their hearts seemed to stop beating, for they thought that the next instant would find the wolf and his victim rolling together in the dust. But, instead, they beheld Francis make the sign of the Cross, as he said,—though they were too far off to hear the words:

Come hither, brother wolf: I command you, in the name of Christ, that you hurt not me, nor do harm any more to man or beast.

In the middle of his spring the wolf checked himself and, instead of landing on the saint's shoulder, dropped at his feet.

Do you know, said Francis, speaking gravely, all the mischief you have done? You have not only slain men but the beasts on whom they depended, and many have gone nigh to starvation in consequence. Richly you deserve hanging—here the wolf stretched himself out and buried his nose in the dust, beating his tail in shame as he listened—but I will give you yet another chance, for I believe that you did not know how evil were your deeds, and, if you will come with me, I will make peace between you, for I think that it is hunger and not wickedness, which has driven you to these ways. Therefore, if I obtain a promise from the people that never more shall you be hungry, will you undertake on your part, henceforth to spare both man and beast? and Francis, as he spoke, held out his hand, and the wolf sat up and put his paw into it.

Much did those on the walls marvel as they beheld these things, and still more when Francis turned toward the gates of the city, with the wolf following after him. They flocked eagerly into the market-place, and there, with the beast beside him, Francis told them of the compact he had made to feed the wolf, and asked if they would keep it. We will, they cried. We will, and gladly.

And will you, he said to the wolf, on your part abstain from ill-doings, and not put to shame my trust in you?

And the wolf again held up his paw, and he and the saint shook hands.

The next day Francis, with his friends who were greatly humbled at their own conduct, continued their journey; but, if you wish to know what became of the wolf, I can tell you. He lived on for two years in Agobio, respected by all, and then died—perhaps of too little exercise and too much food—regretted by all, and especially by the children.

As we know, St. Francis loved dearly the world and all that therein is, but best he loved the birds and the fishes; and this he had in common with his friend, St. Antony of Padua, who was much in his company. Often they walked long distances while their roads lay together, and then they would part and each go his own way. On one occasion, Antony had gone alone to preach to the people of Rimini, on the coast of the Adriatic, but they would not hear him, and shut themselves up in their houses. This Antony saw, and straightway went down to the seashore and called to the fishes, bidding them come and listen to his words, seeing that the inhabitants of the city turned a deaf ear to him.

And the fishes came up in multitudes out of the sea and stood on their tails in the water, the little ones in front, the middle-sized ones in the middle, and the big ones behind, and bowed their heads before him. So great was their number that the whole sea seemed covered with fishes; and the people, seeing this sight, felt shame that the fishes were wiser than they; then they unlocked the gates and ran down to the shore, and giving heed to the words of the saint, were converted.

But when we think of St. Francis, it is not surrounded with fishes or wolves that we picture him, but in the midst of the birds, and it is so that he is most often painted.

Wait here and I will preach to my little sisters, the birds, he said to his companions, Masseo and Agnolo, when on one of their journeys they passed a thicket so full of birds that every leaf seemed singing. Alone he walked into the field, and birds of every kind flew about him and stood on his shoulders and his feet and covered the ground in front of him and bent down from the bushes. Not a wing fluttered as he talked, and even after he had given them his blessing they remained quite still, till he said:

Go, little sisters. Then they bowed their heads and rose upwards, filling the air with their songs. And singing, they took their way to the ends of the earth.

Four years after his return to Italy, Francis resigned the headship of the Order he had founded, feeling, though he did not let anybody know it, too weak and ill to perform the duties of his office. He bade his friends farewell, and set out for Monte Alvernia, where he knew of a little cave in which he wished to end his life. The way to it was rough, and led uphill, and often the saint was forced to lean upon his staff and gasp for breath. He had felt bitterly the parting with his friends whom he loved so much, some of whom had grown up with him. It was one of the moments which come to all of us as we get older, when we seem to be alone in the world; and he paused where he stood and bowed his head, his heart sinking within him. Then a sudden rush of wings was heard, and a chorus of joy wrapped him round, as his little sisters, the birds, flew out of the cave, and came to meet him, circling round him and alighting on him, and giving him greeting. So he was comforted; and he entered the cave which was soon to be his death-bed. And the birds slept in the trees outside, and every day a falcon came into the cave and beat her wings around the head of the saint, singing in her own language:

Wake up! Wake up! O holy man! Arise and pray and give thanks, for the hour of Matins is here. Yet sometimes when Francis looked pale and tired and more ill than usual, she would gaze at him sorrowfully and let him sleep on, while she flew noiselessly away.

One night when Francis had suffered all day from pain and had felt that the blindness he so greatly dreaded was coming fast upon him, he had fallen sound asleep, worn out with weariness and exhaustion and a long fast. As he slept, a vision appeared to him, and he beheld hovering over him a seraph with six wings, and on the seraph was a man crucified. At the sight all his pain and terrors fell away and, instead, a feeling of peace and glory seemed to enfold him. How long the vision lasted he could not tell, but when it vanished he found on his hands, his feet, and his side, the marks of the five wounds of Christ which are known as the stigmata. Of this and of some other visions he never spoke, but the marks were there for all to see who visited him. Henceforth, for the time he remained on earth, he possessed a joy which nothing could take away, and illness and blindness were almost forgotten.

Bury me with the robbers and evil-doers in the place of execution, he said, when he knew that the hour of his death was at hand—for no man was ever more humble than he. But his followers would not have it so; and in four years' time a magnificent cathedral had been built in Assisi in his honour, and there his bones were laid to rest by his friends.