Free Saint Francis by Nikos Kazantzakis

young girls dressed in white sprang out from the rear of the sanctuary, where they had been hiding, darted in front of us like three lightning flashes, leapt through the doorway, and flew into the courtyard, screeching.

    There all three began to laugh. It seemed they realized how afraid we were, and wanted to tease us.

    This disturbed Francis. Suddenly he too flew out into the courtyard. I ran behind him.

    The girls saw us, but were not frightened. Apparently they knew Francis, because the oldest of the three blushed. As for Francis, he leaned against the doorpost and started to wipe the sweat from his face.

    The girl kept coming closer to him. She was gay, ebullient; an olive branch laden with fruit crowned her hair.

    Francis took a step backward: he seemed afraid.

    "Do you know her?" I asked in a whisper.

    "Quiet!" he answered. He was livid.

    The girl gathered up courage. "Welcome to our humble home, Sior Francis," she said tauntingly.

    Francis looked at her without answering, but his lower jaw began to tremble.

    "This is San Damiano's house, missy," I replied in order to cover Francis' silence. "How long ago did you take possession?"

    The other two girls approached slowly, their palms over their mouths in order to smother their giggles. They were a little younger--about thirteen or fourteen years old.

    "This morning," answered the oldest. "We're going to spend the whole day here. This is my sister Agnes, and this is our neighbor Ermelinda. We've brought a basket of food with us, and also some fruit." She turned to Francis once more:

    "If Sior Francis will be kind enough to eat with us, we welcome him to do so. He has come to our house; we shall offer hospitality."

    "I'm glad to see you, Clara," Francis said softly. His voice was not playful, not laughing. It issued from deep within his heart of hearts, and troubled the young girl.

    "We came to play," she said reproachfully, as though scolding him for having arrived just to spoil their pleasure.

    "I didn't come to play; I came because I had a dream."

    "Were you ill?" the girl asked. This time her voice was filled with hidden tenderness.

    "I was ill before I fell ill," answered Francis.

    "I don't understand."

    "May God grant that one day you shall."

    "Once I heard you singing; it was at night," continued the girl, not knowing what to say any more, or how to find a pretext to prolong their chance encounter.

    "You heard me every midnight, Clara. But you won't hear me again."

    The girl tossed her head. Her long hair bounded against her shoulders and the ribbon which had secured it came undone.

    "Why?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the ground.

    "I don't know yet, Clara. Don't ask me. Perhaps I'll sing beneath some other window."

    "Some other window? Which? Whose?"

    Francis lowered his head. "God's . . ." he murmured, but so softly that the girl did not hear.

    She came one step closer. "Whose?" she repeated. "Which window?"

    But this time Francis did not reply.

    "Come, Clara, let's go and play," said one of the girls. "Don't talk to him. Why are you talking to him?" They both began to pull her by the hand, anxious to leave.

    But Clara stood her ground, toying with the green ribbon which had come undone from her hair. She was slender, lithe, and was dressed entirely in white, with no ornaments save a tiny golden cross, her baptismal cross, hanging from her neck, and, as a talisman, a silvery lily between her slightly raised, still unripe breasts. What was astonishing about this girl was her eyebrows. Above the eyes they were slender, straight as arrows; but then they shot abruptly upward, and thus her black, almond-shaped eyes seemed constantly severe and angry.

    Seizing her undone hair as though infuriated at it, she gave it a twist and tied it up tightly in the ribbon of green silk. Then she turned to her companions. "Come," she said spitefully. "We'll go further down to the other church, the Portiuncula, and let Sior Francis stay here to do what he