His poor heart had great need of both, for in his long, sleepless nights it had come to him at times to hear strange voices; weariness and regret were laying hold on him, and looking over the past he was almost driven to doubt of himself, his Lady Poverty, and everything.
Between Chiusi and Radicofani--an hour's walk from the village of Sartiano--a few Brothers had made a shelter which served them by way of hermitage, with a little cabin for Francis in a retired spot.

There he passed one of the most agonizing nights of his life.

The thought that he had exaggerated the virtue of asceticism and not counted enough upon the mercy of God assailed him, and suddenly he came to regret the use he had made of his life.

A picture of what he might have been, of the tranquil and happy home that might have been his, rose up before him in such living colors that he felt himself giving way.

In vain he disciplined himself with his hempen girdle until the blood came; the vision would not depart.
It was midwinter; a heavy fall of snow covered the ground; he rushed out without his garment, and gathering up great heaps of snow began to make a row of images.