Little by little all energy ebbs away, a dumb dejection seizes you, sight and thought become alike confused, fever ensues, and you cast yourself down by the roadside, unable to take another step.
In their haste to leave Rome Francis and his companions had forgotten all this, and had imprudently set forth.

They would have succumbed if a chance traveller had not brought them succor.

He was obliged to leave them before they had shaken off the last hallucinations of fever, leaving them amazed with the unexpected succor which Providence had sent them.[1] They were so severely shattered that on arriving at Orte they were obliged to stop awhile.

In a desert spot not far from this city they found a shelter admirably adapted to serve them for refuge;[2] it was one of those Etruscan tombs so common in that country, whose chambers serve to this day as a shelter for beggars and gypsies.

While some of the brethren hastened to the city to beg for food, the others remained in this solitude enjoying the happiness of being together, forming a thousand plans, and more than ever delighting in the charm of freedom from care and renunciation of material goods.
This place had so strong an attraction for them that it required an effort of will to quit it at the end of a fortnight.