was very small in stature – where he used to meditate, with a coffin-shaped hollow in which he slept. It could be of no use to Baba because tourists might come to look around any moment; another cave nearby was worse. It was by the road and even more exposed. I felt disappointed and tired. It seemed as if I should fail Baba. I walked back, as it was getting dark.

"During the succeeding days, I steeped myself in the love of St. Francis. I visited the great church, San Francesco, studied its frescoes and monuments, bought a rosary as a relic for those who would not be present during Baba's great work in Assisi, and studied a guide book (which Chanji has carried away for his archives). I visited An Rufino where St. Francis was baptized, Santa Chiara where he went to school and where his beloved Clare lies (a brown richly-robed mummy in a glass case), Chiesa Nuova, the church built over his father's house, and the apocryphal birthplace – a stable.

"The early home of the Franciscan community, the little chapel of Portiuncula, once surrounded by woods and marches, is now engulfed in an immense dome and basilica in the style of St. Peter's. Only in the beautiful convent of St. Damien where St. Clare lived with her community, and in the Carceri Monastery do we feel the sense of the original Franciscan spirit.

"Talking to a lady in the hotel in English, and to the Carceri side monk in broken French, I familiarized them with my interest in St. Francis and gleaned information. There was a police regulation about strangers having to sleep in a recognized hotel to be considered. The monk expostulated with me when I said I wanted to meditate for four hours: 'It was dangerous, even for monks, to meditate so long, and you might become insane.' I was able to convince him of my sincere interest. Then I learned that when St. Francis longed to draw apart from the multitude, he and four companions would meditate separately on the slopes of Mt. Subasio. He loved trees, birds, and flowers, and the Carceri cave was his favorite place for meditation; and, although this was now enclosed and built over, there were other caves – perhaps even those same caves in which his companions meditated 700 years ago.

"I explored the neighborhood and found a ruined shelter – an overhanging rock on the side of a hill. In front of this indented rock was a rough stone wall; but the roof, timber, and tiles had fallen down long ago. Above, the gnarled roots of a tree clung to the rock, but there was no protection from the rain. Tall trees growing at a lower level also hid it from passersby on the opposite side of the gorge. It was dirty, full of broken tiles, damp rubbish, and leaves. I had to excavate it, tear down bushes to hide its entrance, and finally found a new path down the hillside so that none could see us enter it.

"My instructions were to meditate in the selected place for four hours each day, to partially fast, and – on the day preceding Baba’s arrival – to meditate for eight hours. I was thus able to test whether it was so far off the beaten track as to be secure from interruption for the 24 hours required for Baba and, also by my daily visits to the monastery, to prepare the way. It was not ideal, but I could find no other.

"The hotel became accustomed to my long absences. I lit a small fire to drive away insects and to make it drier, but had to be careful to avoid attention.

"Never have I found it quite so difficult to meditate as during these daily periods – contrary thoughts, the darkening hours, the encircling trees, dampness, cold, depression. What should I do if the police or some stranger found me seated like an Indian yogi on an Italian hillside? Would Baba disapprove and blame me for not having found a better cave? All Franciscan caves were incorporated in churches. Should I look for a more suitable cave? And then, despite all the association of St. Francis, be unable to meditate?

"I always find it hard to remember very clearly Baba’s instructions; my eye and mind are so busy following