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Although my father refused to see him, that did not deter Bernard. He remained in Poitou, visiting the town, preaching to the people. Wherever he went there were crowds. He was a later Jesus Christ—and I believe that was how he saw himself. People fell down and worshipped him; they declared themselves enemies of sin and the Devil forever more.

And my father still refused to admit him to the palace.

When Bernard arrived in Poitiers and preached in the square, people came from miles around to beg for his blessing.

My father could not allow him to use his city, his church. He rode into the town to see what was happening. I do not know what he intended to do. I was afraid that in his stubborn recklessness he would seek open conflict with Bernard; and I could guess what the outcome of that might be.

When he arrived in the center of the town, Bernard was already in the church celebrating Mass. The crowd outside was great, for the church was not big enough to hold all the people. My father pushed his way through the press of people and stood at the door of the church. I can imagine the silence. Bernard was holding the Host and when he saw my father, still carrying the Host, he walked slowly down the aisle toward him. I could imagine my father, choking with anger, because this man who had come into his territory was acting as though he owned it. So great would his anger have been that he drew his sword. Nearer and nearer to each other came the two men. My father, sword in hand, and Bernard holding the Host. It must have been the most dramatic confrontation the watchers had ever seen.

Then Bernard began to castigate my father; he said he had spurned God, that he had desecrated the Church and had rejected God’s servant.

Closer and closer they came to each other and the people waited breathlessly for what would happen next. Would my father slay the saint?

Bernard had no fear. Such men never have. They embrace martyrdom as the worldly do their lovers. It would not surprise me if, at the moment, Bernard hoped my father would kill him, for if he did that would no doubt be the end of my father—and such men as Bernard are vengeful—and for Bernard the crown of glory.

Then the miracle happened. My father lifted his sword, for having come so far a man such as he was could not retreat. Bernard came nearer, waiting for the blow, but as my father raised his arm, he fell suddenly at Bernard’s feet.

This was seen as the power of God against the forces of evil. The sword had no power to strike the Host.

My father lay on the floor, and Bernard made him rise and make his peace with God.

The strange thing was that my father was able to get to his feet, and Bernard embraced and kissed him.

“Go in peace, my son,” he said.

The miracle had brought about the effect which Bernard had desired. My father had been vanquished. There would be no more objections to Innocent, no more support for the man whom his enemies called the anti-Pope.

My father came back to us, a changed man.

He was never the same again. He was given to moods of melancholy. Immediately after his return he shut himself in the palace. It was a shattering experience to have been shown so clearly that God was displeased with him.

Bernard was a saint. He was sure of that. The man had proved it. And he himself was a miserable sinner.

Everyone was afraid to go near him—with the exception of myself, and even I went tentatively at first. But I soon found that he wanted me with him. He wanted to talk to someone, and he could do that with me more easily than with anyone else.

He explained to me how he had lifted his sword. “I was going to strike a holy man. What if I had? I should have been damned forever.”

“But you did not,” I soothed. “You were saved in time.”

“Bernard saved me. He looked into my eyes . . . such glittering eyes he has. I seemed to lose myself in them; and there he was . . . holding the Host, and my knees buckled under me. I found myself swaying like an aspen in the wind. It was as though something flowed over me