In the long hours of persecution, first, and then of isolation, when as a fugitive, I was compelled to hide in the dens of wild beasts, sharing food and a bed with them, to escape Roman power and above all the impeachments of false friends; or when, waiting for death I was already tasting the savour of the sepulchre, in the cave of a leper, how much did I meditate, and how much did I see: I saw the figure of the Messiah… Yours, my humble and good Master, Yours, Master and King of the Spirit, Yours, O Christ, Son of the Father, leading to the Father, and not to the royal palaces of dust, nor to the deities of mud. You… Oh! It is easy for me to follow You… Because, forgive my daring, which avows itself to be correct, because I see You as I thought of You, I recognise You, I recognised You at once. No, it was not a question of meeting You, but of recognising One whom my soul had already met…