"Listen, Christians of Auvergne!" One could hear a leaf rustle, it was so still. "You say your sins are many?" "Yes, yes!" came from a thousand voices, all moaning at once. A slight gesture; they were silent. "And you say well. God is very angry with you. He sent His dear son, Our Lord, to this world more than a thousand years ago. How wicked it still is! Who of you is guiltless? Let such go hence. I have no word for him. But you," with a lightning gaze about, "have given way to lustful passion; and you—have blasphemed the name of God; and you—have shed innocent blood. It is so. I see it in all your eyes." And now a terrible commotion was shaking the crowd. Strong men were crying out in agony; women wailed; there were tears on the most iron cheek. Peter went on: "I am not the Holy Father. Come to Clermont, if you wish to learn how to be loosed from your sins. But hear my tale and consider if the acceptable day of the Lord be not at hand,—the day when your sins which are as scarlet shall be washed white as wool. Know, good people, that not long since I was in Palestine, in the dear home land of our Blessed Lord. Ah, it would tear your hearts too much, were I to tell you all that I there saw: how the unbelievers pollute churches and holy altars with vile orgies; how the blood of the oppressed Christians has run in the streets of Jerusalem, like brooks in the springtime; how even the Rock of Calvary and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre have been defiled—by deeds which the tongue may not utter!" A pause. The crowd was swaying in emotion beyond control. Peter held on high a large crucifix, and pointed to the Christ thereon: "Look at the body of Our Lord. His wounds bleed afresh; they bleed for His children who have forgotten Him, and turned away to paths of wickedness, and left His sacred city to unbelievers. O generation of vipers, who shall save you from eternal wrath?" The cord was strained nigh to breaking. The people were moaning and tossing their arms. A great outburst seemed impending. "Come to Clermont. For I say unto you that God has not turned away His face utterly. There the Holy Father will tell you what you shall do to be saved. Thus long has God seen your wickedness and been angry with you. But He has not kept His anger forever. Be sober and of good courage, for a great day is at hand. When I was in Jerusalem, I communed with the saintly Simeon, the patriarch, and wept bitterly over the griefs of the Christians there and the arrogancy of the unbelievers. And I declare to you that when I knelt one day at the Holy Sepulchre, I heard a voice: 'Peter of Amiens, arise! Hasten to proclaim the tribulations of My people; the time cometh for My servants to receive help and My holy tomb to be delivered!' And I knew it was Our Lord Himself that spoke. Therefore I rested not day nor night until I had bidden the Christians of the West put forth their might in God's most holy war!"
For a moment stillness; then Peter broke forth again: "Awake, awake, put on strength, O arm of the Lord! Awake as in the ancient time, in the generations of old! Then shall the redeemed of the Lord return, and come singing into Zion; and they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and mourning shall flee away!"
Then there was a strange thing. The people did not cry out, the moaning was hushed, all kept motionless; and the hermit stood holding up the crucifix, with his hand outstretched in benediction!—
"To Clermont!" was his command; "to Clermont, men of Auvergne! There you shall have rest for your souls!"
He went down from the little rising, and the people again began to flock about him. But he called for his mule, and when he mounted it, made away, though the crowd pressed close, and found holy relics in the beast's very hairs. Richard had been stirred as never before in his whole life. Was it true that all the world was guilty and sinful even as he? He felt himself caught in a mighty eddy, bearing he knew not whither; he, one wavelet amid the sea's myriads. Yes, to Clermont he would go,—Musa, Mary Kurkuas, honor, life,—he would give them all if need be, only to have his part in the war ordained by God.
CHAPTER XVIII
HOW RICHARD MET GODFREY OF BOUILLON
Under the dead craters of the Monts Dôme in the teeming Limagne basin lay Clermont, a sombre, lava-built town, with muddy lanes; and all around, the bright, cold, autumn-touched country. Far beyond the walls stretched a new city,—tents spread over the meadows even; for no hospitable burghers could house the hundreds of prelates and abbots come to the council; much less the host of lay nobles and "villains." Daily into the Cathedral went the great bishops in blazing copes, and the lordly abbots beneath gold-fringed mitres, to the Council where presided the Holy Father,—where the truce of God was being proclaimed between all Christians from each Wednesday set-of-sun till Monday cockcrow, and where Philip of France and his paramour Queen Bertrade were laid under the great anathema. But no man gave these decrees much heed; for when Richard Longsword rode into Clermont on a November day, and pitched his tents far out upon the meadows,—all near space being taken,—he wondered at the flash in every eye at that one magic word, "Jerusalem!" All had heard Peter; all burned for the miseries of the City of Our Lord; knew that their own sins were very great. From Pérignat to Clermont, Richard accompanied a great multitude, growing as it went. After he had encamped, the roads were still black with those coming from the north, from Berri; from the west, from Aquitaine; from the east, from Forez. One could hear the chatter of the Languedoil, of the Ile de France, and of Champagne—all France was coming to Clermont!
Beside Richard encamped an embassy from the Count Raymond of Toulouse, headed by a certain Raymond of Agiles, a fat, consequential, good-natured priest, his lord's chaplain; a very hard drinker who soon struck hands with Longsword,—much to the scandal of Sebastian, who did not love tales of lasses and wine-cups. With him was a half-witted clerk, one Peter Barthelmy, of whom more hereafter. But Richard cared little for their jests. Could even the Holy Father give rest to his soul? Could a journey to Jerusalem write again his name in the Book of Life?
Richard went to the church of Our Lady of the Gate. Kneeling by the transept portal, with strangely carved cherubim above him, he looked into the long nave, where only dimly he could see the massy piers and arches for the blaze of light from two high windows bright with pictured saints. As he entered, a great hush and peace seemed to come over him. He turned toward the high altar; the gleaming window above seemed a doorway into heaven. He knelt at a little shrine by the aisle. He would pray. Lo, of a sudden the choir broke forth from the lower gloom:—
"That great Day of wrath and terror!
That last Day of woe and doom,
Like a thief that comes at midnight
On the sons of men shall come;
When the pride and pomp of ages
All shall utterly have passed,
And they stand in anguish owning
That the end is here at last!"
Richard heard, and his heart grew chill. Still the clear voices sang on, till the words smote him:—
"Then to those upon the left hand
That most righteous Judge shall say:
'Go, you cursèd, to Gehenna
And the fire that is for aye.'"
Richard bowed his head and rocked with grief. But when he looked again up toward the storied windows and saw the Virgin standing bathed in light, her eyes seemed soft and pitiful. Still he listened as the music swelled on:—
"But the righteous, upward soaring,
To the heavenly land shall go
'Midst the cohorts of the angels
Where is joy forevermo':
To Jerusalem, exulting,
They with shouts shall enter in:
That true 'sight of peace' and glory
That sets free from grief and sin,
Christ, they shall behold forever,
Seated at the Father's hand
As in Beatific Vision
His elect before Him stand."
Richard sprang to his feet. "Ai!" were his words, half aloud; "if hewing my way to the earthly Jerusalem I may gain sight of the heavenly, what joy! what joy!"
A hand touched him gently on the shoulder. He looked about, half expecting to see a priest; his eye lit on a cavalier, soberly dressed, with his hood pulled over his head. In the gloom of the church Richard could only see that he was a man of powerful frame and wore a long blond beard.
"Fair knight," said the stranger, in the Languedoil, in a voice low, but ringing and penetrating, "you seem mightily moved by the singing; do you also wish to win the fairer Holy City by seeking that below? I heard your words." There was something in the tone and touch that won confidence without asking. And Richard answered:—
"Gallant sir, if God is willing that I should be forgiven by going ten score times to Jerusalem, and braving twelve myriad paynims, I would gladly venture."
The strange knight smote his breast and cast down his eyes. "We are all offenders in the sight of God, and I not the least. Ah! sweet friend, I know not how you have sinned. At least, I trust you have not done as I, borne arms against Holy Church. What grosser guilt than that?"
The two knelt side by side at the little shrine for a long time, saying nothing; then both left the church, and together threaded the dirty lanes of the town, going southward to the meadows where was Richard's encampment. As they stepped into the bright light of day, Longsword saw that the stranger was an exceeding handsome man, with flashing gray eyes, long fair hair, and, though his limbs were slender and delicate, his muscles and frame seemed knit from iron. When they passed the city gate, Richard asked the other to come to his tent. "You are my elder, my lord; do not think my request presumption."
"And why do you say 'my lord'?" asked the stranger, smiling.
"Can I not see that your bleaunt, though sombre, is of costliest cendal silk? that your 'pelisson' is lined with rare marten? that the chain at your neck is too heavy for any mean cavalier? And—I cry pardon—I see that in your eye which makes me say, 'Here is a mighty lord!'"
The knight laughed again, and stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Good sir," said he, at length, "I see you are a 'sage' man. You desire to go to Jerusalem?"
"Yes, by Our Lady!"
"So do I; and I have come no small journey to hear the Holy Father. Let us seal friendship. Your name?"
"Richard Longsword, Baron of St. Julien," answered the Norman, promptly, thrusting out his hand.
"And mine," replied the other, looking fairly into Longsword's face, with a half-curious expression, "is Godfrey of Bouillon."
But Richard had dropped the proffered hand, and bowed very low. "Godfrey of Bouillon? Godfrey of Lorraine? O my Lord Duke, what folly is mine in thrusting myself upon you—" But Godfrey cut him short.
"Fair sir, do not be dismayed; your surmise is true! God willing, we shall ride side by side in more than one brave battle for the Cross; and I count every Christian cavalier who will fight with the love of Our Lord in his heart to be my good comrade and brother."
"O my lord," began Richard again; and again the elder man stayed him with, "And why not? Will God give a higher place in heaven to the sinful duke than to the righteous peasant? Are we not told 'he that exalteth himself shall be abased'? And why have I, man of sin from my birth, cause to walk proudly?"
The last words came so naturally that Richard could only cry out in despair: "Ai, Lord Duke, and if that be so, and you, who all men say are more monk than cavalier, are so evil, what hope then for such as I, who have sinned nigh past forgiveness?"
"And what was your sin, fair knight?"
"I slew an innocent boy with his hands upon the altar."
Godfrey crossed himself, but answered very mildly: "You have greatly offended, yet not as I. For when you slew only a mortal boy, I crucified My Lord afresh by bearing arms against His Holy Church. Eleven years since with the Emperor Henry, in an evil hour, I aided him to take Rome from the saintly Pope Gregory. For this God let me be stricken by a great sickness. I was at death's door. Then His mercy spared me. And when I recovered, I swore that I would ride forth to the deliverance of the Holy City; in the meantime, under my silken robe I wear this," and he showed a coarse haircloth shirt, "as a remembrance of my sin and of my vow."
"But you are without state?" asked Richard, wondering; "no vassals—no great company?"
Godfrey smiled. "What are the pomps of this world?" said he, crossing himself again; "yet in the eyes of men I must maintain them; such is the bondage of the ruler. Just now my affairs are such in Lorraine and Brabant that were it to be noised abroad that the Duke were gone to Clermont, there would be no small stir, and then, perhaps, many would conspire to resist me. But now they think me hunting, to return any day, and they dare not move in their plots. Yet my heart has burned to see the Lord Pope, and hear the word that he must speak. Therefore I have come hither, in the guise of a simple knight, riding with all my speed, and only one faithful lord with me, who passes for my man-at-arms. And I must get the blessing and mandate of the Holy Father, and be back to Maestricht ere too many tongues begin wagging over my stay." And then with a flash of his keen eyes he turned on Richard: "And you, my Lord de St. Julien,—are you not the son of that great Baron, William the Norman, who rode the length of Palermo in the face of all the Moslems during the siege, and were you not also victor in the famous tourney held last year by Count Roger?"
"I am, my Lord Duke; yet how could you know me?"
Godfrey laughed lightly. "I make no boast, fair sir," he answered, "but there are very few cavaliers in all Christendom of whom I do not know something. For this war for the Cross is no new thing in my heart; and I strive to learn all I may of each good knight who may ride at my side, when we battle with the paynim; and I rejoice that your dwelling in half-Moslem Sicily has not made your hate for the unbeliever less strong."
"Ah!" cried Richard, "only lately have I resolved to go to Jerusalem; I have fought against it long. To go I must put by the wedding of the fairest, purest woman in all the world,—perhaps forever. Yet my sin is great; and the blood of my parents and brother, slain by the infidels, will not let me rest. But it is very hard."
"Therefore," said Godfrey, solemnly, with the fervor of an enthusiast kindling his eyes, "in the sight of God, your deed will have the more merit. Be brave, sweet brother. Put by every worldly desire and lust. I also have sworn to live as brother to mine own dear wife, till the paynims defile the city of the Lord no more. Our Lady grant us both the purer, uncarnal love, the glory passing thought, the seats at God's right hand!" And the great Duke strode on, his head bowed in deep revery, while Richard drew new strength and peace from his mere presence. Richard brought Godfrey to his own tent, letting De Carnac and the others know little of the story of his guest; and with the Duke came Count Renard of Toul, his comrade, a splendid and handsome cavalier, who seemed singularly ill-matched with his man-at-arms jerkin and plain steel cap. Longsword called Theroulde, and the jongleur was at his best that night as he sang the direful battle of Roncesvalles, the valor of Roland and Oliver, and the gallant Bishop Turpin; and of Ganelon and his foul treason, King Marsillius and his impious attack on the armies of Christ; the death of the dreadful paynim Valdobrun, profaner of Jerusalem, and a hundred heroes more. As the tale ran on, it was a thing to see how the Duke swelled with holy rage against the infidel. As Theroulde sang, sitting by the camp-fire, the Duke would forget himself, spring from the rugs, and dash his scabbard upon the ground, until at last when the jongleur told how Roland wound his great horn thrice in anguish, after it was all too late and the Frankish army far away, Godfrey could rein himself no more: "By the Splendor of God!" was his shout, "would that I had been there and my Lorrainers!" Then Theroulde was fain to keep silence till the terrible lord (for so he guessed him) could be at peace. Late that night they parted. On the morrow, report had it, the Pope would address all the Christians at Clermont from a pulpit in the great square.
"And then,—and then,"—repeated the Duke; but he said no more, for they all knew their own hearts. Richard lay down with a heart lighter than it had been for many a dreary day. "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" The name was talisman for every mortal woe.
Long after Richard had fallen asleep, Herbert sat with Theroulde, matching good stories before the camp-fire. The man-at-arms lolled back at full length by the blaze, his spade-like hands clasped under his head, his sides shaking with horse-laughs at Theroulde's jests. Suddenly the jongleur cut his merry tale short.
"St. Michael! There is a man lurking in the gloom behind the Baron's tent. Hist!"—and Theroulde pointed into the dark. Herbert was on his feet, and a javelin in his hand, in a twinkling.
"Where?" he whispered, poising to take aim.
"He is gone," replied the jongleur; "the night has eaten him up."
"You are believing your own idle tales," growled the man-at-arms.
"Not so; I swear I saw him, and the light as on a drawn dagger. He was a misshaped, dwarfish creature."
Herbert sped the javelin at random into the dark. It crashed on a tent-pole. He ran and recovered it.
"No one is there," he muttered; "you dream with open eyes, Theroulde. Tell no tale of this to Lord Richard. He has troubles enough."
CHAPTER XIX
HOW RICHARD TOOK THE CROSS
With the dawn that twenty-sixth day of November a great multitude was pouring through the gates of Clermont. A bleak wind was whistling from the north, mist banks hung heavy on the eastern hills, veiling the sun; but no one had turned back. A silent crowd, speaking in whispers; but all manner of persons were in it—seigneur and peasant, monk and bishop, graybeard and child, lord's lady and serf's wife,—all headed for the great square. Richard, with Duke Godfrey and Renard of Toul, fought their way through the throng; for what counted feudal rank that day! They came on a richly dressed lady, who struggled onward, dragging a bright-eyed little boy of four.
"Help, kind cavaliers!" came her appeal. "In the press my husband has been swept from me."
The three sprang to aid. She was a sweet-faced lady, reminding Richard of Mary Kurkuas. "And who may your husband be?" he asked, setting the lad on his own firm shoulder.
"He is Sir Tescelinde de Fontaines of Burgundy," answered she, "and I am the Lady Alethe. We wished our little Bernard here should say when he grew old, 'I heard the Holy Father when he sent the knights to Jerusalem.'"
"And he shall see and hear him, by St. Michael!" cried Richard, little knowing that his stout shoulder bore him whom the world in threescore years would hail as the sainted Bernard of Clairvaux. The boy stared around with great sober eyes, looking wisely forth after the manner of children.
"Yes," repeated Richard, while Godfrey and Renard cleared a way to the very centre of the square, right under the rude pulpit set for the occasion. There was a high stone cross standing in front of the platform, and Richard seated his burden on one of its long arms. "Now, my little lord," cried he, "you shall be under the Pope's own eye, and your mother shall sit on the coping below and watch you."
"You are a good man!" declared the child, impulsively, stretching out his little fat arms.
"Ah!" replied Richard, half wistfully, as his glance lit on Louis, who had struggled to the front, "would that all might say likewise!"
Richard looked about. The ground rose a little around the pulpit; he could see a great way,—faces as far as the eye could reach, velvet caps and bare heads, women's bright veils and monkish cowls, silver-plated helmets of great lords, iron casques of men-at-arms,—who might number them? Pennoned lances tossed above the multitude, banners from every roof and dark street whipped the keen wind. Each window opening on the wide square was crowded with faces.
The Norman did not see a certain, dark-visaged hunchback, who strove to thrust himself through the throng to a station beside him. For when Godfrey's sharp eyes and frown fell on the rascal, he vanished instantly in the press. But Longsword waited, while men climbed the trees about and perched like birds on the branches, and still the multitude pressed thicker and thicker; more helmets, more lances, more bright veils and brilliant scarfs. Would the people come forever? Yet all was wondrously silent; no clamor, no rude pressure; each took post and waited, and listened to the beating of his own heart.
"The Pope is in the cathedral. He is praying for the special presence of the Holy Ghost," went the low whisper from lip to lip. And the multitude stood thus a long time, many with heads bowed in prayer. The chill wind began to die away as the sun mounted. Richard could see rifts in the heavy cloud banks. The shadow over the arena lifted little by little. Why was it that every breath seemed alive with spirits unseen? that the sigh of the flagging wind seemed the rustle of angels' wings? that he, and all others, half expected to see bright-robed hosts and a snow-white dove descending from the dark cathedral tower? More waiting; little Bernard began to stir on his hard seat. He was weary looking at the crowd. His mother touched him. "Be quiet, dear child, bow your head, and say your 'Our Father'; the Holy Spirit is very near to us just now."
At last—slowly the great central portal of the cathedral opened. They could hear the low, sweet strains of the processional streaming out from the long nave; the doors swung wider; and forth in slow procession came priests and prelates in snow-white linen, two by two, the bishops crowned with white mitres, and around them floated a pale haze as the faint breeze bore onward the smoke from a score of censers swinging in the acolytes' hands, as they marched beside. But before all, in a cope where princely gems were blazing, marched the grave and stately Adhemar of Monteil, Lord Bishop of Puy, and in his hands, held on high, a great crucifix of gold and ivory. And as the white-robed company advanced the multitude could hear them singing the noble sequence of St. Notker:—
"The grace of the Holy Ghost be present with us,
And make our hearts a dwelling-place to itself;
And expel from them all spiritual wickedness!"
While the procession advanced, the people gave way to right and left before it; and a great swaying and murmur began to run through them, waxing more and more when, at the end, the clear voices sang:—
"Thyself, by bestowing on the apostles of Christ a gift immortal and unheard of from all ages,
Hast made this day glorious."
"Verily the Holy Spirit is not far from us," said Duke Godfrey, softly, as the last strains rang out. Still more prelates, more priests; forth came Dalmace, archbishop of Narbonne, William, bishop of Orange, Matfred of Beziers, Peter, abbot of Aniane, and a hundred great churchmen more. Then, last of all, with his cardinals all about him, and a heavy cross of crystal carried aloft, came the Vicar of God on earth. Richard beheld the glowing whiteness of the bands of his pallium, whereon black crosses were embroidered; the jewels flashing on the cope and its golden clasp; the gold on his mitre higher than all the rest. He could see the face of the pontiff, pale, wrapt, spiritual, looking not at the mighty crowd about, that was beginning to sink to its knees, but up into the heavens, as though beyond the dun clouds he had vision of fairer heavens and fairer earth. Then the chanting clerics sang again, and advanced more boldly. And as they moved, two knights striding at either side of the Pope raised lances, and shook out long banners of white silk, upon each a blood-red cross. Loud and joyful now was the singing:—
"The Royal Banners forward go;
The Cross shines forth with mystic glow;
Where He in flesh, our flesh who made,
Our sentence bore, our ransom paid.
"O Tree of beauty! Tree of light!
O Tree with royal purple dight!
Elect on whose triumphal breast,
Those holy limbs should find their rest!"
Louder the singing. As the people gave way, the prelates and priests stood at either side, while the Pope ascended the pulpit, at his side Peter the Hermit. First spoke Peter. The little monk was eloquent as never before. He told the familiar tale of the woes of the Jerusalem Christians, so that not a soul was untouched by mortal pang. At times it seemed the multitude must break forth; but no sound came: only a swaying and sobbing as from ten thousand hearts. Then a long silence, when he ceased. It was so still, all could hear the gentle wind crooning over the tree-tops, and when a little child began to wail, its cry was hushed—affrighted at its own clamor.
Then stood forth the Pope. And if it had been silent before, there was deeper silence now. The very wind grew still, and every breath was bated. Far and wide over that mighty throng the pontiff threw his voice, clear as a trumpet, yet musical and soulful. His words were not in the stately Latin, but in the sweet familiar Languedoc, and entered men's hearts like live coals from off the altar.
"Nation of France: nation whose boast it is you are the elect of God, glorious in your faith and love of Holy Church, you I address. For you have heard and your souls are torn with the sorrows wrought at Jerusalem by that race so hateful to God. You have heard, and I know well what moves within your hearts. Shall I repeat the words of this holy hermit? Shall I tell how churches are beaten down, or—Christ forbid—become temples of the accursed worship? Shall I tell how Christians have bathed the very altars in their blood; how your brethren have chosen martyrdom, rather than deny Christ's name? O Holy Cross of Christ, verily thy dumb wood must cry out, nay, the stones break silence if the Christians of the West harden their hearts and will not hear; if no sword flashes forth in vengeance, no army hastes to succor the Sacred City."
And Urban had gone no further when there was again a swaying, throbbing, sobbing in the crowd. For an instant the Pope's voice was drowned, not by outcry, but by one vast murmur. He beckoned; there was silence, then higher rose his voice.
"O saintly spirits of Charlemagne, and of Louis his pious son, scourges of Saracens, why do ye sleep? Awake; awake; tell your children of France that holy war is theirs! O souls of the martyrs, long at rest, awake, awake; stir the cold hearts of these Christians that I may not speak in vain! O Holy Tomb of Our Lord, and thou Calvary, where the price for all our sins was paid, speak forth the sorrows of Christ's servants to these hard Western hearts. Kindle our hearts, O Lord, and grant Thine own spirit, that I may speak as becometh Thee and Thy Holy City—Jerusalem!
"Sweet children in Christ, hear the cry of that city; hear the cry of those holy fields where trod the Son of God; hear the moan of the Christian virgins torn to captivity by paynim hands; hear the cry to God of ten thousand souls whose blood smokes to heaven! How long! O Lord, how long! When will come vengeance on the oppressor!"—Again the multitude were quaking,—a deep roar springing from a myriad throats, and hands were on hilts, and pennons shook madly. But Urban dropped his voice, and again commanded silence.
"Wherefore has God suffered this? Does He take pleasure in the woes of His children? Is He glad when unbelievers pollute His altars, hew in pieces His holy bishops, and cry, 'See how helpless is your crucified Lord!' Ah, sweet children, look into your own hearts, and search if you are meet instruments to do His pleasure. Let us weep, let us weep over Jerusalem! Let us weep, let us weep over our own sins, for each one of us has more than the hairs of his head; and in the sight of God none is worthy even to behold the Holy City from afar; and if not worthy of the earthly city, how much less of the heavenly! All, all have sinned in God's pure sight. I see cavaliers, sworn defenders of Holy Church; your hands are red with Christian blood wantonly shed. I see great prelates, touched with the sacred chrism,—unworthy shepherds of Christ's sheep; you are stained with pride, hypocrisy, lust of power. I see men and women of mean estate; selfishness, lust, unholy hate, are strong within you. All, all have sinned!"
And now strong men were kneeling and groaning, "No more!"—were stretching out their arms to heaven, and moaning, "Mercy! mercy!" and here one man and there another was crying out that he had committed some direful deed, calling on all around to pray God with him for pardon. But Urban kept on.
"Be of good cheer, sweet children; your sins are great, but greater is the mercy of God. For I stand before you clothed with power from on high. Mine are the keys of heaven and earth and hell. And I say to you, despite your sins, you are forgiven. Shed no bootless tears; for deeds, not tears, to-day avail. The heritage of the Lord is wasted; the Queen of cities groans in chains—who, who will spring to her release?
"Warriors who own the name of Christ, you I address,—you, who have slain wickedly in unholy war, rejoice! A holy war awaits! You who have sped fellow-Christians to death, rejoice! God will give you to trample down the alien! Draw forth the sword of the Maccabees, and go forward. To him who lives, God will give the spoils of the heathen for an inheritance; him who dies, Christ Jesus will confess before his Father. Draw forth the sword, Christians of France! Draw forth, and let it flush red in the unbelievers' blood! For this is the Lord's doing, and he who enters upon it, casting out all hate for his brother from his heart, and with the love of Christ strong within, is purged of all sin, be it however great, and his name is written in the book of life!"—A mighty din was rising, but Urban's voice swelled above it all. "Soldiers of Hell, become soldiers of the living God!" was his cry, facing straight upon Richard; "lands, fame, home, friends, love,—put them all by; remember the wounds of Christ, the moans of Jerusalem; for now again Christ says to you, 'He who loveth father and mother more than me is not worthy of me; if any man will come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me—" No more; for there rose a thunder as when storm-driven billows break upon the beach.