“I am dead, Holy Father, to all that knew me in the past.”
“My dear, dear son! faithful and full of zeal!” The Pontiff laid his hand caressingly on the pilgrim’s arm, and drew him into his embrace. “Go thou on thy pilgrimage. I bless thee on all thy ways. Rest thou with thought and prayer in the holy places of Palestine, and when thou hast lifted up thy heart, I will call on thy courage to aid me.” The Pope’s voice was full of ringing enthusiasm. “My son, thy sword that hath won so many battles must not rust.”
Something of the Pope’s ardor awoke in the pilgrim. He lifted his head and looked eagerly in the enthusiastic face before him. “In what cause, Holy Father, might I draw again the sword I have sheathed? I lifted it up and swore to fight for Christ. I have failed. My sword is broken. I am an exile, without a kingdom, without a home.”
“Nay! my son,” said the gracious voice of the Pontiff, “thou must not say thou art an exile. Thou art still a Christian prince, and thy sword should still be ready to serve the cause of Christendom. Otho of Germany, who so gallantly defended the rights of the Pope in his youth, and Stephen of Hungary, who is an apostle in zeal for the faith, have promised to aid me in arousing and arming all Christian nations to rescue the Holy Land from the heathen. Think what glory for a Christian warrior to conquer the sacred places that the Saviour trod, and to guard the Holy
