time boys without a
leader or guide, left the towns and villages of all countries, eagerly
journeying to the lands across the sea, and when asked whither they were
wending, they replied: 'To Jerusalem, to the Holy Land.' Many of them
were kept by their parents behind locked doors, but they burst open the
doors, broke through the walls and escaped. When the Pope heard of these
things he sighed heavily and said: 'These children shame us, for they
hasten to the recovery of the Holy Land while we sleep.' No one knows
how far they went and what became of them. But many returned, and when
they were asked the reason of their expedition, they said they knew not.
At the same time nude women were seen hurrying through towns and
villages, speaking no word."

If it had not been for the Crusades, something else must have happened
to relieve the unbearable tension. The world was longing for a great
deed, a deed overstepping the border-line of metaphysics, and its
enthusiasm was sufficient guarantee of achievement. In the case of the
individual, vanity and boastfulness played no mean part. Thus the
Austrian minnesinger, Ulrich of Lichtenstein, proposed taking the Cross
"not to serve God but to please his mistress." It is quite probable,
though not historically proved, that this veritable Don Quixote dreamed
of decorating the Holy Sepulchre with his lady's handkerchief, but in
the end he remained at home. A journey to foreign lands, to return after
years of yearning for the beloved, her loyalty, or her treachery,
supplied the romantic imagination of the age with endless material. The
story of the Count von Gleichen and his two wives is famous to this day.
A charming Provencal song tells of a maid who, day after day, sat by a
fountain weeping for her lover. At this spot they had bidden farewell to
each other, and here she was awaiting his return. One day a pilgrim
arrived, and she at once asked for news of her knight. The pilgrim knew
him and had a message for her. After a short conversation he threw back
his cowl and drew the delighted maiden into his arms, for it was he
himself, her lover, who after many years of absence had returned and was
first visiting the spot where, years ago, he had said good-bye to her.

But there was another motive, a religious one, which, joined to the
universal lust of adventure, dominated the whole mediaeval period to an
extraordinary degree; that motive was the idea of doing penance
and--after all the fa