and chanting in
solemn unison as they march.

It is the day of the celebration in Chartres of the "Black Crosses," an
old church ceremony instituted centuries before, by Gregory the Great,
during the ravages of the Plague, but now celebrated as an appeal to
the people to free Jerusalem and the Holy Tomb from the hands of the
infidels.

The solemn ranks of the procession move slowly through the streets of
Chartres, carrying black-draped symbols of a Saviour's death, chanting
deep-toned litanies, and that the old ceremony has lost none of its
emotional power is shown by the tears and silence of the watching
throngs, while among all the crowd none is more profoundly stirred than
a slender shepherd lad from the neighbouring town of Cloyes, who is
seeing the ceremony for the first time.

Agile as such a lad should be, and sturdy in consequence of his
out-of-door life, Stephen, for that was his name, found it an easy
matter to breast the surging tide of spectators following the
procession, to slip in where he could to best advantage watch the
solemn ceremonies, to stand without fatigue while he drank in all the
emotional thrill of the day.

The shrouded crosses, the appeals for rescue of an entombed Christ in
the hands of an infidel enemy, the tears and cries of the crowds,
worked on the impressionable shepherd lad, unaccustomed to aught but
life with his flocks, worked on him so powerfully that he was hot with
a desire to rush to Jerusalem and expel the hated Mohammedans from that
land and city, once blessed by the living presence of Jesus, and
hallowed by the possession of his tomb.

So filled with enthusiasm was Stephen that his burning cheeks and
glowing eyes told the tale to an observant priest, who to accomplish
his own end, kept close watch of the boy, spoke to him, making
inquiries as to his name and occupation, and then decided to make him a
tool of destiny.

But of this Stephen knew nothing. Filled with thoughts of what he had
seen and heard, at evening he walked slowly towards his home in the
little village of Cloyes, walking less on solid earth than on a cloud
of dreams and desires, and from that moment he was never again the
contented shepherd lad, son of the peasant of Cloyes. He was alive with
new emotions now, and as he wandered on the hillside with his flock he
was in imagination the hero of daring deeds, taking part in such
pictured scenes as his excited fancy could conjure up, until at last,
he was