direction and he stands stricken, an object of sympathy, rather than a challenge to admiration and envy. If the fall of Edessa had caused a sensation in Europe, that of Jerusalem appeared like a cataclysm, and if the former had started a new crusade, certainly the latter could do no less. Religious enthusiast and knightly adventurer were again stirred to the depths. For the one the very kingdom of God had been assailed. The imagination of the other was kindled by the opportunity to wrest again from the infidel the rich prizes he had just regained from earlier soldiers of fortune. At the Papal court Pope Urban III had just died. Indeed, though his death occurred before he could have known of the fall of the Holy City, it was popularly attributed to grief over that calamity, and this belief helped not a little to bring new soldiers to the Cross. So keen the crusading spirit that Cardinals forsook both their politics and their luxuries, vowing they would go to the rescue of the Tomb of Christ though they must beg their way. At the call of the new Pope, Gregory VIII, many of the leading princes put aside their ambitions and their quarrels and took the Cross. In England Richard, Count of Poitou, was the first. This same Richard, later to be King and famous the world over as the Lion-Hearted, was also to be the thorn in the flesh of the great Moslem chieftain. Two months later the Kings of France and England were made friends through the agency of William, Archbishop of Tyre, the great historian of the Crusades, who had gone post