As far back as A.D. 1000 Gerbert had sent messengers to all nations, exhorting them to hoist their banners and march with him to the Holy Land.  It had been prophesied that he should be the first to read Mass in Jerusalem; a few ships were actually equipped at Pisa—­the first attempt at a Crusade.  But at that time Europe was not yet quite prepared for the extraordinary, almost incomprehensible, enterprise—­the conquest of a country which hardly anybody had ever seen and in which nobody had any practical interest.  Before such an enterprise could be carried out all hearts must be filled by that uncontrollable and yet vague longing, so characteristic of the great period of fantasy.  The suggestion that the wealth of the East, exciting the greed of the western nations, led to the Crusades, is an absolutely indefensible idea.  Doubtless, rumours of the fabulous treasure of the Orient had stirred the imagination of Europe, appealing far less, however, to the cupidity of the individual than to his desire for something strange, new and incredible.  It was impossible to foresee the result of the first Crusade; the crusader went to a strange land in order to fight—­the return was in God’s hand.  There have been at all times men coveting wealth, but to make such men the instigators and organisers of the Crusades is a deliberate attempt to represent a characteristic and unique event in the history of the world in the light of a commonplace and every-day occurrence.  In the first enchanted wood a man might chance upon a beautiful princess sitting beside a fountain, nude and weeping; but it was equally possible that a giant would rush upon the Christian knight, break his shield and exact heavy penalties.  It was possible to win the kingdom of a sultan or emir—­it could be achieved by bravery and in a duel—­and become a great king, for a king in those days was no more than a large landed proprietor.  Such dreams were actually fulfilled in the most extraordinary way.  Gottfried of Bouillon, a poor Alsatian knight, might have become King of Jerusalem, had he not refused to wear a crown of gold in a land where his Saviour had worn a crown of thorns, and contented himself with the title of “Protector of the Holy Land.”

The embattled citadel of Jerusalem, like the Holy Grail, was pictured as being situated outside the world. There the longing which had become so vast that it had outgrown the earth, would be stilled.  A direct way must lead from Jerusalem, the centre of the earth—­it still takes this position in Dante’s Divine Comedy—­to Paradise.  Was it not the spot where the Cross of the Saviour had been raised?  Had not once before heaven opened above the city to receive His risen body?  Was it not the scene of countless miracles in the past?  Why should it be different now?  Men knew practically nothing of Palestine; they had in their minds a fantastic picture tallying, in every respect, with Biblical accounts; doubtless, the footprints of the Redeemer could easily be traced everywhere; the possession of the country promised the fulfilment of transcendental dreams.