"The Royal Banners forward go; The Cross shines forth with mystic glow; Where He in flesh, our flesh who made, Our sentence bore, our ransom paid.
"O Tree of beauty! Tree of light! O Tree with royal purple dight! Elect on whose triumphal breast, Those holy limbs should find their rest!"
Louder the singing. As the people gave way, the prelates and priests stood at either side, while the Pope ascended the pulpit, at his side Peter the Hermit. First spoke Peter. The little monk was eloquent as never before. He told the familiar tale of the woes of the Jerusalem Christians, so that not a soul was untouched by mortal pang. At times it seemed the multitude must break forth; but no sound came: only a swaying and sobbing as from ten thousand hearts. Then a long silence, when he ceased. It was so still, all could hear the gentle wind crooning over the tree-tops, and when a little child began to wail, its cry was hushed--affrighted at its own clamor.
Then stood forth the Pope. And if it had been silent before, there was deeper silence now. The very wind grew still, and every breath was bated. Far and wide over that mighty throng the pontiff threw his voice, clear as a trumpet, yet musical and soulful. His words were not in the stately Latin, but in the sweet familiar Languedoc, and entered men's hearts like live coals from off the altar.
"Nation of France: nation whose boast it is you are the elect of God, glorious in your faith and love of Holy Church, you I address. For you have heard and your souls are torn with the sorrows wrought at Jerusalem by that race so hateful to God. You have heard, and I know well what moves within your hearts. Shall I repeat the words of this holy hermit? Shall I tell how churches are beaten down, or--Christ forbid--become temples of the accursed worship? Shall I tell how Christians have bathed the very altars in their blood; how your brethren have chosen martyrdom, rather than deny Christ's name? O Holy Cross of Christ, verily thy dumb wood must cry out, nay, the stones break silence if the Christians of the West harden their hearts and will not hear; if no sword flashes forth in vengeance, no army hastes to succor the Sacred City."
And Urban had gone no further when there was again a swaying, throbbing, sobbing in the crowd. For an instant the Pope's voice was drowned, not by outcry, but by one vast murmur. He beckoned; there was silence, then higher rose his voice.