CHAPTER I. THE ROMAN WORLD Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. TINNESON In this new century the story of the world was the story of Rome herself, for she ruled over nearly all the world that was known to the men of these olden times. Let us remember that we are still talking of two thousand years ago, though we have almost unconsciously glided from the era known as B.C., that is before Christ, to that known as A.D., and O.D. the year of our Lord. It is sometimes hard to realize all that had happened before this time in the far-off ages of long ago. And yet it is also interesting and so vastly important. It shows us how earnest work and toil raised each nation and turned to a high position, and how the acquisition of wealth or the greed of conquest brought that nation low. We must now see how Rome too, golden Rome as she was called by the poets of her day, the mistress of the world, fell, owing to her desire for wealth and display, indolence and luxury, and how great and terrible was her fall. While the child Christ was growing up in his quiet home in the East, Caesar Augustus was still ruling the great Roman world, of which Rome itself was the center. Augustus did what he could to make Rome the capital of the whole world worthy of her name. Like Pericles at Athens in the olden days, he built beautiful buildings and tried to make the city as famous as possible. Many races met within her gates, many languages were spoken in her streets. Eastern princes and wildly clad Britons and Gauls, low-browed Egyptians and sun-burnt Spaniards, all might have been seen at this time in the Forum at Rome, together with the Romans and Greeks. Just to communicate with all parts of his mighty empire, Augustus started the imperial post. At certain stations along the great military roads, which now stretched from Rome to Cadiz in Spain, as well as to the coasts of France and Holland, he established settlements. Officers and messengers with horses and mules were ready to ride off at a moment's notice, with messages from the emperor to those who were ruling provinces under him. Along these great roads, the legions of Rome were continually marching to and from the provinces. Their tall helmets flashing in the sunlight as they trampled along the paved roads to protect the interests of Rome in distant lands. The queen of Roman roads, as it was called, was that known as the Appian Way, along which passed the traffic between Rome and the south, extending to Brandici. It was a splendid road, broad enough for carriages to pass one another and built of hard stones, hewn smooth. Thus the country's dependent on Rome could pour their produce into the golden city, while on the other hand the famous Augustan roads, starting from the golden milestone in the Forum, the very heart of the empire, carried Roman civilization and life to the western limits of Europe. Then there were the Roman possessions across the sea. The whole northern coast of Africa was hers, from Carthage to Alexandria. Alexandria was at this time second only to Rome itself. As a center for commerce, she stood at the head of all the cities in the world. Egypt supplied Rome with grain, which was shipped from Alexandria. The traffic of the east and west met in her streets. She had the finest Greek library in the world, and she was famous for her scholars and merchants. The reign of the emperor Augustus was drawing to its end. He was an old man now, and he had reigned over the empire forty-five years. There had been peace throughout the latter part of his reign, disturbed only by one battle. This was in Germany, when the Germans won a victory over the consul Verus. It preyed upon the mind of the old emperor, and he would sit grieving over it, at times beating his head against the wall and crying. Verus, Verus, give me back my legions. He was never the same again. He set his empire in order and prepared for death. Do you think I have played my part well on the stage of life? He asked those who stood round him, as he arranged his gray hair and beard before a mirror which he had called for. Compared with those that came after, he had indeed played his part well. The Romans delighted to honor him. They called the sixth month in the Roman year August after him, just as they had called the month before July after Julius Caesar, and these names have lasted to this very day. Events which affect us today were now crowding thickly together. The emperor Augustus Caesar was dead. Tiberius Caesar ruled the great empire of the Roman world, including distant Judea, where Jesus Christ was living out his quiet life, teaching a new order of things to those who would hear. But the Jews, those direct descendants of Abraham the patriarch, who had long ago migrated from Chaldea to the land of Canaan, the Jews were looking for a great earthly conqueror. They had refused to acknowledge the claims of Christ to be that conqueror, and they wished to bring about his death as soon as possible. What thinkest thou, they said one day? Is it lawful to give tribute to Caesar or not? Show me the tribute money, answered Christ. And they brought him a penny, a Roman penny made of silver, worth about seven pence, hapening, of present money. Who is this image and superscription? He asked them. Caesar's was their answer. Then saith he unto them. Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and to God the things which are God's. This was no earthly conqueror like the Caesar's, whom they could expect to give them high places, to restore them to their rights and exalt them above their fellows. This man taught that the world must be a great brotherhood, bound together by peace and love, and the Jews put him to death, crucifying him, according to their eastern custom. They had killed him when he was yet young, but they could not kill his teaching. Under his disciples and apostles it spread rapidly. Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel, good news, to every creature. These had been among the last commands given to the followers of Christ. Among the first to carry out this great command of his master was Paul. The first city he chose in which to preach was Antioch, Antioch the Beautiful, or the Crown of the East, as the men of old called the city. North of Tyre and Sidon, on the sea-coast of Syria, it stood, on the great trade-road between Ephesus and the East. Here were men from Cyprus and men from Cyrene. Here lived numbers of wealthy Romans and Greeks. It was a good place to which to carry the good news. In a year's time Paul had taught many people, and here the name of Christian was first given to those who followed the teaching of Christ. Tiberius, the emperor, was dead, and Claudius Caesar was ruling over the Roman Empire. But the new teaching in faraway Antioch had not yet penetrated into the heart of Rome, though the sayings of the master had been written down in the four books still known as the Gospels. From Antioch St. Paul crossed over to Cyprus, the island to which the Phoenicians had made their first voyage across the seas, and which now belonged to Rome. After a time he set sail for the mainland of Asia Minor. Asia Minor was indeed the highway by which Christianity passed to the capital of the world. Traveling from town to town, mainly along the great caravan routes of the country, the faithful apostle reached the sea-coast near the old town of Troy. Here one night he had a dream. A man of Macedonia in the bright clothing of that nation appeared to him. Come over into Macedonia and help us, he said. Paul could not resist such an appeal. Setting sail he crossed over to Macedonia, setting foot for the first time on European soil. From thence he passed south to Athens, once the most beautiful city in the world. Here he would see the great statue of the goddess Athene, running the Acropolis. He knew how corrupt the city had grown since the brilliant time of Pericles, and his spirit was stirred in him when he saw the city wholly given to idolatry. Standing on Mars Hill, a lofty rock rising from the very heart of the city, with the clear blue sky of Greece above him, he spoke to the men of Athens from the very depths of his heart. Again and again we find him traveling from town to town, standing amidst temples and idols made with hands, and telling the people of the master he would have them serve instead. At Ephesus, where glittering and brilliant beauty stood the great temple of Diana, Paul nearly lost his life in the uproar that followed his plain speaking. But he was ready to die for the master, if need be. Again, preaching at Jerusalem, to Malt's rose which ended in his imprisonment and his well-known trial. I stand at Caesar's judgment-seat, where I ought to be judged, he said, appealing to the highest tribunal in the land. I appeal unto Caesar. Has thou appealed unto Caesar? Unto Caesar shout thou go, cried Festus, ruler of the province. End of CHAPTER II CHAPTER III OF THE DISCOVERY OF NEW WORLDS This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. CHAPTER III. VOYAGE AND SHIPREC. Men that have hazarded their lives for the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Acts 1526. To appeal to the great Roman Caesar, the apostle Paul now set sail for his longest voyage. A convoy of prisoners was starting for Rome, and with them Paul embarked at Caesarea, a new Roman seaport named after Caesar. With a fair wind the ship soon reached Sidon. It was the last city on the coast of Syria he ever saw. Leaving Sidon, the old Phoenician port, the wind blew from the northwest and drove them to the north of the island of Cyprus. Still beating against a contrary wind, the ship reached the shores of Asia Minor and put into the port of Myra, one of the great harbors of the Egyptian service. Here was a ship carrying corn from Alexandria to Rome, a large merchant vessel which had probably been blown out of her course and taken refuge at Myra. On board this ship Paul and the prisoners were put, and off they sailed once more. Slowly they sailed south against heavy winds and high seas till they reached Crete, where in the harbour, which is known as Fair Havens to this day, they anchored to wait for a change of wind. Time passed, and they were still windbound. Autumn was coming on, and it was time for navigation in the Mediterranean to cease. The old ships were not fit to brave the storms of winter in the open sea. A discussion took place as to whether they should winter in Crete or push on farther. The owner of the ship was foregoing on. Paul advised caution. Sirs, he said, I perceive that this voyage will be with hurt and much damage, not only of the cargo and ship, but also of our lives. In spite of this advice, however, they determined to make for a safer harbour in which to spend the winter. With the south wind blowing softly they set sail and had neared their desired haven, when a sudden violent wind came down from the mountains of Crete and struck the ship, whirling her round so that steering became impossible. An ancient ship with one huge sail was exposed to extreme danger from such a blast as now blew. The straining of the great sail on the single mast was more than the hull could bear, and the ship might any moment found her in the open sea. The hurricane blew her southwards, away from Crete, and towards the dreaded quicksands of the African coast near Cyrene. The violence of the storm continued. After drifting helplessly at the mercy of the wind and waves for two days and nights, they began to throw overboard the cargo to lighten the ship. And then, with our own hands, says the rider of the axe, we threw away all the ship's fittings and equipment. Here is a striking picture of the growing panic. Still the wind blew. No sun shone by day. No stars lit the dark sea by night. Cold and wet and very hungry, they drifted on towards death and destruction. At last Paul made his voice heard above the storm. Sirs, you should have harkened to my council and not have set sail from Crete, he said. Thus you would have been spared this harm and loss. Now I exhort you to be of good cheer, for there shall be no loss of any man's life among you, but only of the ship. The gale continued day and night for fourteen days. At the end of that time, towards midnight, the sailors heard the breaking of waves on a shore. They were nearing land, but the danger was still great, for the ship might be dashed on the rocks and go to pieces. In an agony of terror they waited for the dawn. Low coast was visible, only a wild waste of waters. The sailors, under pretext of casting anchors, lowered a boat, intending to row off and leave the sinking ship and its two hundred and seventy-six passengers to their fate. Paul saw their intention. Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved, he said to those in authority. They had learnt to listen to the words of this remarkable prisoner. The ropes of the boat were instantly cut, and the sailor's selfish plan failed. This is the fourteenth day that you watch and continue fasting and have taken nothing, wherefore I beseech you to take some food, for this is for your safety. Again Paul's advice was taken. Daylight came, land was visible, and they made for a pebbly beach and ran the ship aground. By means of boards and broken planks they all reached land safely, while the old ship which had borne them through the storm went to pieces before their eyes. They had reached Malta, and the bay where they landed is known to-day as St. Paul's Bay. The sight of the ship attracted the natives on the island, Phoenician and Greek settlers, subject now to Rome, and they treated the shipwrecked crew with unusual kindness. For three months until February opened the sea again to navigation, they stayed at Malta. Then another corn ship from Alexandria, the Castor and Pollux, took the passengers on board, and sailed for Syracuse in Sicily. Here they waited three days for a good wind, which carried them through the narrow straits of Messina, dividing Italy from Sicily. They passed between chains of snow-clad hills, till at last the merchant ship sailed into a beautiful, calm blue bay to unload its cargo, and very soon Paul found himself in the great city of Rome herself. He had already sent a long letter, or epistle, to the men of Rome. I long to see you, he had written to them three years before this. I am ready to preach the gospel to you that are in Rome also. Now he was among them. True, he was a prisoner, a light chain fastened to his hand, to that of a soldier who was guarding him, though he had his own house in the city. And here Paul preached the good news he had brought, and the Romans became Christians in such numbers that they were recognized in the city by the emperor. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of the Discovery of New Worlds The Discovery of New Worlds by M. B. Singh Chapter 4 The Tragedy of Nero Butchered to Make a Roman Holiday Byron Many changes had taken place in Rome since the days of Tiberius Caesar, who died four years after the crucifixion of Christ. The last of the Caesars was now reigning in the person of one Nero. So far his youth had not been uneventful. When he was nine years old the Romans kept the great festival of the foundation of Rome. For eight and a half centuries their city had been growing in strength and importance. The last great deed had been the conquest of Britain, after which the emperor had named his little son Britannicus. An account of this festival has come down to us. In the great amphitheater African lions, leopards and tigers were hunted by Roman officers. But one of the chief objects of interest was the appearance of the two little Caesars, Nero and Britannicus, dressed in military uniforms richly gilt. Britannicus was but six, while Nero was nine. But the two little fellows took part in a sham fight between the Greeks and the defenders of Troy. The Romans took a great fancy to the boy Nero, and his mother, Agrippina, a very powerful man, who had a very powerful lady, determined that he should be emperor. When Nero was fourteen another great triumph took place in Rome. The emperor and his wife Agrippina sat on two thrones to watch, with the rest of Rome, the captives from Britain led through the streets. The story about Caeracticus, the warrior British chieftain, is well known. He stood before the Roman emperor. It was the custom at a triumph to kill the captives. The other prisoners had pleaded for their lives, but the island chief was proud. Standing before the imperial throne he spoke fearlessly to the great Caesar. If to my high berth and distinguished rank I had added the virtues of moderation Rome had beheld me rather as a friend than a captive. I had arms and men and horses. I possessed extraordinary riches. Can it be any wonder that I am unwilling to lose them? Because you Romans aim at extending your rule over all mankind, must all men cheerfully submit to your yoke? I am now in your power. If you take my life, all is forgotten. Spare me, and as long as I live I shall praise your forgiveness. He ceased. From all around up sprung a murmur of applause. For well had truth and freedom's tongue maintained their holy cause. The conqueror was the captive then. He bade the slave be free again. So ends the story. The chains that bound Caracticus were removed, and he passed away from the staring throng of Romans, repeating his gratitude for the emperor's generosity. When Nero was seventeen he became emperor of the Roman Empire, now larger than it had ever been before, while his mother Agrippina was made regent. For the first few years of his reign all went well. He was a joyous boy, enjoying his life to the full. Chariot driving was his delight, even when a child he had a little ivory chariot with horses, as a toy to drive along on the polished surface of the marble table. But soon he became cruel and revengeful. When he was eighteen he determined on the death of Britannicus, lest he should try to win the empire for himself. The story says that he had poisoned mixed under his own eyes, and made trial of it first on a pig. Then he poisoned Britannicus. The boy died at once.  A ship was built that would suddenly open in the middle and plunge her, unawares, into the sea. This ship was presented to her himself. It was a splendid-looking galley, with sails of silk. Kissing her passionately, Nero handed her on board. The night was warm and dark, though the sky was thick with stars, and the ship glided silently through the waters. Till suddenly a signal rang out, and crash went the roof of the cabin, which was weighted with lead. Agrippina found herself in the water.  When Nero heard what had happened, he was wild with rage, and by his orders she was stabbed to death. Then he married a wife who thought more of keeping good her complexion by bathing daily in asses' milk than of helping her headstrong husband in the management of his vast empire. Luxury, cruelty, and banqueting were the order of the day, and Nero the Emperor was the main actor in the coming tragedy. CHAPTER V. THE GREAT FIRE IN ROME THE GOLDEN ROOF OF NERO'S WORLD FROM SMOLTERING ROME THE SMOKE OF RUIN CURLED William Watson It has been said, and perhaps it is true, that the Emperor was mad at times and not responsible for all he did. Be this as it may, the year sixty-four was marked by a terrible fire in Rome, which lasted nearly a week and left a great part of Rome in ashes. The summer had been hot and dry. One warm night in July a fire broke out in some wooden sheds where were stored quantities of spices, oil, and other materials likely to feed the flames. It has been said that the Emperor himself set the city on fire in his mad rage, and that, posted on one of the highest points of Rome dressed in one of his dramatic costumes, he took his lyre and chanted the verses of Homer on the burning and destruction of Troy. Here is the account from one of the old historians, Tacitus. All was in the wildest confusion. Men ran hither and thither. Some sought to extinguish the conflagration. Some never heard that their houses were on fire till they lay in ashes. All shrieked and cried. Men, women, children, old folks, in one vast confusion of sound, so that nothing could be distinguished for the noise, as nothing could be seen clearly for the smoke. Some stood silent and in despair. Many were engaged in rescuing their possessions, while others were hard at work plundering. Men quarreled over what was taken out of the burning houses, while the crush swayed this way and that way. Whilst this was going on at different points, a wind arose and spread the flames over the whole city. No one any longer thought of saving goods and houses. Men now lamented their individual losses. All wailed over the general ruin and lamented the fate of the Commonwealth. The treasures gained in the east. The beautiful works of the Greek artists, statues, pictures, temples—all were gone. A few shattered ruins stood up from among the ashes, and that was all. Whispers that Nero had lit this fire grew loud. The emperor trembled. The guilt must be laid on some one. Why not on the Christians who refused to take part in the emperor's riots and plays, his feasts and banquets? They were regarded with suspicion. They would be better away. As they had burned the city, argued the emperor, they themselves should be burned. At the head of the Christians in Rome, Paul was now working with his fellow apostle Peter. He had toiled hard during his two years' residence in the great city, where the people had lost their ideals, lost their old love of freedom for their state, and lapsed into that condition of ease and luxury, which sooner or later brings every nation to its fall. Paul was an old man now. His appeal to Nero had been successful, and he had been set at liberty. Here he had written his letters to the men of Ephesus, or the Ephesians. The letters, sad yet full of hope. Again and again he repeated his charge to the brethren. They must carry on the work. His own end was near. His fight was nearly fought. His course was nearly finished. The end was now come. One night a great show was announced by Nero to be held in the circus within the gardens of the imperial palace at the foot of the Vatican Hill. It was summer time, and the Roman people crowded to take their places in the circus, now lit up by the flaming torches. The arena was full of stakes, to which were tied human beings, Christians, wrapped in cloths of tow steeped in pitch. While these living torches flared and the shrieks of the martyrs rose above the noise of the music, Nero appeared, dressed in green, in an ivory chariot, and drove on the gold sand round the circus. But this was more than the Romans could endure, and, moved to pity, they begged that the dreadful spectacles should cease. In this first persecution of the Christians it is said that both Paul and Peter suffered martyrdom in some form or other. Paul, as a Roman citizen, was beheaded. Peter was crucified, as his master had been before him. A great revulsion, a feeling, now set in against Nero. Such tyranny must end in disgrace. As time went on, one by one deserted him. Courtyards, slaves, freedmen, all forsook him. At last the very guards at his palace left their post, and he made up his mind to flee from Rome. He could find no one to fly with him. Is it so hard to die? said one man, quoting the poet Virgil. I have neither friend nor foe left, wailed Nero when the gladiator he had ordered to kill him failed to do it. It was night, a hot summer night, when the wretched emperor disguised himself and rode forth to seek a hiding-place, where at any rate his life might be safe. Summer lightning was flashing over the Alban hills. It lit up the road before the flying emperor. He shivered with fear. As the morning dawned, he was persuaded to creep into a villa owned by a freedman, Fein. Through a hole at the back he crawled on all fours and threw himself on a miserable pallet inside. A messenger rushed in with a letter. Nero snatched it from his hand and tore it open.  He must die now. Again and again he strove to nerf himself for the last effort, but it was not till the sound of the horse's hooves was heard that he put the dagger to his throat. So died Nero, the last of the Caesars. End of chapter five. Chapter six of The Discovery of New Worlds. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M. B. Singh. Chapter six. The Destruction of Pompeii. Those streets which never, since the days of Yor, by human footstep had been visited. Sothe. In the days of the emperor Titus, a catastrophe among the most awful in ancient history occurred under the still-smoking mountain of Vesuvius. For suddenly, without note or warning, two entire cities, Pompeii and Herculenium, were wiped from the face of the earth. They were buried alive, and the people perished as they were pursuing their daily work and pleasure by the eruption of the volcano in their midst. Day was turned into night, and light into darkness. An inexpressible quantity of dust and ashes was poured out, deluging land, sea, air, and burying two entire cities, while the people were sitting in the theater. So writes an old historian. Pompeii was an old town near the sea coast of southern Italy, in a beautiful region under the shadow of Mount Vesuvius. It had been a Greek colony in the old days, when the Greeks occupied most of this part. But at this time, 79 A.D., it had been a Roman colony for some 24 years, and was a favorite resort of the Romans. It was a miniature Rome, with its tiny palaces, its forum, its theater, its circus. A miniature Rome, too, in its luxury, its indolence, its very corruption. Crowded in the glassy bay outside were ships of commerce, and gilded galleys for the pleasure of the rich citizens, while the tall masts of the Roman fleet under the command of Pliny could be seen afar off. It was the 23rd of November, and the afternoon was wearing on, when from the top of Vesuvius rose a lofty column of black smoke, which, after rising high into the air, spread itself out into a cloud in the shape of a giant pine tree. As the afternoon advanced, the cloud increased in size and density, while the mountain cast up ashes and red-hot stones. Panic stricken, the inhabitants fled from the city, knowing not which way to turn. By this time, the earth was trembling beneath them, and shock after shock of earthquake rent the ground. Darkness now came on, and all through that long black night the terror-stricken people must have made their way towards the seashore and along the coast. The account of these days has come to us, vivid in detail, from the pin of Pliny, who was an eyewitness of the whole thing, and whose uncle, commanding the Roman fleet at the time, died, suffocated by the vapor and flames from the burning mountain. Though it was now morning, says Pliny, who was with his mother some fourteen miles from the doomed city of Pompeii. The light was exceedingly faint and languid, the buildings all around us tottered, and there was a great risk of our being overwhelmed. Then at last we decided on leaving the town. The mass of the inhabitants followed us, terror-stricken, pressing on us and pushing us forwards with their crowded ranks. When we got beyond the buildings, we stopped in the midst of a most dangerous and dreadful scene. The sea seemed to roll back upon itself as if driven from its banks by the quaking of the earth, while a black and dreaded cloud, broken by zig-zags of flame, darted out a long train of fire like flashes of lightning, only much larger. The ashes now began to fall upon us.  Meanwhile the cloud descended and covered land and sea with a black darkness. Save yourself, now begged Pliny's mother, thinking this was the end. I am old and content to die, provided I am not the cause of your death too. I will only be saved with you, answered young Pliny, taking her hand and urging her onwards. Another shower of ashes and a dense mist now closed them in, and soon night came on. They could hear the shrieks of the women, the children crying for help, and the shouts of the men through the darkness. Ashes and fire still rained down upon them until at last the dreary night was over. Day dawned, the sun shone faintly through the murky atmosphere, showing the whole country lying under a thick coating of white ashes as under deep snow. Though a great number of people escaped, some 2,000 were buried by the ashes that completely covered the whole town. For the next 1,500 years the buried cities lay wrapped in sleep, their very existence forgotten, their sight undiscovered. Then in the 16th century a great Italian engineer built an aqueduct right through the ruins of Pompeii. But it was not till 200 years later that any real discovery took place. Then by royal orders men began to dig out the buried ruins of the old towns of Pompeii and Herculinium. From that day to this digging has gone on at intervals, until now we know just what the old town was like. We can walk over the old streets along which the Romans walked before ever this terrible catastrophe came upon them. Here today may be seen the old buildings, houses, and villas with paintings on the walls. They are as fresh as if done but yesterday. Here are their pavements of mosaic, their baths, their shops, their temples, and the eight gates by which the old city is entered. The streets are very narrow and it is clear that only one chariot could pass at a time. Still may be seen the marks of the chariot-wills, crossing and recrossing each other in the few broad streets, but worn into ruts in the narrow ones. But perhaps most startling of all the strange things to be seen in this old city of the dead past are the very old Romans themselves. Overtaken suddenly in the midst of life they were covered with the burning ashes which hardened on them, encasing the human figure and preserving it through the long ages. So we see them lying in the museum which stands at the entrance to the town.   As a German poet has said, the earth with faithful watch has hoarded all. The unearthing of Pompeii has revealed much of the ancient habits and customs of the Romans of old in their pleasure-loving days.  Here are their bake houses, their loaves of bread, their money, their ornaments. And as we stand in the now deserted streets looking up to the treacherous mountain above and away to the blue bay on the other side, we can realize what the old Roman life must have been like. End of chapter six. Chapter seven of the Discovery of New Worlds. This Looper Fox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. Chapter seven. Marcus Aurelius. The most beautiful figure in history. Matthew Arnold. From time to time in the history of the world men have stood out one by one, head and shoulders above their fellows, men whose names can never perish, men whose acts will never die. Such as one was Marcus Aurelius, emperor of the Roman Empire, but known to history as a great, high-minded thinker, a pagan philosopher, true and firm and good, in every action and every thought. His life was not very full of incidents. Other men have done more and lived through stormier times than did Marcus Aurelius. As a little boy he came under the notice of the emperor Hadrian, who made the little Marcus a knight at the age of six. The most true, he used to call the child, who even at this time was serious and thoughtful and noted for his truthfulness. Though delicate in health, his mother could not induce him to sleep on a bed spread with sheepskin. So Spartan was he in his ideas and so anxious to avoid being luxurious and indulgent. He was a Stoic, that is to say, he followed the teaching of a philosopher who lived long ago in Athens. This philosopher used to teach in a painted porch in that city, and Stoa, being the Greek for porch, his followers got the name of Stoics. At 12 years old he adopted the dress of plain woolen stuff worn by the Stoics. He loved history, he clung to old forms and customs, and so the boy grew up in the heart of Rome with his high standard of duty, his indifference to pleasure and pain, his love of virtue, his simple outlook on life. Hadrian the emperor had adopted him as his successor. Marcus Aurelius had already shown himself able and capable in affairs of state. He was made consul at the age of 17. He had prepared well for the day when the responsibilities of the great world empire should be his. Modestly take, cheerfully resign. These words were among his sayings given to the world 1400 years after his death. He accepted his great empire with modesty, insisting on sharing it with his adopted brother, Varus. Insurrection breaking out in a distant part of the huge Roman possessions, Marcus Aurelius sent Varus to quell it. But the legions employed in this war brought back to Rome the germs of a terrible pestilence, which had followed them along their line of march. The plague that now broke out devastated vast districts of the mighty empire and carried off thousands of victims in Rome itself.  Then disturbances arose on the Danube, calling forth the strength of the empire to repress them. It required all the stoical patients that Marcus Aurelius could command to stand firmly at the helm and steer through these storms. Storms which though he knew it not were the beginning of the decline and fall of his great empire. That duty called him from Rome and from home to the long exile of the camp. He was no soldier, but the fate of Rome hung on his presence with the soldiers in the field and his resolution was staunch. He hated war, but the empire must be defended and he readily exposed himself to eight winter campaigns on the frozen banks of the Danube. Here amid the harsh and uncongenial surroundings of war the great philosopher Emperor wrote his wonderful thoughts or meditations as they are called. Very pathetic are these great thoughts tinged with the sadness which came from the hopelessness of his pagan philosophy. Life's day had been toilsome. The evening tide was very lonely. Wasted with disease from camp life his spirit broken by the death of his wife and four sons. He waits for the retreat to sound, waits for the death which he knows to be rest. Come quickly death, for fear I too forget myself. He cries as he grows weaker and more suffering. Live as on a mountain, let men see, let them know a real man who lives as he was meant to live. He had indeed lived on a mountain, lived his simple good life with the eyes of the whole world looking on him and he had shown how it was possible to lead a grand life in the midst of a corrupt age. His end was as his life had been, deliberate, unflinching, resolute. The habit of duty struggled with his failing body, his friends gathered round him. Why weep for me, he says in a passionless farewell. Think of the army and its safety. I do but go on before, farewell. Away from home at Vienna on the 17th of March, 180, Marcus Aurelius died. Rome forgot the emperor in the man. Marcus, my father, Marcus, my brother, Marcus, my son, cried the bereaved citizens while Romans whispered to one another. He whom the gods lent us has rejoined the gods. Stoically this man had lived, stoically he died. At a time when national virtue was dead, he had stood firm and true. But it was impossible for one man to stem the tide of Roman decline. And the century still turned to him for wisdom and the thoughts will ever remain imperishable, dignifying duty, shaming weakness, and rebuking discontent. So he stands from out the ages of the past, wise, just, self-governed, tender, thankful, blameless. Yet with all this, agitated, stretching out his arms for something beyond. End of chapter seven. Chapter eight of the Discovery of New Worlds. This Lubrivox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. Chapter eight, decline of the Roman Empire. And when Rome falls, the world. Byron. The golden days of the great world empire were now over. With the death of Marcus Aurelius, her happiness and prosperity seemed to be gone forever. She had reached the height of her glory. She had stretched her strong arms over land and sea, over Europe, Asia, and Africa. She had carried civilization into the farthest limits of the known world, and now her power was ending. Other nations were to rise and play their part in the world's history. Ten centuries had passed away since those days when Romulus, with his small band of shepherds, had fortified himself near the banks of the Tiber. During the first four ages, the Romans in the School of Poverty had learnt and practiced that virtue, which is the strength of nations. Patriotic, industrious, and courageous, they enlarged their boundaries, and for 300 years they had lived in prosperity. But for the last 300 years they had been slowly, but surely declining. Wealth had poured into their capital. Africans, Gauls, Britons, and Spaniards had lived in their midst. Their old simplicity had gone, their spirit was broken, their old vigor had fled. The stern old Roman nature was softened by luxury, enfeebled by wealth, and the outlying peoples of the North were not slow to mark the growing weakness of the empire. Marcus Aurelius had left a son who was in every way unworthy of his high-minded father. Under him the decline which had already begun went on apace. The empire was put up to auction. One ruler after another rose and fell. Under the African ruler, Severus, hoped flickered up again. He was alive to the dangers of his country and saw the need for closer union of the various provinces. He spent his time away from Rome, connecting the vast empire by a network of paved roads, which cut through hills and bridges over valleys and rivers. But Severus died at York on his way south from Scotland, and with his unworthy successors, hope died away again. For the next hundred years emperor after emperor lived and died, but none was great enough or good enough to save the empire, now tottering more rapidly to its fall. For the people are the backbone of their country and the Roman people had lost their old spirit. Under Diocletian, a soldier risen from the ranks who was hailed as emperor by the people, the great empire was divided into two parts. One man was to rule the east and another the west, while each ruler was to select its successor.  On the first of May in the year 305, a vast number of troops assembled on a great plane beyond the Danube. On a knoll in the midst, a throne was erected on which the emperor sat in the side of all.  Then descending into the plane, he mounted his chariot, drove once more through the streets and away to his seaside palace. Once, later on, when things were going ill, Diocletian was urged to come out of his retreat and take upon him the purple again, but his answer was ever the same. Come and look at the cabbages I have planted. While the emperor Diocletian was still reigning, a young boy about sixteen, son of the man whom he had elected to succeed him, was growing up to command the admiration of all who beheld him. Already he had shown himself able and clever. No one, says the enthusiastic historian, was comparable to him for grace and beauty of person or height of stature and greatness of strength. This was the future Constantine the Great, who was to take a great step in the history of the world by making a new capital for the Roman Empire, known to us today as Constantinople. While Diocletian was growing cabbages in his country home, Constantine and his colleague ascended the thrones of the East and West, but it was not for long. After a civil war, Constantine became sole emperor. He will ever be remembered in history for the mighty change he accomplished in the world's religion by becoming a Christian. There is an old story which tells us how he decided on this change, from his pagan worship of the Roman gods to his worship of the god preached by Paul in Rome, more than 200 years before. He was going to battle on the banks of the Tiber, says the story. Suddenly there appeared before the whole army a bright cross of light in the noonday sky, with the words plainly traced round it. In this sign shout thou conquer. That night when he lay down to sleep, the Christ appeared to Constantine in a vision with the same sign which he had already seen. He commanded him to make a standard with that sign of the cross upon it, and he should have victory over his enemies. The following day the soldiers went into the battle with the sacred sign on their shields. They fought under the standard of the cross and won the battle, and Constantine entered Rome, a Christian. End of chapter eight. Chapter nine of the Discovery of New Worlds. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. Chapter nine, Christians to the Lions. Follow the Christ the King. Live pure, speak true, right, wrong. Follow the King. Tennyson. Now that an emperor of the Roman Empire had for the first time become a Christian, it will be interesting to note what had been happening with regard to the band of Christians in Rome, since the days when St. Paul and St. Peter had suffered martyrdom more than 200 years before. Persecution had only served to spread the faith which the followers of Christ would sooner die than give up. Before long little bands of Christians were to be found in many of the cities under Rome. At Antioch, at Alexandria, at Carthage, there were large numbers. Let us see by the lives and deaths of a few of these what firm route the new faith had taken. In the days of the Emperor Trajan, away in Antioch, there lived a Christian bishop called Ignatius. When the emperor had won his victory over the Dacians, he ordered that sacrifice should be offered to the gods in all the provinces of his vast empire. Ignatius and the Christians in Antioch refused. Trajan ordered that Ignatius should be brought before him and reproved him for keeping the people from the temples of the gods. O Caesar, answered Ignatius, were it thou to offer me all the treasures of thy empire, yet would I not cease to adore the only true and living God? When Trajan heard this, he commanded that Ignatius's mouth should be stopped and that he be cast into a dungeon. At first he settled that the bishop should be put to death at once. Then he ordered that he should be sent to Rome and reserved for the amphitheater. Weeping and kissing his garments and his chains, the Christians of Antioch saw Ignatius depart in a ship bound for Rome. There he was led forth into the amphitheater, where two furious lions were let loose upon him, tearing him to pieces, till nothing was left but a few bones. Under Marcus Aurelius, the persecutions of the Christians still went on, while under his successors it was yet more rigorously pursued. Some fifty years before the rule of Diocletian, there lived at Carthage, a bishop called Cyprian, who was the most important Christian in the whole of North Africa. Carthage had been rebuilt since the old days when the Roman conquerors had burnt the ships in the harbor so dear to the conquerors of the sea. It was now a beautiful city with white walls and houses shining by the blue waters of the Mediterranean, rich in temples, gardens, and palm trees. Here then Cyprian labored and taught, here was a strong band of Christians under him, so strong indeed that one of the emperors ordered a wholesale persecution of them. One to the lions cried the excited crowd of the pagans in the city, anxious to please the severe emperor. But Cyprian felt he could serve his cause best by living yet a little, so he took refuge in flight. Eight years later he was to show that he was no coward, but ready and willing to die for the faith if need be. The eyes of North Africa were upon him. He knew that an order had gone forth for the execution of all Christian teachers. The Bishop of Carthage knew, too, that he would be among the first to die. He was in his garden when the officers came to take him before the Roman judge. They placed him between them in the chariot and drove to a private house in the town. A supper was prepared for him and his friends. The streets outside were filled with anxious crowds passing to and fro. The next morning found him before the judge. He was commanded to offer sacrifice to the Roman gods. He firmly refused. The sentence of death was pronounced. As it reached the listening crowds of Christians waiting outside, a general cry arose from the heartbroken throng. We will die with him. They cried in their zeal and affection. He was led away by guards and soldiers to a level plain near the city and there surrounded by his faithful followers, Cyprian, Bishop of Carthage, and leader of all the Christians in North Africa, suffered martyrdom. Not only men, but women, too, were persecuted for their faith in these early days of Christianity. The beautiful legend of St. Cecilia, the musician, is one of the earliest handed down to us through the long ages. She was a noble Roman lady who suffered martyrdom when Constantine was quite a little boy. Her parents, who secretly professed Christianity, brought her up in their own faith. And from her earliest childhood she was remarkable for her enthusiasm over it. Night and day she carried a copy of the gospel concealed among the folds of her robe. She loved music and composed hymns which she sang to herself so sweetly that says the old legend, angels descended from heaven to listen to her. She invented the organ and she is usually represented in the old pictures with reeds of organ pipes in her hands. When she was 16 her parents married her to a rich young pagan Roman to whom she soon taught her own Christian faith. He was afterwards thrown into a dungeon and put to death for his belief. At last Cecilia was sent for and ordered to sacrifice to the gods. Tall, young and beautiful, she smiled scornfully at the idea while those around her wept and entreated her to yield.  What art thou, woman? cried the judge, struck with terror. I am a Roman of noble race, she answered. I ask of thy religion, he said. Thou blind one, thou art already answered, she replied. Enraged at her cool determination the judge ordered that she should be put to death but the hand of the executioner trembled so that he could not kill her. He wounded her and went away. For three days she lived, singing to the end. A beautiful and simple white marble statue of Saint Cecilia may be seen today in the church dedicated to her memory in Rome. While poets have ever since loved to sing of this early Christian martyr, who preferred to die rather than to give up the faith. End of chapter nine. Chapter 10 of the Discovery of New Worlds. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. Chapter 10, A New Rome. Till truer glory replaces all glory as the torch grows blind at the dawn of day. Mrs. Browning. Over 2,500 years ago, a little fleet of galleys toiled painfully against the current up the long straight of the helispont, rode across the Sea of Marmora and anchored in the smooth waters of the First Inlet, which cuts into the European shore of the Bosphorus. Here, a long crescent-shaped creek, which after ages were to call the golden horn, strikes inland for seven miles, forming a quiet backwater from the rapid stream running outside. On this headland a few colonists landed and dragged their ships up on the beach. These colonists were Greeks, and their colony, known as Byzantium, is now our Constantinople. The Black Sea, which washes its shores, had ever been regarded as a region of fable and mystery. Here was the realm of the Golden Fleece. Here the old Argonauts had encountered the fierce north wind, which had made them give this part the name of Inhospitable, until a latter race renamed it Hospitable from its friendly port. It was in the same spirit that the semen who ventured south 2,000 years later turned the name of the Cape of Storms into that of the Cape of Good Hope. From the very first this colony of Byzantium was a success, one of the strongest fortresses in the eastern world. It was here that the Emperor of the East made his last stand against his brother-in-law, Constantine, Emperor of the West. Here Constantine besieged him till the city surrendered and the Roman Emperor took a victor on the ramparts, which were ever afterwards to bear his name. He knew the old city well, every inch of it, and he now determined to make it into a new Rome, a new capital for the great empire over which he now ruled supreme, a new center for Christianity. The limits of the new city were at once marked out. The Emperor, says an old story, marched on foot, followed by all his court and traced with his spear the line where the new forts were to be built. As he paced farther and farther westward along the shore of the Golden Horn, more than two miles from the old gates, his attendants grew more and more surprised at the vastness of his scheme. At last they spoke and reminded him that the city was already large enough, but Constantine turned to rebuke them. I shall go on, he said, until he, the invisible guide who marches before me, thinks fit to stop. It was perhaps natural that Constantine should wish the new city to be built as much as possible on the lines of the old capital away from the river Tiber. It must have a forum, a circus, and baths. It was said that every rich city in the world was stripped bare to adorn the new capital, but all the efforts of Constantine failed to make of Constantinople a second realm. The golden milestone marking the central point of the world was here. Here was the Imperial Palace, a lighthouse lit up ships in the Bosphorus at night. All was as complete as human hands could make it. There is an old story which tells how Constantine managed to attract some of the rich and powerful Romans to live in the new city. When he began to build, he sent 12 rich Romans on an embassy to Persia. At the end of 16 months, they returned to report to the emperor. He invited them to dine with him in his new capital. In the course of conversation, he asked them when they intended returning to their palaces and families in Rome. Not for some weeks, they replied. You will find yourselves there this evening, said the emperor. Dinner over, each was conducted by an imperial servant to a palace built exactly like his own in Rome, and on entering each found his room filled with his own furniture, while his wife and family came forward to welcome him home. The city was dedicated on May 11th, 330. Celebrated after the Roman fashion by a great festival with games which lasted 40 days. Seven years later, Constantine the Great died in his capital. His work was done. He had lived to see the heathen empire of Rome changed to the Christian empire of Constantinople through his own energy and power. He had changed the very seat of the world's government. He had made Christianity the state religion and stopped the persecutions which had tarnished the reins of his forerunners. For the proud city on the river Tiber, the sun was already setting. High had been the glory of her noon day. Dark was the shadow of her night. She sees, she hears with soul unsterred and lifts no hand and speaks no word. End of chapter 10. Chapter 11 of the Discovery of New Worlds. This slipper-vox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M. B. Singh. Chapter 11, The Armies of the North. See ye the banners blazing to the day enraught with emblems of barbaric pride. Shelley. Rome was dying, but by her death other nations were to spring into existence and accomplish their part in the great history of the world. Outside the bounds of the world empire where many countries still plunged in a shadow land such as Greece and Rome had once been in the long ago days of which we have learnt. Away on the far banks of the frozen Danube lived hordes of wild barbarians known as the Goths. They were tall, fair, strong and brave men living on the borders of the Roman Empire too they had learnt Roman ways. Some of their young men fought in the Roman army. Some had become Christians and a Gothic translation of the Gospels may still be seen in Sweden, their early home written on purple vellum in silver letters. But some 13 years after the death of Constantine a great change took place in the position of the Goths. Suddenly a horde of squalid savages appeared from the wild regions of Central Asia. Each man was short and fierce-licking. Each rode a pony as ugly and unkempt as himself. They were the terrible Huns who had fought their way over the high table-lands of Asia till they reached the Sea of Izzav and found the land of the Goths. On rolled the flood of invaders striking terror before them conquering the land of the Goths pressing ever-own and own toward the Danube the great Roman boundary. Dreading the fate that awaited them the Goths looked across the broad Danube with its well-tilled plains beyond and at last they crossed over. Day after day and night after night ships crossed and recross the Danube till thousands of Gothic warriors with their wives and children stood on the soil of the Roman Empire. While the watch-fires of the Huns blazed away behind them on the other side of the river. They had made a compact with the Romans before they had taken the important move but very soon that compact was broken and a few years time found the Goths and Romans at war. Under their young king, Alaric, they prepared for battle determined to cut themselves loose from the old and decaying Empire and to hew out new realms for themselves with their own trusty broadswords. A striking army they must have made with their tall strong figures their long curling hair and beards their short girdled tunics with wide turn-down collars and short sleeves. The long trousers which contrasted strangely with the bare-legged Romans. Leaving Constantinople on their left the Goths overran the open country of Macedonia. There was no Alexander the Great to oppose them. They passed through the narrow defile of Thermopylae and there was no Leonidas and his Spartan 300 to hold the pass against them. All over the sacred places of Grecian story Corinth, Argos, Sparta, the Tall Barbarian swarmed. Athens alone escaped. Because, says an old story, Alaric saw the goddess Athene going round about the towers of the Acropolis and Achilles the hero wrathfully guarding the walls. His thoughts now turned westward. Constantinople was matchless in its strength. Rome was pitiable in her weakness. Alaric, delay not, thou shalt penetrate to the city. Said an unknown voice ever in his ear. In the year 400 he obeyed the mysterious summons and entered Italy. Slowly he crossed the snowy Alps, the women and children in Gothic wagons, the warriors on their war horses. Alaric himself probably full of schemes for the future when he had penetrated to the city. But this time he was driven back and he had to wait ten years before he could accomplish his cherished ideal. His next march over the north of Italy was like a triumphal procession. He plundered city after city till at last he came to the walls of Rome. He had already cut off the food supply of the city by possessing himself of the port of Rome so that the great ships from Alexandria could no longer supply grain for the capital. He then waited till hunger and pestilence drove the senators to sue for peace.  The thicker the grass, the easier it is to mow was Alaric's heartless answer. He must receive all the gold and silver within the walls and all the foreign slaves before he granted peace. What do you leave us then? The senators added. Your lives, replied the barbarian conqueror. It was the 24th of August, 410, when at last Alaric and his Gothic army passed through the gates of Rome. It was over 800 years since the wild Goths had slain the old fathers in the Forum. 800 years since a foreign foe had set foot in the eternal city. Terrible were the sufferings of the Romans during the six days that the Goths pillaged their once famous city. The news was carried to the feeble-minded emperor who had long ago escaped from Rome and was keeping poultry in the country. He had called his hens by names and one was known as Rome. Rome has perished, cried the messenger, hastening into the presence of the young emperor. That cannot be, for I have just fed her out of my hand, cried the distressed poultry-keeper. Then the messenger explained that it was the city and not the hen which seemed almost a relief to the emperor as he murmured, but I thought, my friend, that my bird Rome had perished. Such was the capture of Rome by barbarian hordes. By her fall other nations were to rise, for the civilization she had taught was to spread through the very barbarians even to the ends of Europe. End of chapter 11. Chapter 12 of the Discovery of New Worlds. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M. B. Singh. Chapter 12, The Dark Ages. The old order changed it, yielding place to new. Tennyson. The next few hundred years are known to history as the Dark Ages. It seemed as if the world were falling into chaos. The Western Empire had fallen. The Eastern stood on No-Touchure Foundation. Europe had lost her guide and her rudder. The central power was gone. No firm decrees now went forth from the Roman Empire. For Roman emperor there was none. No legions bearing the Roman eagle guarded the boundaries of the Rhine and the Danube. For boundary there was none. The last Roman had waived his sad, farewell Britain on his recall to protect the capital against the Goths. The strong arms of Rome were powerless. And over all her lost country surged the savage hordes of barbarians, fighting their way ever westwards and southwards, settling here, invading there, now driving a weaker tribe before them as the Huns had driven the Goths. Now even sailing across the sea to attack some new territory on the outskirts of the Empire. The barbarians chase us into the sea, grown the Britons helplessly. The sea throws us back upon the barbarians, and we have only the hard choice left us of perishing by the sword or the waves. This was but the expression of many whom the fall of Rome had exposed to the attack of these wild marauders. These barbarians appeared under various names. There was a powerful tribe under the name of Vandals who had already overrun Gaul and crossed the Pyrenees into Spain. From thence they crossed the Mediterranean into Africa. They ravaged the fair coast washed by that gray-blue inland sea, devastated town after town, and finally took possession of Carthage, the Carthage of Cyprian, which ranked as the Rome of the African world. It was now conquered by the Vandals and with it the conquest of North Africa was complete. "'Whither shall we sail now?' asked the pilot on board the Vandals' ship that was bearing the chief away from Carthage. "'Sail against those with whom God is angry,' was the fierce answer. From time to time, during these dark, rude ages, a savage figure stands out stronger than his fellows to do and dare, a man with more ambition and more determination to conquer and kill. "'For what fortress, what city can hope to exist if it is our pleasure that it should be erased from the earth?' cried one such man, Attila, in whom the wild hunts had found an able king. For a time he swept all before him. Passing through Germany to Gaul, he would feign have burst through the barrier of the River Loire. But the otteric, king of the Goths, arose and showed himself the equal of Attila the Hun, the scourge of God, as he was called. So these wandering nations moved about in search of a home, a fatherland, a city, and a state. All the while they were learning the great lessons that Rome had taught. They were coming into contact with civilized people and they were becoming civilized themselves. And not only this, but Christian teaching, spreading rapidly now from Constantinople, was playing its part too in the progress of the world's history. For the moment it seemed as if everything was at a standstill. There were no new schools, the children were untaught. No new highways were forthcoming on land or sea. Everything was dead, lifeless, dreary. It was as if a torrent of mud had spread over the smiling fields bearing beneath it the fair flowers and rich crops of learning and art so diligently sown by the Greeks. But a far grander life than Rome could ever have made possible was to spread over the whole of Europe, westward and ever westward. Till at length it should reach the yet unknown land beyond the Atlantic. It is with the story of nations, as the poet Tennyson tells us, it is with the story of man. For all we thought and loved and did and hoped and suffered is but seed of what in them is flower and fruit. End of chapter 12. Chapter 13 of the Discovery of New Worlds. This Looper-Vox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. Chapter 13, King Arthur and His Knights. A glorious company, the flower of men to serve as model for the mighty world. Tennyson. The story of King Arthur belongs to this period when the barbarians were swarming over the Western world. When the Romans left Britain to return to their fallen capital, the heathen hosts poured over the seas and swept all before them in that fair island with its open tracks of country, its winding rivers and its sheltering coast, till the inhabitants had to take refuge in the Western part known as Wales. And the Britons groaned for the Roman legions there again and Caesar's eagle till Arthur came. Now so much story and fable hang round this mysterious King Arthur that it is hard to know what is history and what is romance. Perhaps it does not much matter in this case, for we can accept him as the poets have sung of him as one of the noblest, purest, grandest of men who will ever serve as a model of the mighty world. Let us hear the story as the poet Tennyson tells it in all its beauty and in all its strength. One night as the old Welsh magician Merlin stood on the seashore, a wave washed to his feet an infant who was none other than the future King Arthur. From the great deep to the great deep he goes. Merlin took the babe who grew to manhood in solitude until the time came when he should be discovered and crowned King of Britain. But he had to conquer the barbarians known as Saxons many times before his people would believe in him. Then he formed a brave band of knights to help him in his work, to break the heathen and uphold the Christ, to right abroad redressing human wrongs, to fulfill the boundless purpose of their King. They were known as the Knights of the Round Table because Arthur, not wishing to honor one above another, had a round table made at which all sat at mills. It would take too long to tell of all the famous deeds wrought by the King and his knights, how Arthur was ever fighting, his armor shining with gold and jewels, his helmet glistening with a golden dragon at the top, his precious sword ex-caliber ever in his right hand. Again and again he waged war against the heathen tribes as well as against the evils of the times. The story of the quest for the holy grail, a cup supposed to have been used by Christ, is one of the most beautiful in connection with King Arthur. Lords and fair knights, said the King one day when sitting at the round table, as you well know, there is a cup which has ever been held the holiest treasure in the world. Heaven hath hidden it, none knows where, yet somewhere in the world it still may be. And may it be it is left to this noble order of the round table to find and bring it home. Many great quests and perilous adventures have y'all taken, but this high quest he only shall attain who hath clean hands and a pure heart and valor and hardyhood beyond all other men. The knights set off in the quest for the holy grail, but only Sir Gala had, the bright boy King, Sir Percival, and one other among the many knights were good enough and brave enough to see the vision. This time-worn story has taken such hold upon the minds of men that to this very day in the little town of Beirut in the hearts of Bavaria, the quest for the holy grail is still acted, music and words being composed by Wagner, one of the world's great musicians. But the day came when Arthur was wounded in that last dim, weird battle of the West with a death-white mist sleeping over sand and sea, wounded unto death. So all day long the noise of battle rolled among the mountains by the winter sea until King Arthur's table, man by man, had fallen. One faithful knight, Sir Bedavir, was left and finding his king was deeply wounded, he carried him to a little chapel near the battlefield. It was evening and the moon was full, Arthur felt he was dying. The men he had loved were sleeping their last sleep on the battlefield. Nevermore should they all delight their souls with talk of nightly deeds. The time had come to part with the jeweled sword, Excalibur. The story runs that this sword was the gift of a mysterious lady of the lake, that in the old days, one summer noon, an arm rose from out a lake holding the sword, which Arthur rode across the water and took. Now Excalibur must be thrown back into the lake and Sir Bedavir must do the deed. Obedient to the king's commands, the knight took the sword and climbing by zigzag paths came on the lake. The beautiful jewels sparkled in the moonlight and Bedavir could not make up his mind to throw it away. So he hid it among the reeds and returned to the king. But Arthur soon discovered his deceit and sent him again to do his bidding. Again, Sir Bedavir went. Again, his courage failed. Again, he returned to the dying king. Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, unnightly traitor-hearted, cried Arthur. Authority forgets a dying king. Get thee hence, and if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands. Then the knight rose quickly, hastened to the lake and shutting his eyes, flung the good sword into the water. The arm rose up, grasped it firmly, brandished it three times and drew it down into the water. Then Arthur was content. With the help of Sir Bedavir, he managed to get to the lake himself. There a barge was waiting for him. I am going a long way, said the dying king, to his weeping night, to the island valley of Avalon, where falls not hail or rain or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies deep meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns, where I will heal me of my grievous wound, to the island valley of Avileon. Then the barge, with oar and sail, moved slowly away over the cold, moonlit lake, and Sir Bedavir watched it till it was out of sight. The king is gone, he moaned at last, from the great deep to the great deep he goes. Such as the story the poet tells, it may not be true, but the fact remains that there once lived a king of early Britain who fought against the barbarians known as Saxons, and that though they finally conquered and gave their name to the new country, King Arthur did not live and fight in vain. End of chapter 13. Chapter 14 of the Discovery of New Worlds. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. Chapter 14, The Hero of Two Nations. The Greatest Man of the Middle Ages. De Quincey. The England for which Arthur had fought, for which he had died, was now in the hands of his old foes, the Saxons. But as the years rolled on it was evident that a nation over the seas was rising to a dangerous greatness. This was the power of another tribe known as the Franks, and the man who led the Franks to victory, who made of them a great nation and so created our modern Europe, was Charles the Great, or Charlemagne, as the poets called him. As quite a little boy, this Charlemagne had accompanied his father, Pepin, from his home in North Germany to Italy to fight there, and for his services Pepin the Short was made king of the Franks. An ardent Christian himself, he spent his life spreading Christianity through his kingdom and checking the wandering heathen tribes. When Charlemagne succeeded him, this too was the object of his life. It seems a strange thing in these days to teach the gospel of peace with the edge of the sword, but Charlemagne thought it the right thing. He soon became a hero in the eyes of his people. He was tall and strong, with the eyes of a lion, a will of iron strength, and an energy that was dauntless. The best men on earth and the bravest was Charlemagne, said the Saxons, though they had every cause to hate the rival Franks, for had they not sprung from a common parent, the Germans? Not only had he the Saxons in the north to fight, but he must needs go south and conquer the Lombards, who were again overrunning Italy, and against whom he had fought with his father when quite a little boy. Once more he was victorious, for his success he was crowned in Rome as king of the Lombards, and so added a large part of north Italy to his already large kingdom. He was now a marked man, and Spain cried out to him to come and help her against herfos, the Arabs, or Moors, who had swept over the land from the east. In the course of the next few years he had conquered all the land down to the sea, and his banners were riddled through. He was returning over the Pyrenees when a sad thing happened. The tragic death of his young nephew Roland has been a favorite subject with poets and singers, until it has become difficult to know what is fact and what is fiction. Here is the story. The main army under Charlemagne had reached the borders of Spain, leaving Roland in command of the rear guard, some way behind. Roland led his men up a long rocky pass, and they had climbed a mountain ridge when, looking down, they saw the valley below bristling with spears, while the murmur of this mighty pagan host rose to them on the mountaintop as the murmur of the sea. What shall we do? asked his trusted friend and companion. This we will do, answered Roland calmly. When we have rested we will go forward, for sweet it is to do our duty for our king. But, said his friend, we are but a handful, and these are more in number than the sands of the sea. Be wise, take your horn, good comrade, and sound it. Perchance Charlemagne may hear, and come back with his host to succour us.  There was not a man but loved Roland unto death, and cheerfully they obeyed him, so the little band of men charged down the mountainside into the valley of death, ever following their leader, and the snow-white banner carried by the guard. For hours they fought that great pagan host, till at last hardly a handful of francs were left.  Far away up the valley went the sound, and it reached the ears of Charlemagne. Listen, what is that? he cried. Surely our men do fight to-day. It is only the sighing of the wind, said the trader who was with him. Weary with battle, Roland took his horn again and winded it with all his strength. So long and mighty was the blast that the veins stood out upon his forehead in great cords. Hark! it is Roland's horn, cried Charlemagne again, and again they persuaded him that Roland was but hunting in the woods. Then in sore pain and heaviness, Roland lifted the horn feebly to his lips and blew for the last time. Charlemagne now started up. The salt tears gathered in his eyes and dropped upon his snowy beard. Oh, Roland, my brave captain, too long have I delayed, he sobbed, and with all his host he set out at full speed for Roland. Meanwhile, Roland fought on, fought till every man of the rear guard lay dead and he himself was sore wounded. When he found that he was dying, he lay down and set his face towards Spain and towards his enemies, that men should see he died a conqueror. By him he put his sword and his horn. They will see that the guard has done its duty, he said to himself contently. Then raising his weary hands to heaven, he died. The low red sun was setting in the west when Charlemagne and his host rode up, and there was not a man in all that host that did not weep for pity at the sight before them now. But Charlemagne had fallen on the face of Roland's dead body with an exceeding bitter cry, for the night was passing dear to him. Right gladly would he have given Spain and all the fruits of that war to have had Roland back again. But Charlemagne had work to do in his own great realm. He dreamt of uniting all the conquered countries, all the heathen tribes that had so long been at war with each other into one great empire in which the power and learning of ancient Rome should be united to a Christian religion. Was this dream realized when in the year 800 he was made emperor of Rome? It was Christmas day and Charlemagne was kneeling with his two sons in the church of St. Peter when suddenly a crown of gold was placed on his head while voices thundered forth the old formula. To Charles the Augustus, crowned of God, the great and Pacific emperor, long life and victory. Thus the Roman Empire of the West, which had fallen more than 300 years before, was now restored by Charlemagne the Frank. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 of the Discovery of New Worlds. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M. B. Singh. Chapter 15, The Hardy Northman. The sea is their school of war and the storm their friend. The great Charlemagne was now still ruling wisely and well over his mighty province when a trouble arose on the coasts destined to have far-reaching results. Away in the far north of the country we now call Norway, Sweden and Denmark lived a hardy rugged race known as the Northman or Danes. They were closely connected with the Angles and Saxons who had set sail for Britain years before and overrun it in the days of King Arthur. Like the Greeks of old, these people had passed through an age of legend. They had worshiped their god Odin or Woden from whom we get the day of the week called Wednesday, the god Thor from whom we get Thursday and the god Frigga from whom we get Friday. In appearance these Northmen were broad, deep-chested tall men with fair hair and blue eyes of the Saxons, dressed in long stockings, high shoes, shirts, loose drawers and low hats. They carried in times of war long shields, axes, spears and swords. But the sea was the home of these people, Vikings as they were often called from the word Vic meaning a bay or fjord. The stern climate and barren soil of their inhospitable northern home drove them forth over the stormy waters to get a livelihood by pillage and plunder. Their black ships standing high above the water, prowl and stern, ending in the head and tail of some strange animal, struck terror into the hearts of all who saw them as they swept over the stormy seas in search of plunder and pillage. So much did they trouble Charlemagne that an old story tells us how he took the young children of the Northmen and slew all those who were taller than his sword. Another story says he was sitting one day in his palace near the seaside when from his window he saw the flash of Viking sails far out at sea. These are no merchants, he cried rising from his seat. He watched till the ships were out of sight, then shedding bitter tears, he added. I am very sorrowful for I see what woes these men will bring upon my subjects. Charlemagne was right.  Little did he dream that they would conquer a large part of his kingdom to be called after themselves Normandy. Little did Alfred the Great, King of England, dream that these very Northmen should one day sweep over his country and that from these Vikings of olden times the English race should spring. Not since the Phoenicians had there been such a sea-going race of men, fearless and free, with a spirit of daring and a love of adventure that neither Greeks nor Romans had ever possessed. Wondrous are the stories of these old Viking heroes who would set forth with a few followers to discover new lands, fight strange people and return home with rich plunder to their bleak North country. They soon sailed over the islands of Orkney and Shetland at the north of Scotland and away beyond to Iceland and beyond that again to Greenland. After the death of Charlemagne in 814 the Northmen became bolder. They sailed up the large rivers and actually laid siege to Paris. One of their leaders was called Rallo and many are the stories told of this famous old Viking. So stout was he that no horse could carry him and he had to walk everywhere when quite young he left his home and sailed about the seas leading the life of a pirate. The king of Norway wished to stop these sea rovers and robbers and made strict laws against them. Rallo broke all these and he was exiled for life from his native land. He collected a band of wild young men like himself and sailed away from the home he was never to see again. The company of adventurers landed in France and the king went forth with his army to meet them. Why have you come to France? He asked them. To conquer it was the stout reply. Would you not rather do homage to the king? Was the next question. No, shouted the whole band as one man. So a battle was fought in which the French were beaten and the Vikings marched victorious to Rhone where Rallo was chosen to be chief. After a time Rallo planned an expedition into the heart of France and the king was so much alarmed that he offered to give Rallo that northern part of France called Normandy, the land of the Northmen. And from this time a change came over the wild Viking. He divided the new land among his followers in return for which they were to follow him to battle when he summoned them. He became a Christian and a good ruler. He adopted the language of the country and after a time there was no need for the terror-stricken people of the North to sob out their despairing petition. From the fury of the Northmen, save us, Lord. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of the Discovery of New Worlds. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. Chapter 16, How the Northmen Conquered England. Of one self-stock at first, make them again one people. Norman English and English Norman. Tennyson, Harold. The Northmen had been settled in Normandy more than a hundred years and one William, afterwards known to history as William the Conqueror, was ruling over the country. He had ruled since he was a little boy of seven years old, his father having died on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The wise men of Normandy had objected to the appointment of one so young as their Duke. He is little, but he will grow, said his father, as he bade them farewell. The young Norman Duke soon showed himself to be above his fellows. The spirit of the old Viking seemed to be in him. He was a young giant in size, in strength, and in courage. His whole life was spent in mastering difficulties. No night under heaven, confessed his enemies, was William's peer. Man and horse went down before his lance. No man could bend his bow. Pityless as he was strong, he could refuse a grave to his fearless foe, Harold of England, at the close of his greatest victory. He cared not whether men hated or loved him. They neither loved him nor did they hate him. They feared him. Now this William had made a friend of the King of England, whose name was Edward the Confessor. The young Norman Duke had been over to visit England, and the King of England had been in Normandy, and had taken back a large number of Normans to England with him, which was bitterly resented by the Saxon subjects. There was a Saxon Earl called Harold, who was a very powerful man in England at this time. Very beautiful, too, was this Harold. He had long, fair hair, reaching to his shoulders in one thick curl. He had deep blue eyes, which flashed brightly, and a smile that had already won the hearts of the English people. He, too, had been to Normandy, and knew well William, the Norman Duke. Indeed, it had already dawned in the minds of both these men that they were rivals for the throne of England, when the present King, Edward the Confessor, should die. The day came, and Edward died in the arms of Harold the Saxon, who was at once proclaimed King of England amid the shouts of the people. We choose thee, Harold, for our Lord and King. The Norman Duke was in the forest at home trying some new arrows with his Norman knights. Suddenly a rider came at full speed, and drawing William aside, whispered hastily, King Edward is dead, and Harold is King of all England. Edward dead? Then England is mine, cried William. But England was not his yet. Huge difficulties stood in his way, but he was accustomed to difficulties. He had no fleet, no ships to cross the channel. His Norman knights, too, objected. They said he was rash, that it was not their duty to follow him over the seas to England. But William's firm resolve won the day. Trees were cut down, and ships were built. All through the long summer days the havens of Normandy were busy, building and manning their ships until by August six hundred were ready. Then they waited a whole month on the French coast for a south wind to blow them over to England. At last a south wind arose, and the fleet set sail in the night. The dukes owned ships sailing first with a huge lantern at the masthead to guide them. They landed near Pevency, on the south coast of England, some twelve miles from Hastings, near which the great battle was so soon to be fought. An old story says as William stepped on English ground his foot slipped and he fell.  When Harold the Saxon heard that William of Normandy was preparing to fight him for the English throne, he hurried south with his army. It was the 14th of October, 1066, when the two armies met near Hastings for the final struggle. The night before the battle, which was to decide the fate of England, was spent by the Saxons over their fires, singing merrily, eating and drinking, spent by the Normans in prayer. When the morning dawned, Harold and his army were found to be on the hill above Hastings, ready for the Norman attack. His bodyguard, men in full armor with huge axes, were grouped round the standard of the king. The rest of his army was composed of half-armed rustics who, loving him, had flocked to his summons to fight with the stranger. Against these were arrayed the knighthood of Normandy. In front wrote a menstrual, tossing his sword in the air and catching it again as he chanted the song of Rowland. All the fury of fight that glowed in his Norseman's blood spurred William the Conqueror onwards up the slopes with his men. Again and again they were driven back. Then a cry rang out that he was slain. I live, he cried tearing off his helmet, and by God's help I will conquer yet. And he did. All day long the battle raged. The Normans were gaining the hill now. By six o'clock they had reached the standard and Harold's bodyguard. Suddenly William ordered his archers to shoot their arrows up in the air. As Harold raised his eyes an arrow struck one and he fell. Fight on, conceal my death, he gasped. Then struggling to his feet he tried to raise his battleaxe to deal another blow for his beloved country, but in vain. His strength was spent. Every man about his king fell where he stood. The battle was over. William the Conqueror had conquered England. Harold, the last of the Saxon kings, was dead. They laid him beneath a heap of stones on the waste seashore. Four, said William. He kept the shore while he lived. Let him guard it now he is dead. So William the Conqueror was crowned king of England and the Northmen entered at last into possession of the island they had long coveted. End of chapter 16. Chapter 17 of the Discovery of New Worlds. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. Chapter 17, A Spanish Hero. Hats thou lived in days of old? Oh, what wonders had been told. Keats. While the Vikings were sailing over the stormy seas in their great black ships, and while the Normans were crossing over to England to complete their conquests, the Moors from the Far East were again overrunning Spain. These Moors or Arabs were not pagans like the Northmen, the Goths, the Vandals, or the Saxons. They called themselves Mohammedans or followers of the prophet Mohammed. Mohammed was born in the sixth century after Christ, about the time when King Arthur was ruling over Britain. But not till he was 40 years old did Mohammed come forth and assume the title of prophet. One day, says an old story, he was wandering in the solitary desert land around Mecca, depressed and melancholy when he heard a voice and beheld between heaven and earth an angel who assured him that he, Mohammed, was the prophet of God. Nothing doubting, the new prophet came forth and began to teach this, that there was one God and that Mohammed was his prophet. To the ignorant wandering Arabs, this was a new light. They flocked round Mohammed, his commanding presence, his keen black eyes, his flowing beard, his gracious smile and eloquent teaching, drew more and ever more to his side. His followers increased rapidly. He could not write, but he dictated his doctrines and they were written down in a book called the Quran, which is to the Mohammedans today, what the Bible is to the Christians. Mohammedanism is still the religion used chiefly in the East. Who goes there, cries the watchman nightly in the streets of Cairo and the dusky era passes with the answer. There is no God but God. These Arabs, then, who had roamed unnoticed in their desert lands since the very earliest of times, now spring into fame. United in one faith, their armies making converts as they went. They conquered North Africa and finally became masters of Spain. Charlemagne and Roland had fought against them, but now they were rulers over a great part of the country. It was at this time that the Sid, the great popular hero of Spain, arose to deliver his country from the power of the Arabs, to deliver Christians from the influence of Mohammedanism. The story of the Sid is mixed with legend and fable, but there is much true flying under the husks of legend and many a sound kernel of history wrapped up in the old fables.  Roderick Díaz is the glory of Spain, the hero of the people, the perfect warrior, the ideal man-at-arms, and he lives in the heart of the nation as does Arthur in England or Roland in France. The Sid, from a word meaning Lord, was born in 1026 and soon rose to fame. When yet a stripling, not 20 summers old, he led an army of Christian warriors against the Arabs who had entered a province called Castile in the north of Spain. Five kings led the Arab army, but the Sid defeated them among the Spanish mountains and drove them back. Not only was their beloved Sid brave in battle and merciful in peace, sang the old poets, but he was kind to those in trouble. Here is a story they tell. After his victory over the five Moorish kings, he set out on a journey with his knights and followers. As they journeyed, they found a poor leper stuck fast in the mud, shouting for help. The Spanish knights passed by, but the Sid leaped from his horse, lifted the poor man to his saddle and took him back. At table that night he shared his plate with the afflicted man and took him to his own bed. At midnight he awoke, the leper was gone, but he saw a form clothed in dazzling white. I, whom thou didst take for a poor leper and didst help, I am St. Lazarus, said a voice, and in return for what thou hast done for the love of God, thou mates ask whatever thou wilt and it shall be accomplished. Thou shalt be feared by Moor and Christian and never shall thy enemies prevail over thee. Faithfully indeed did the Sid serve his king, but after a while there were men who whispered evil against him and the king was angry with the Sid and bade him leave Spain within nine days, never to return. Sadly the Sid went forth from his own city while men and women wept at the thought of their hero leaving them forever. But the king forgave him after a time and the Sid came home again and helped his country against the Moors. He besieged Valencia, which was one of the richest towns in the kingdom and took it after a desperate resistance from within. The Sid ruled the city for some years both wisely and well, but again a great Moorish host came against the city led by a king from North Africa. The Sid had grown old and feeble and his long beard was snowy white and he knew that death was near. Yet he had been told in a vision that he should still conquer the Moors. The Sid called his people around him, then he spoke. He was very weak, but his voice was clear. Ye know that the kings will soon be here with seven and 30 other kings and with the mighty power of Moors, he said. After I have departed, see that ye utter no cries that the Moors may not know of my death, but sound your trumpets and timbers and make the greatest rejoicings you can. Then saddle ye my horse and arm him well, and ye shall apparel my body full seamlessly and place me upon the horse and fasten and tie me there on so that I cannot fall. The next day the Sid died and they dressed his body and set it on his beloved horse, supported by a framework of fords. They hung his shield about his neck, they placed his sword upright in his hand, and they led their dead hero against his foes. The Moors came on, but it seemed to them that there came against them on the part of the Christians full 70,000 nights, all as white as snow, and before them a night of great stature upon a white horse with a cross of blood, who bore in one hand a white banner and in the other a sword which seemed to be a fire. The Moors were so terrified that they fled, never stopping till they reached the sea. And so great was the press that numbers were drowned before ever they could reach the ships. So the Sid conquered the Moors even in death, according to this old story. But after all, it is but a story of the old days in Spain. End of chapter 17. Chapter 18 of the Discovery of New Worlds. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Discovery of New Worlds by M.B. Singh. Chapter 18, The First Crusade. The true old times when every morning brought a noble chance and every chance brought out a noble knight. Tennyson. While the Sid was fighting against the followers of Mohammed in Spain, another people had conquered them in Asia. These were known as the Turks, a savage race who had risen to great power, run over the Holy Land and taken Jerusalem for themselves. For many years pilgrims had flocked to Jerusalem from all parts of Europe. The Turks now treated them with great cruelty. The complaints spread over Europe till the Christians of every land were stirred with wrath against the cruel Turk. About the year 1092, a Frenchman, Peter the Hermit, went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. There his soul was stirred by the horrors he saw, the inhuman treatment of the Christian pilgrims and the one of care towards the holy places. An old story says that he spent the night at the Holy Tomb. Weary with watching, he fell asleep and as he slept, Christ appeared to him in his dreams, bidding him hasten home to make known the woes of the Christians. At dawn he rose, hurried to the coast and took a ship for Italy to tell the Pope all he had seen and heard.  Peter the Hermit went far and wide, stirring up the people to go and fight for their brethren in Jerusalem. Rich and poor, old and young, night and peasant, flocked to hear him. Then a great meeting was held in France. From a lofty scaffold, Pope Urban addressed the crowds, princes and soldiers of France before him. He urged all of them to go a great expedition to the Holy Land. Dangers would be set their way, sufferings would be their lot, but their reward would be forever.  They who die will enter the mansions of heaven, while the living shall behold the sepulchre of their Lord. Suddenly a great cry broke from the assembled crowds. It is the will of God, it is the will of God, they shouted passionately. It is in truth his will, answered the Pope, and let these words be your war cry when you unsheath your swords against the enemy. You are soldiers of the cross, wear it as a token that his help will never fail you, as the pledge of a vow which can never be recalled. Men fell on their knees and took vows of service in the Holy War. A red cross marked on the right shoulder was the common sign of all the soldiers thus sworn, and henceforth they were known as crusaders. The departure of the great army was fixed for the 15th of August 1096, but before this date a rabble of enthusiasts set out under Peter the Hermit and Walter the Penulus, for the Holy Land. As might be expected, ignorant of the way, they fell into the hands of fierce tribes who killed them by hundreds, and only Peter the Hermit returned to tell the sad story of their fate. But the hero of the first crusade, the model crusader, the perfect knight, was Godfriede Bouillon. His high berth, fine character, and military courage brought men flocking to his standard, and his great army of Christian enthusiasts started off for their march through Germany and hungry to Constantinople. It was Christmas time before the crusaders stood outside the walls of Constantine's capital. Two months later they were across the Bosphorus and standing on the soil of Asia in the eastern world. It was a host faster than that of Xerxes, mightier than the army of Alexander when he attempted to conquer Asia, that now marched over the site of Old Troy. October found them before Antioch, but it was nine months before they succeeded in resting the city from the Turks, and ten more before they started on their last great march to the holy city. The Italian poet Tasso has given us a most wonderful account of the arrival of the crusaders before Jerusalem. He tells us of their joy, mingled as it was with fear and trembling, when their eyes beheld in the distance the town where Christ was bought and sold. How, forgetting all their pains and perils, they each pointed out to one another the longed for goal. Jerusalem lay in the morning sunshine.  Putting aside their armor, the crusaders advanced in pilgrim's garb and with bare feet toward the holy city. But there was a stiff work to be done before Jerusalem was theirs. More than a month passed until it seemed as if all the Turks would be victorious. One day, says an old story, in the midst of that deadly struggle, a night was seen on the Mount of Olives, waving his shining shield to rouse the champions of the cross to their supreme effort. It is St. George the Martyr who has come to help us, cried Godfrey. As he spoke, all started up. That day they carried all before them and the first victorious champion of the cross stood on the walls of Jerusalem. The story of the massacre carried out by these Christian knights is not pleasant reading. The horses of the crusaders riding to the temple were up to their knees in blood, says the old chronicle, while the knights showed no mercy to the vanquished. Barefooted, bareheaded, and clad in a robe of pure white linen, Godfrey knelt at the holy tomb. The first great crusade had been accomplished. The leaders of the army now held a council to decide who should be given the crown of Jerusalem. The choice fell on Godfrey de Bouillon. To the surprise of all, he declined. I will not wear a golden crown, he answered, in a city where my king has been crowned only with thorns. Still he consented to remain and watch over the holy tomb, and with his faithful knight, Tancred, he bade farewell to the crusaders who now started for home. So ended the first crusade, one of the most wonderful expeditions in the history of the world. End of chapter 18.