THREE score and nine years old was the red-bearded king, Frederick Barbarossa. He was by right the master of Germany. He had subdued Italy and had been crowned in the imperial city of Rome. Throughout Europe his name was known and feared; in his own country he was the hero of heroes.
He might have ended his days in quiet and peace, but such was not the wish of the iron-hearted warrior. War was his chosen pastime; war was his delight; and the glory of his country was his ambition.
From the Holy Land, far over the sea, a call for help was sounded. The Saracens of the desert had captured Jerusalem; they had seized upon the Holy Sepulcher, so dear to every Christian heart; the sacred banner of the cross had been trailed in the dust.
Throughout Europe there was great alarm. Devout men went from land to land preaching a crusade for the delivery of the holy places. Christian princes raised mighty armies and, crossing the seas, fought bravely to drive the unbelieving Saracens back to their native deserts.
At such a time could Frederick Barbarossa remain idle at home? Could he rest quietly who had spent fifty years in the turmoil of war? As well could the mountain torrent stand still on the brow of a precipice. He sounded the word of comman