_Suppose that, bending over you, a man Breathed words of which you knew the gist. Suppose it!... Yes, you can.... No, I insist.... Suppose!_ _Suppose you shut the window? Now? Pray do, And take a lonely night to learn This tune shut in with you. Till I return, Suppose...._ Then I peeped out. Some breath divine had made his face, compared with mine, An angel's. Love with all its faults had set there our Creator's sign. That shook me. One of us was wrong. Which? He or I? His soul was vexed Neither by this world nor the next, but floated in a bubble of song. It haunted me, as he had said; it chimed and rhymed about my bed. It filled my head with Sunflower-tress; but she--I writhed--was old or dead. Was all my suffering a waste? Had superstition wed me chaste To Its effect? Was this my Cause? My tutor in the dark grimaced. I saw him snug at home, and how he would have chuckled at my vow! Well, who laughs last.... I pictured him a dotard or in hell by now. I prayed for help all night; and, warned by lost Edessa, Baldwin made Great efforts to placate our God. The answer was a fresh crusade. This was an answer none could doubt. We heard a preacher more devout Than ours was quartering the west, and pulling true believers out. He hight Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, the home of light and miracles. The wives and mothers trembled so before his spirit's tentacles, They hid their males--in vain. He swept the Emperor Conrad with him, kept The collar of his pale adept, emasculated Louis Sept. He cured King's Evils, raised the dead, he cast out devils by the gross. 'Twas said he promised us twelve legions of angels.... From the darkest regions Men flocked to Metz and Ratisbon. News came of more than half a million, Not counting those that rode apillion. Our battle was as good as won. Such glorious news might well inflame our hopes. We waited. Nothing came, Not even light Turcopuli nor Conrad's Golden-footed Dame.