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.
Our Poullains first began to whine; the fainthearts said the fault was mine.
Saint Bernard was the oracle of Europe, I of Palestine.
And nothing came ... no troops.... The Greek misled, starved, poisoned, murdered them,
Betrayed them to the Turk, whose bleak deserts went over them. Week by week
We waited. Nothing. Cadmus saw them cut to bits, Attalia's maw
Could not be sated with their ruck. King Louis' mind had just one flaw: