CHAPTER XXVI

WE ENTER WORMS

On the fifteenth of April, 1521, we reached Oppenheim, having

crossed the Rhine, and being now only one stage from Worms. Time was

pressing. On the sixteenth the safe-conduct expired and any failure

to reach the Diet would leave Luther far from his sheltering Saxony,

and in the very claws of the adversary. The shouting, the cheering,

the perpetual “vivats” from the multitudes had been well, but I

knew how much the fair words and sympathies of women, peasants,

and students were worth against a file of imperial lanz-knechts

despatched to seize their hero. Destruction seemed alike before and

behind us now, but Dr. Martin had chosen the way, and I was past

urging “turn back.” Yet many a good friend was not so convinced as

was I that God was leading us, and at Oppenheim came a warning that

would have made a very Hannibal quail.

We were in the road winding up the steep crags toward the little city

when a messenger in the Elector of Saxony’s livery rode up to us,

and with him a Dominican friar, one Martin Bucer, a trusty friend

and preacher of the Cause. I will not repeat all that they said;

enough that they brought a letter from Spalatin, the Elector’s own

confessor, warning against going any farther. All kinds of perils

lurked at Worms. Aleander, the Papal Legate, was raging that “Luther

had enough heresy in him to warrant burning a hundred thousand,”

and that his following was the offscouring of Germany. As for the

safe-conduct, let Luther remember Hus’s fate, and let him heed also

the rumor[11] that the very influential Cardinal of Tortosa, the

Emperor’s tutor, had written to his one-time pupil, urging earnestly

“to hand the fellow over to the Pope for his deserts.”

“What, then, is it advised that Dr. Luther do?” I asked, whereat

Bucer answered that Von Sickengen’s formidable castle, the Ebernburg,

was not far off. Let him take refuge there, and negotiate at leisure.

I sat in my saddle moodily. The advice seemed good, the peril

undoubted, yet I knew that if my master turned aside from Worms

when almost at its portal his name and fame were marred through all

Germany. But while Amsdorf and I were silent, Dr. Martin dispensed

with our feeble wisdom. He shot his words right into the face of the

courier.

“Von Sickengen is a noble ritter. I thank him for his proffer. But he

lives by the sword and will die by the sword. God’s cause can prosper

without him. And as for me, _though there be as many devils in Worms

as there are tiles on the housetops, yet will I go there_. Drive

onward.”

That ended the debate. I knew that come good or come evil we would

see Luther at Cæsar’s judgment seat. It was with a mind very full of

thoughts that I rode out of Oppenheim the next morning. A marvellous

spring day was upon us. The little brooks and ditches were full of

water running merrily. One could almost hear the sap oozing in the

trees. The buds were just bursting, and all the boughs were in their

young green feather. In the fields the red-kerchiefed peasant girls

sang as they plied the mattocks or followed the plough, and overhead

in the limpid sky the larks sang back to them. I could see that Dr.

Martin was taking a delight nigh childish in the beauty of the hour.

“What a glorious day,” he kept saying with simplicity, “and how

rarely the birds sing. Ah! If we could count up the great charge God

is at, only to maintain the birds and other creatures. Verily it must

cost Him more than all the revenues of the King of France. If only I

understood how many gulden it takes to sustain the larks, would I not

be an incomparable master of theology!”

As for myself, however, my thoughts were wandering not a little,

even from my master and the Cause. That morning a letter, carefully

sealed, had been put in my hands by Gunter, with the curt remark that

“later if I wished he would tell how Trude had gotten it to him.”

Full secretly had I read, and thus it ran:--

“My aunt goes to Worms on business to the Pope’s legate touching

our order. Prompted by some saint she declares she will take me

as her companion. My brother also rides with us. Remember you are

my knight, and wear my gage. May God keep us.”

No name, no address. Both had been utterly needless. I hid the letter

in my bosom, but took it thence to kiss the writing a hundred times.

At last I had to conjure myself roundly to “play not the love-lorn

squire, but play the man.” And I plucked the letter forth no more.

But you will not blame me if I did not spend all my thoughts on how

to circumvent Monsignore Aleander at Worms.

“You, too, find this fine day makes you merry, Graf Walter,” said

Luther once during the morning ride, and later I discovered that he

had more than half divined the cause of my lightened spirits.

* * * * *

It was about noon, long after the frowning battlements, the

red-roofed steep houses, and the vast, many towered minster of Worms,

had been before our view, that the trumpeter above the gate blew

boldly on his horn,--signal to all the crowded city that the man who

had set all Germany by the ears had come to face his fate. Our little

cavalcade rolled over the drawbridge and into the shadow of the

gatehouse; Deutschland rode first, shaking out his great banner, then

the wagon with Luther and his three comrades, lastly myself with some

few friendly ritters who had galloped out from Worms to meet us. It

was dinner time, but by some art magic the tall gabled houses poured

out their thousands into the busy street. Honorable quarters had been

reserved for us at the House of the Knights of St. John, where the

residence of the Saxon Elector would be close at hand. So great was

the multitude Deutschland must needs lay about him with his baton to

win us a way.

As I rode onward slowly, I could but tell myself that all the world

had rushed together here for the Diet; save as we were privileged

guests I doubt if we could ever have hired lodgings. The streets were

full of blond Mecklinburgers and Pomeranians, dark Rhinelanders,

dapper-dressed Frenchmen, olive-faced Spaniards, small Italians.

Knights and clowns, peasants, burghers, and clerics were all elbowing

indiscriminately to get their first glance of “_him_,” whether they

called the newcomer saint or heresiarch. I saw an Italian valet

hanging close at our heels, and I was not surprised later to learn

that he was a servant of Aleander the Legate, sent to bring his

master particular word of the aspect of “Mahomet.” Surely if Luther’s

courage did not fail him, if he had a true word to say at Worms, he

could speak it so loud here that he could be heard by all the earth!

At the House of the Knights there did not lack a welcome from friends

and an abundance of wordy counsel. Two of the Saxon Electors’

intimate advisers were lodged at the same place. A good dozen of

us sat down to dinner together. There were a thousand things to

say,--what the Emperor thought, what each Elector thought, what

the delegates of the Free Cities thought, what the Pope’s legates

demanded, what Franz von Sickengen had threatened, what would be the

probable procedure to-morrow, etc., _ad infinitum_. And through it

all I could see Dr. Martin smiling sweetly yet soberly, answering

with a nod here, a brief word there, and keeping his own counsel.

“Has he not determined? Is he resolved to retract?” muttered Von Thun

the Counsellor in my ear half testily. “Surely he has not made all

this journey without some fixed intention?”

To which I could only answer, “He has never committed himself to me.”

“Pest take the man,” grumbled the testy though friendly politician;

“of all accursed things it is to be a theologian. ‘If you believe so,

I will concede so,’ they say, when what the Emperor will want is a

clear answer ‘_Sic_’ or ‘_Non_.’ Can we not make him understand?”

“Noble and excellent Counsellor,” answered I with assurance, “I do

not know what Dr. Luther will say, but I do know that he will give

such answer as will not leave you, me, nor any man in the world, in

doubt as to his meaning.”

I could do no more for my master that day. Events must shape their

course for a little. If there was more service which I could render,

it would come later when Cæsar had spoken. Leaving Luther in the

hands of his overzealous friends, I went to my own chambers, caused

Andrea to change my dress so that I would appear merely as an

inconspicuous ritter, and then went out unattended into the buzzing

streets. Never was there a more polyglot crowd even by the Venetian

Rialto. Spanish pikemen of the Imperial guard were declaiming in loud

Castilian against the insipidity of German wines; there were a goodly

number of giant-tall Swiss mercenaries in their bright, party-colored

clothes and great feathery-set hats, and ecclesiastics swarmed of

every rank, condition, and order. Mountebanks and hucksters of all

kinds of cheap and cheating wares, seemed everywhere, and many none

too prudish women. Carefree for the time, I wandered onward, catching

snatches of conversation, much amused momentarily by a grave debate

betwixt a Fleming and a Swabian as to whether Luther was able to fly

and to make himself invisible by the black art, yet often touched by

the manifest love and reverence with which vast numbers seemed to

mention my master’s name.

Knowing little of the winding streets, I let myself wander ever

onward, guided by fancy, until at last I was under the shadow of the

vast cathedral, and I saw sentries pacing with their halberds before

the portals of the wall around the bishop’s palace. Within I knew

lodged the Emperor and the Papal legates. I might have announced my

rank and demanded admission, but I was in no mood for playing the

courtier, and I was turning away to find what else might amuse me

in the city, when I came face to face with an Italian in a livery I

knew like my own, blue and gold cut after the manner of the Forlis.

Involuntarily I must have stopped and stared at him, the more so as

his face was familiar, in an uncertain way, and he, seemingly amazed,

also stood and gazed at me curiously, then recovering his wits more

nimbly than I, swept off his biretta with a profound bow.

“Allow me to assure you, Eccellenza,” spoke he in Italian, “that I am

now as always very devotedly at your service.”

“Diavolo! fellow,” I answered, wholly aback. “I do not have the joy

of your acquaintance.”

“The Conte di Palaestro does not remember then a certain evening at

the Vatican four years ago, the last evening I believe your Nobility

spent in Rome for some time, when it was my great and grievous

misfortune to be obliged, my own humble head being in jeopardy--”

“Good heavens, rascal,” cried I, my wits at last serving me; “you are

Ettore Orosi, the bravo!”

He bowed again with agile grace.

“Ettore Orosi, at that time a humble cavaliere of fortune, but

now, praised be Santa Maria di Fiesoli, a gentleman servitor in

the household of the Cardinal of Forli and that incomparable lady,

Madonna Marianna.”

“Forli, Marianna, are they here in Worms?”

“They arrived at the court three days since, Eccellenza, on an

unofficial mission from His Holiness. It was at once reported at

the palace that you were in the company of that much-debated friar,

Signor Lutherio, and Madonna Marianna straightway commissioned me to

ascertain your lodging place, and how she might communicate with you.

You see I have been unexpectedly fortunate.”

I own that for once in my life I was utterly at a loss what to do or

to answer.

Both Marianna and Ilsa were to be in Worms!

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Quite authenticated by history.--EDITOR.

BOOK III

THE VICTORY

CHAPTER XXVII

’TWIXT GABRIEL AND LUCIFER

He beckoned me to follow and I made no resistance. Possibly I was

unwise, but how scant had been the moment for reflection! In any

case, I meditated, a German count of the Empire was not to be made

away with at the Imperial Diet itself, even by such a personage as

the Cardinal di Forli. Besides, a little tingle was going through my

veins; come good, come evil, I was about to see Marianna. I stepped

on boldly even when an inner voice prompted me, “turn back.” Orosi,

smiling fulsomely, led the way past the unquestioning sentinel

into the interior of the episcopal palace. It was a huge rambling

structure. As I penetrated one gray courtyard after another I seemed

leaving Germany behind me, and stepping, with incredible rapidity,

back into the Southland. The faces I saw were all dark and olivine,

all Italian or Spanish. Above the gateways were festooned the banners

of Naples, Palermo, Valencia, Cordova, Seville and a dozen other

southern cities ruled by the Emperor. I heard the Tuscan and Sicilian

dialects of Italy, as well as the differing tongues of Castile and

Aragon. The armor of the mustachioed sentry at an inner gate was

indubitably from Toledo. And now I began to pass courtiers all in

elegant lace and silk garments that might have graced the court of

Ferrara or Mantua. Verily if _these_ were folk of Kaiser Karl I knew

the case of Luther was prejudged already!

But Orosi led onward without letting me tarry to analyze my

sensations. We were at a doorway before which a pair of valets in

the Forli livery squatted on the pavement killing their time with

dice. They leaped up very nimbly, and their caps came off with abject

bows at the upraised finger of my conductor. Orosi guided me at once

into a dim hall, lighted by high and heavily curtained windows, and

motioned to a spacious armchair.

“Eccellenza, if you will but deign to repose yourself a little, I

will at once seek his Eminence and Madonna. They did not of course

expect your fair advent so speedily, but I am sure you have not long

to wait.”

Before I could answer, I heard the heavy tassels of the arras

clicking behind him; I was alone, alone waiting Marianna.

The chamber was a veritable segment of Italy. Forli had evidently

travelled with all necessary furniture to make himself at home.

The chairs were of dark wood, with elegant Florentine carving, and

luxurious taffeta upholsteries; the rugs were from Constantinople,

the walls were hidden by a series of tapestry cartoons depicting the

taking of Carthage by Scipio the Younger. A genuine Roman brazier

charged with charcoal sent off its fumes in one corner, dispelling

the springtime chill. A Venetian lamp, swung from silver chains over

my head, sent a faint ruby gleam through its dome of red crystal.

There were books on the table; they proved to be a set of Poggio’s

_Facetiae_, and kindred free and merry stories, charmingly bound

in white and purple vellum. The odor of the brazier, the dimly

mysterious light, the looming of the vague figures on the cartoons,

the red twinkling from the lamp, all produced for an instant an

effect nigh intoxicating. I threw myself into the cushioned chair,

and felt old memory and habits of mind surging back upon me like the

billows cast up by an ever advancing tide of ocean.

Either because I was not expected or because of design I was held

some slight time waiting. At last in a distant chamber I heard a

step. Instantly all my senses quivered. I knew I was being profoundly

affected, albeit very differently from the manner that other step

had moved me when I waited in beggar’s rags at the cold grille by

Quedlinburg convent. Suddenly it came over me how even now I was very

shabbily clad, and what a mean impression I must make upon any one

beholding me. I was execrating all the luck which had involved me in

this immediate adventure, when the tapestry parted; Marianna di Forli

came straight into my presence.

She wore a light blue cendal gown that fell straight down from her

shoulders, the height of art in its simplicity. A thin gold chain was

her girdle. Her only ornament was a large brooch on her shoulder,

but the brooch was set with a Greek antique cameo of vast beauty and

price. In the great coil of her dark hair she had set a single white

spring flower. In that twilight her face seemed to stand out as a

thing self illumined, diffusing its own white light.

“Gualtiero!” she cried, in her musical native tongue, “Gualtiero! I

have missed you so long. Oh! blessed, blessed hour to bring you!”

She held both her hands to me, opening her arms wide; but the

sight of her, the sound of her voice, had snapped the spell that

momentarily bound me. Very deliberately, with studied courtesy I fell

on one knee, took her right hand coldly to my lips, and kissed it

formally. Then I rose and stood with bowed head, but at safe distance.

“You must pardon me, Madonna,” said I, “if this interview slightly

overwhelms me; only a very few hours since have I entered Worms,

and it was by the merest fortune that I rambled out by the palace

and was confronted by Orosi. I consented that he lead me to you,

perhaps without considering whether an interview would lead to mutual

happiness or the reverse.”

She drew back, and the muscles of her neck seemed to twitch.

“Your words are cold as your northern wind, Gualtiero, all the spark

and fire is gone out of them. Can three years away from Italy change

so much? destroy habit, thought, memory? Do you not remember the

Corso, and the Vatican gardens, and the boats on the Tiber, and the

Carnival, and the fiestas of roses, and--”

I folded my arms across my breast.

“I forget none of them, Madonna.”

“Santo Spirito, and do you never long for them? Are you turned all to

ice?”

“Not quite,” I replied gently.

“Then I,” and her eyes shot fire, “demand in the name of that passion

which once you will not deny blazed swift and hot,--what marvel has

wrought this change?”

“You will never understand, Madonna,” I answered slowly, “not though

my speech went far into the night. The North has claimed me; I am of

my father’s world and not of my mother’s. The North has claimed me,

and the Cause, which is so great.”

“The Cause? I cannot understand.”

“I said you could not. Once you laughed at us Germans, called us

winebibbers and fools; we are stirring now. Once you mocked at our

friar Martin Luther; he is giving the Monsignori gloomy evenings now.

Great things are coming to pass, and greater things will follow.

Here in Worms we may hear words that will be remembered so long as

men read books; for the Cause is moving to triumph, and he who aids

therein is aiding even God.”

“Your words are Italian,” she said, misdoubtingly, “but your thought

still is all hid. What is this Cause? explain.”

“The Cause is the Word of God as spoken by Luther, and from him

caught by the world.”

She threw her hands over her head and laughed. The laugh grated. It

was scornful and evil.

“At last! at last! Well, I could have thought as much. Still

bewitched by that babbling demon of an excommunicate friar. My father

and I will have to learn how to disenchant you.”

“In that case you must prove wiser than Merlin, for I swear to you,

never went cavalier more earnestly on his crusade than I on this.”

She paused one shrewd instant. Some instinct told me that she was

bidding herself not to press a dangerous point, but to seek other

means of vantage.

“Come, Gualtiero,” she resumed, holding out one hand winningly,

“three years is a long time. At Palaestro we parted in a quarrel,

let us not meet again only to renew it. We have always liked each

other better after quarrelling. Do you remember the fearful war we

had because I believed you had given those pearls to that Carlotta

di Empoli, and how we were vastly more devoted than ever, after

the wretched thing was made up? Yes? Well then, here we will sit

together. These cushions are filled with silk floss from Parma. Old

Cardinale di Piombo swears there is nothing more comfortable, and

surely he is the softest liver in the whole conclave. After all, what

is it to me if you wish to run after a heretic friar or the very

Maestro Diavolo himself if but your ‘Cause’ does not keep you in this

vile Germany. O _Miseria_! But what a dress you have on! Very foul

and worn even for this dreadful country. You have already paid for

your folly towards the heretic by being brought to poverty?”

“I have still sufficient revenues,” said I dryly, not without inward

meditation as to whether Marianna’s attitude would alter if I avowed

myself poor. “I am wearing this dress simply to avoid remark upon the

streets.”

“Happy relief then to my fears! Now I will ask you, as if you were at

the confessional, and do you answer. Are you married?”

“No.”

“Are you betrothed?”

“No.”

“Are you in love?”

I could have cut her tongue out. I saw heavy disadvantages either in

telling the truth, or framing any reasonable manner of a lie.

“You need not press that question, Marianna,” I returned sharply.

“But you equivocate, proof enough you are truly in love. Fie, do not

think I am going to be angry. Every one must amuse himself. Declare

the lady.”

“I have forbidden you to interrogate.”

“_Buono!_ only one question, then; is she that Ilsa--such I swear

was the name--whose father held the castle close to yours? Am I not

right? You are blushing.”

“The lady whereof you ask has entered the convent. As a nun she is

beyond all our discussions.”

Marianna’s hands floated out and her long fingers moved in a gesture

as if she were untangling spider webs.

“Oh, simple, simple Gualtiero! Do you not think I can see through you

as through yonder goblet of Venetian glass? Do you think that while

you have been running about Germany for the sake of your mad heretic,

I have not been informed by a dozen correspondents about you. Did

not many letters report ‘The Graf von Regenstein, rumor has it, made

offers of marriage to Ilsa von Blankenburg, but she rejecting his

proffer has entered the convent?’ And lo! now by your own silence

and blushes you confess to the secret that you, _you_ who preach to

us Italians of your serious purpose and your zeal for your ‘Cause,’

are actually engaged in the quest of a nun!”

I let her wander on even farther, while I slowly readjusted my wits.

“Yet you might spare your blushes, Gualtiero. Wiser and cleverer

men than you have loved nuns, yes, and been none the worse for it.

The nephew of his one-time Holiness, Urban the Sixth, had such an

intrigue, and the indulgent Pope actually issued a dispensation to

him and let him marry the wench. You might get the same, though if

truth be told, you have not ingratiated yourself with the Vatican

lately. Still if you have kept your fortune--”

But here I rose to my feet.

“Marianna di Forli,” spoke I, and my voice shook, “if you would

converse with me as friend and not as foe, do not let the name of

that nun again cross your lips. What we are to each other and what

we will be to each other is something so high, so holy, so ineffable

that never in any tongue I can speak could you learn to understand

me. I have no intrigue with the lady you have so lightly named, and I

forbid you to discuss her further.”

“Then Dante sighs hopelessly from afar for his Beatrice,” said she,

demurely; “very good, I merely wished to show that I was not playing

the part of jealousy.”

“What part you are playing, Madonna,” I replied sourly, “I confess

is to me quite hid, the more as by your own confession you have kept

a marvellously sharp watch upon my doings. You know, then, that I

am utterly committed to the cause of that Wittenberg friar whom the

Church, with paternal benignity, is seeking to consign to the flames.

You know that I broke with you finally at Palaestro. What now are you

seeking?”

She looked up at me steadily, striving to catch me with her glorious

eyes. If mortal could have been ensnared by a pagan goddess, I were

lost hopelessly.

“Hear then, Gualtiero,” spoke she, and her voice rose and sobbed

like some plaintive æolian harp, “hear then, I come to save you from

yourself.”

“Myself? Am I my own enemy?”

“Your own worst enemy, Gualtiero. Your own noble qualities betray

you. You were nurtured in Italy, but a false loyalty to your

father’s last injunctions held you to a destructive pride in your

German ancestry. Because you dreamed you found something noble in

the utterances of that Wittenberg heretic, you also dreamed it was

your duty to defend him. Even as your forefathers deemed it noble to

toss their lives away against the infidel, one man against twenty,

so you, again hopelessly beset, have allowed your fine chivalry to

ruin you. You dwell in a world of dreams, of gossamer hopes, of

unrealities. You have followed this friar even to Worms. Then your

foam bubble will burst. What will you find? A heretic’s bonfire, your

friends’ favor forfeited, your fortune imperiled, your body and soul

jeopardized by the ban of the Church. And from all this I--I, who

have been so much to you, will save you yet.”

“I thank you for your solicitude, Madonna,” was my rejoinder. I

confess when she spoke of “unrealities” I thought of our life at

Palaestro, and could scarce suppress a smile.

“You are not grateful--now. Ah! I understand that very well. But you

will thank me hereafter. Come”--she caught at my sleeve, “sit once

more, side by side as in the olden days. Let us pretend these are the

Vatican gardens, and we are under the roses by the Pope’s belvedere.

Far away are they not, but we will see them again. You will not, you

will not refuse even this?”

Her voice trembled, but I stood before her obdurate. I remembered

that other hour at Mainz when honor spoke one voice, and Marianna

another, and Marianna had prevailed. But, thank God, I was stronger

now. She was looking up at me with every manner of entreaty springing

out of her eyes,--the entreaty of a Cleopatra saying to Antonius,

“Choose now, Rome or me?” But I, looking upon her, yet beyond her,

saw other figures whom she might not see, a figure in the veil of a

nun, a figure in the cowl of a friar. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”

were the words that almost crossed my teeth, but I would not wound

too harshly. I only removed her hand gently from my sleeve and

motioned her away.

“You talk of that which can never be, Madonna,” I said. “I am sorely

grieved that you will still live in memory.”

“In memory?” she cried, her voice now rising almost to a shriek, “in

memory? And can the memory of a Roman woman ever die? Because I have

laughed and lived merrily do you think that I have never loved you?

Oh! Santa Maria! one need not turn nun every time one has a broken

heart. Curse me, beat me, flay me, slay me, do not say you will quit

me forever!”

Alas for Marianna! even as she cast herself at my feet in a paroxysm

of tears, I was reflecting, “How far is this real, how far the

actress?” This scene however I well knew could not be prolonged. With

a pitilessness I did not wholly feel, I drew myself up haughtily.

“Noble lady,” I spoke distantly; “If in the past I have erred by

giving you friendship and more than friendship, I am heartily

repentant. The wrong that I may have done to you I may never be

able to efface. So heaven orders things--that much of evil cannot

be undone, however much the doer would. If you have had your bitter

hours in past years, believe me I have had mine. Believe me, too, God

has laid His comforting hand upon me and given me a peace and hope

such as not Filelfo or Chrysoloras or Porphyry or Plato or any other

of those philosophers we worshipped at Rome could give. I have chosen

my path with open eyes, and I follow it boldly. It may lead through

the sunlight, may lead under only the starlight, nay clouds and

darkness may wrap thick about me. The path is still before me. I will

follow. For you I will ever crave that peace which neither the world

nor the Church as you know it can give. Curse you I will not, and I

will remember you often and not with hate, but for the final time I

say it, your path you must follow, and leave me free to follow mine.”

I bowed ceremoniously and moved toward the door. She lifted her face

towards me; it was struggling with entreaty.

“Never, never, never will I give you up!” she cried, then fell in a

heap upon the chair.

Without more adieus I thrust aside the tapestries, and strode past

many gazing menials, much amazed to see a shabbily clad man burst

from the inner apartments of the Cardinal. Fortunately no one strove

to halt me. In a moment I was past the last sentry, and in the

street, lighted by the last sunshine of the waning afternoon. Italy

and all its strange visions seemed vanished behind me. I heard the

pompous Geheimrat of some Pomeranian princeling cursing in broadest

Low German at the inattention of his varlets. The very oaths seemed

good to hear. I strode over to a convenient beer house, and quaffed a

stein of good brown Nürnberger.

“Realities?” I spoke to myself; “here are the realities,--the life to

live and the death to die. I have escaped from Merlin and his house

of dreams.”

* * * * *

The crowds in the street had hardly thinned. Never, save at the

Venice carnivals, had I seen greater multitudes. “Luther,” “Luther,”

seemed on every tongue.

“He will recant,” I heard an earnest-faced young student declaiming

to a fellow; “Holy God strengthen him, but he will recant. Pope,

Emperor, princes, priests are all against him. Flesh and blood

are not made to endure such things, he will retract all his books

to-morrow.”

“And yet,” answered the second student more confidently, “when I

caught his eye this noon, I said, ‘that is not the face of one whom

fiend or man can frighten.’ I still hope he will stand fast.”

“Ay, so I pray every hour,” rejoined the first somberly; “for the day

he retracts is the blackest day that has ever set for Germany, after

such a dawn of hope of better things! But--”

Here we were swept asunder and I caught no more of their hopes or

fears. A moment later I was behind two black-cloaked Dominicans.

Easily enough one seized the thread of their talk.

“I tell you, Sebaldus, this hideous leniency has already nigh

wrecked the Church. A few good faggots two years ago should have

ended everything. But first Caïetanus tarried, then the Pope, and

now finally the Emperor. The blessed Dominic grant we see the end of

this Anti-Christ to-morrow. Will they execute him here or send him to

Rome?”

“The legates Aleander and Forli have done their uttermost to have him

clapped under arrest already, but alas! the Emperor hesitates.”

“Hesitates? Great God! as a Christian prince how can he hesitate in

his duty?”

“Why, my dear brother, he has most unfortunate scruples about that

matter of a safe-conduct which he issued.”

“And _he_ hesitates to violate it? As if faith were to be kept with

Turks and heretics! Let him remember how Kaiser Sigismund piously

let the safe-conduct he gave to Hus be set aside, for as the King of

Aragon then said, ‘Faith is not to be kept with those who have not

kept faith with God.’”

“Aptly spoken, like a true doctor of the Church. And--heaven

grant--even if the Emperor prove over-scrupulous, there will be a

short way found with the wretch. I am told that the Cardinal of Forli

said--”

But here, just as I would have given fifty gulden for the rest of

their talk, the two turned down an unfrequented lane, whither it was

impossible for me to follow undetected.

The conversation, however, made me exceeding thoughtful. Clearly all

that I might do for Luther was not at end. If there were any pious

projects against Luther entertained by his Eminence of Forli, it was

not for me to ignore them. And as for Orosi, I was certain that the

redoubted bravo was not serving the Cardinal simply as postilion. I

therefore quickened my steps back toward the house of the Knights

of St. John. The day was fading into twilight, the hucksters and

merchants were illuminating their shops and booths with innumerable

red torches that cast a flickering radiance upon the moving crowds,

and gave the streets of Worms more the aspect of a fête than of a

sedate grave German city. I was almost again at our quarters when the

folk in the narrow street were thrust aside by the passing of a small

cavalcade. I saw a few mounted retainers, a stately ritter in half

armor, and behind him, with sweeping white robes, a lady abbess upon

her palfrey. Behind the abbess rode several women, hooded and cloaked

in black.

“Give way, honest people,” cried the leading rider; “way for

their High Nobilities the Abbess of Quedlinburg and the Graf von

Blankenburg!”

The crowd opened good naturedly, but a lumbering vintner’s cart in

the street ahead made very slow progress. The cavalcade fell to a

walk. As for me, I stopped for an instant like a man stark mad, and

then guided more by instinct than reason, kept pace with the little

company, edging nearer until I was close to the women who followed

the abbess. I had not long to seek. Would I not have known to pick

that rider on the darkest night and amid a hundred?

I was almost against her side-saddle, and the noise of the street

rose in a babel hum around me, when I suddenly spoke in a voice low

and clear.

“Ilsa, here I am.”

Under the black cape there was a startled quaking and rustling, but

was I not proud of my Lady, when with hardly an instant’s hesitation

came the softly spoken answer.

“I am trusting you to do nothing foolish, Walter.”

“Your trust is safe,” I answered; “I am guarding Dr. Luther. But is

Trude in your company?”

“She is.”

“Then since her father is with me, all is well. I have your letter.”

The wagon had been turned from the way. “Forward!” came the shout. I

heard the riders ahead slap their horses. From under the black cape

stole a white hand; there was just the chance for me to touch the

tips of the fingers. Ilsa’s palfrey caught the stride of the others.

I sprang back, spattered with mud. The whole had been done so quickly

Abbess Theckla could have known nothing. And so in one afternoon,

almost in one hour, I had words with two women who were making or

marring my life. I stood marvelling at my strange fortune, and still

more at the strange manner of our meeting--so different, so utterly

different.

On turning in at the house of the Knights of St. John I told myself

it would be very easy later to ascertain the lodging place of so

important a personage as the Abbess of Quedlinburg, but for the

moment I had enough else to busy me. Poor Dr. Luther was still

beset by a host of well intentioned friends thrusting upon him all

manner of bad advice. There could be no doubt that the Emperor had

formed an unfriendly opinion of him and that more than half of Worms

expected him to retract at least the more extreme of his writings.

“If you will merely recall two or three of the pamphlets,” I remember

a Saxon councillor urging patronizingly, “say the ‘Babylonish

Captivity’ and that violent last ‘Letter to the Pope,’ why it’s quite

possible there will be very little urged against the others.”

And I, knowing Dr. Luther, could see the quiet twinkle in his eyes,

serious, yet not unmerry as he took all these friendly words in

silence. At last he looked around, and on his face was the old smile

so familiar in Wittenberg.

“Ach! dear Christian friends. There is a good verse of Scripture,

spoken I think for such poor wights as I, in cases like these ‘When

they bring you unto the magistrates and powers, take ye no thought

how or what thing ye shall answer, or what ye shall say, for the Holy

Ghost shall teach you in the same hour what ye ought to say.’”

“But reverend Doctor,” cried Von Thun, “it cannot be you are without

a well considered course of action?”

“Noble Privy Councillor,” answered my master, “Years ago when I lay

very sick at Erfurt, when I was only a young student, and I was in

great fear of death, there came to me an old priest, pious and good,

who spoke, saying, ‘Take courage. You shall not now die, our God

will yet make you an instrument for the comforting of many.’ And by

God’s mercy, that prophesy has not proved vain. Nor do I think,”

and his voice rose a little, “I have yet reached the end of that

service appointed unto me. When I stand before Cæsar, I shall, heaven

willing, say that which will make no friend of mine ashamed.”

Nothing more could any man get out of him. Seeing that he was surely

weary, Amsdorf and I at length sent the busybodies away. I stationed

Gunter, Adolf, and Andrea, well armed, around Dr. Luther’s chamber,

and myself lay down in the next room with a ready sword and pistols.

Nothing, however, disturbed us that night. Fatigued myself with all

the strange sights and vicissitudes, I slept soundly, interrupted

only by the rumbling of the city cart that coursed the streets after

midnight, to carry home the topers left sprawling in the gutters

after a riotous evening.

CHAPTER XXVIII

BEHOLD, HE PRAYETH

On the afternoon of the 17th of April, Luther was conducted before

the Diet to answer to the charges of heresy. The morning was passed

by my master very calmly, reading, writing, and actually going from

his lodgings to visit, console, and administer the sacrament to a

sick Saxon knight. It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the

peasant-born friar, who had set knights, bishops, electors by the

ears, with cardinals, Pope, and Emperor to boot, was conducted before

the assembled estates of the Holy Roman Empire. But of this first

assembly, and all who were there and what passed, I omit the details,

seeing that this audience before the Diet was but the prelude to the

real ordeal.

Of all the friends and foes who looked so curiously on him that

day, I think all but a few were sorely amazed at his conduct. “He

will recant,” or “He will stand firm,”--one saying or the other had

been on every tongue. But I, and one or two more, who had communed

with him often, were not so surprised. Well did we understand how

Martin Luther looked upon this audience as the crisis of his life,

and, trusting none the less in heaven, was not the least resolved to

blunder through lack of temporal circumspection and worldly wisdom.

So when the “Official General,” who conducted the interrogations

for the Emperor, having put the preliminary questions, asked if he

would repudiate or withdraw his books alleged heretical, and when all

ears were bent for a sturdy “yea” or “nay,” on the contrary, Luther

in mild voice answered that the matter was one of great moment

and touched upon “the salvation of souls.” If he spoke without due

consideration he might be over-bold, run into sore peril, and incur

God’s wrath; therefore he entreated time for deliberation, “that he

might answer the interrogation without injury to the Divine Word, or

peril to his own soul.”

There was a buzz among the princes, a whispering betwixt the Emperor

and Aleander, the lowering Papal legate. With some asperity the

Imperial spokesman made answer that Luther surely knew wherefore he

had been summoned and what might be asked of him; nevertheless, that

he might have fair play, four-and-twenty hours were given him. Then

he must be ready with his answer.

After that came adjournment and more whisperings, and I knew that

Luther had neither lost a friend nor conciliated an enemy. Almost as

I was passing out I heard the rumor that Charles had said “This man

will never make a heretic of me.” But the multitude were otherwise

minded. A great cheering throng followed us back to our lodgings,

there were _vivats_ and _bravoes_, and once a shrill woman’s voice,

“Blessed is the womb that bare thee!” Best of all, soon after our

coming to the house of the Knights, the cortège of no less a person

than the mighty Landgraf von Hessen himself halted before it, and

youthful Prince Philip dismounted to wring my master’s hand, and to

say in parting, “Dear Doctor, if you are in the right, so may the

Lord God help you.”

Then the darkness sent the crowds away, and even the officious Saxon

councillors had the grace to refrain from thrusting in their presence.

“Well,” complained one busy body, “your Wittenberg friar may be a

mighty theologian, and well able to refute a whole Church Council,

but has he no pity on us all? Must Diet and Emperor twirl their

thumbs with curiosity whilst he makes up his mind?”

“Be graciously patient, noble Geheimrat,” spoke I, bowing him toward

the door; “you will be amply satisfied on the morrow.”

“Heaven grant it,” he fumed, going out, and I turned back into the

room where, very characteristically, my master was bent over the

broad table, a candle at either elbow. He wrote rapidly, but soon

threw down the sheet so that Amsdorf and myself could read the broad,

sprawling hand. It was a letter to Guspianus, a literary friend in

Vienna, in which he told briefly the events of the day, and then

clearly written at the end stood out these words, “_But I shall not

withdraw a single jot, Christ helping me_!”

Amsdorf and I handed back the paper, having perused in silence.

“Ei! my friends,” cried Luther, leaning back in his chair, and

stretching his great broad arms above his head, “have you nothing to

say, no warnings, no prudence, like all these other good folk?”

Amsdorf looked at me, and seeing I was tongue-tied, answered:--

“Dear Doctor, we have long since committed you into God’s keeping.

Wisdom and words we have not of our own.”

Luther arose, and without speaking a syllable, embraced us both

silently,--the hearty warm embrace of an elder brother. His face

twitched a little. We knew that his hour was come. Silently we

returned the clasp and took our leave, realizing that for him

solitude was now the truest refreshment. As I passed out I could

see his dark figure outlined against the candle-light, and already

unconscious of our hearing he was repeating the words of Ezekiel of

old.

“Behold I the Lord have made thy face strong against their faces, and

thy forehead strong against their foreheads; as an adamant harder

than flint, have I made thy forehead. Fear them not, neither be

dismayed.”

“Amsdorf,” spoke I, my own heart welling over, “though we live a

thousand years we shall not hear or see things greater than shall

come to pass to-morrow.”

“Can you sleep to-night?” he asked.

“Impossible,” I returned, and we sat down together in our own

chamber, and tried desperately to while away the hours by a game of

chess. Once or twice I listened at Dr. Luther’s door. Once I heard

him repeating the Scripture, once I heard the notes of his lute

touched softly, to some gentle wailing lay of his Saxon hills, and I

knew that he was trying, as so often, “to rout the devil” with music.

The clock struck midnight when our game was disturbed by a gentle

knock at our door.

“May I enter, Eccellenza?” Andrea was asking, and glided in before I

could answer “yes.”

He had his stiletto drawn, and his eyes were gleaming like jet beads.

Instantly I sprang to my feet, whipping out my own rapier.

“Danger?” I demanded.

“Si, Signore. Great danger to Messere Luther. Heretic he may be, I do

not know,” he crossed himself, “but he is your friend. That is enough

for Andrea. The Conte has seen Ettore Orosi?”

“A thousand fiends, yes!”

“Then believe me, Ettore Orosi and four others like him, an Italian,

with three Germans,--greasy oafs,--are to be under Dottore Luther’s

window ere many minutes. And then--prut!”

“Fellow, fellow,” cried I, “how did you know this? It is impossible

that the Pope’s legates should stoop to such a deed even against a

heretic. The Emperor’s wrath would be terrible.”

“His Holiness’s legates? oh, no, Signore! Their pious hands will be

very clean. Ettore Orosi and his band do this independently, from

pure love of Holy Church. Perhaps there may be temporal rewards for

their zeal; but these will be later. Yet believe me, it has not

been for nothing Andrea has been hanging around the palace kitchens

all the evening, and making himself friendly to the comely scullery

maids.”

“We must summon help,” spoke Amsdorf with a hand upon my arm.

“Help?” I replied, “with Gunter and Adolf within reach, with Andrea

here, and you and I hale and strong? Not so. If Ettore Orosi desires

a swift road to hell, we are well able to give him the post-horses.”

“At least, let me caution Dr. Luther,” and he started for the inner

door, but I detained him.

“Dr. Luther has battles enough to fight to-night, without this one.

We will fight it for him. Come.”

Already the indefatigable Andrea had roused my two watch dogs. Adolf

and Gunter came in, cursing softly, but with their weapons, and we

held a hasty council-of-war. The information which Andrea had wormed

out of an over-talkative serving-maid gave no clear notion of the

nature of the attack, but we could guess its method. To penetrate to

the apartments of Dr. Luther from the side of the house fronting upon

the street would necessitate forcing several well-barred doors, and

was to the last degree impossible. But on the other side his windows

opened upon a small garden surrounded by a wall readily scaled by

active men, and behind this wall ran a dark narrow alley giving the

easiest imaginable access.

Our deliberations were brief and effective. Leaving my second valet

and Adolf’s nephew, a tall, burly Regensteiner, to guard the inner

house, the rest of us took our way quietly by a back passage to the

little garden where a few bushes in the corner made a sufficient

covert against the wall. We were armed; even the pacific Amsdorf, who

was no feeble man physically, had accepted a sabre and pistol. I was

similarly accoutered, but Andrea insisted that I pull on my ring mail

of proof, a splendid piece of Florentine armorer’s craft, that made

me almost as impregnable as Achilles. Andrea himself had only his

long stiletto, but I knew he could use that to greater effect than

a Moor his scimitar. As for Gunter and Adolf, in addition to their

ponderous swords, they tugged along arquebuses crammed with enough

bullets to mow down a small army. In silence we took our stations;

they whispered briefly as to our respective parts in the impending

drama. Nothing was left but the most trying part of the ordeal,

silence.

It was a weird enough and uncanny situation, after the glow of

excitement began to wane, as I squatted in silence with my fellows on

the damp chill earth, peering into the dark, and straining my ears

for those first sounds which would betoken the assassins. The night

was not absolutely black. Heavy banks of clouds moved across the

moon, which occasionally peered out with a yellow half-orb, and sent

a flying gleam of light across the garden wall. Again the shadows

would become so black as to be almost impenetrable. The wind had

shifted to the north and sang down the Rhine valley damp and chill,

making me glad I had drawn an extra doublet over my ring shirt;

and even then betwixt mingled cold and excitement I found my teeth

a-chatter. Tall and dark above us loomed the lofty roofs and the dim

outlines of the sombre chimneys. Once or twice I heard a clattering

of the storks far up upon the eaves. We waited in cold, impatience,

and discomfort, a time that seemed interminable. Presently the

minster clock boomed “one,” and I heard the city watchman go

clattering down the street with his staff and lantern, chanting his

“Cover your fires and bar your doors,” as if any honest man would

be awake at that hour to hear him. Other life there seemed nowhere,

save in Dr. Luther’s apartment, where a rushlight and candles still

burned, and where once or twice across the open lattice I saw his

figure pass.

I was beginning to misdoubt the whole business, and to tell myself

that it was folly to imagine that even Italians would be mad enough

to outrage the German nation by trying to murder its hero on the eve

of his crisis day. I was edging over to Andrea to seek again for

his story, and to pin him down to some proof that we were waiting

for anything more perilous than a fine ague, when Adolf--whose wise

old ears were like a lynx’s--gave a low “hist!” Instantly I _knew_,

rather than heard, that some one was moving down the alley behind

us. We clinched our weapons, while I felt--thanks to my quickened

heart beats--that every sense of cold had vanished. We heard feet

approaching stealthily, I soon judged of a party of about five men.

The strangers were conversing in whispers, but it was long ere we

caught a word. Right past us, with only the thin brick garden wall

between, they went quietly as cats, but quite audibly. They actually

passed beyond the house of the Knights, and I was thinking they were

not our expected guests, when a warning word from one of the party

halted the rest.

“Turn around,” commanded a muffled voice, “you have gone beyond the

house.”

“You are sure it is this one?” asked another, in accents betraying a

very poor command of German.

“Quite sure. I went down the alley three times to-day. I remember

the chimneys. Dr. Luther’s chambers are on the first floor, directly

against the garden.”

“_Buono!_ Signore,” spoke the non-German again, and I surely

recognized Orosi, “then it is over the wall and into the house. Ecco!

I will display to you the deed of a real virtuoso, of a true son of

Italy. Your clumsy Tedesci shall behold and admire!”

“We will admire you on the gallows, you long-tongued magpie,” growled

the other, “if you do not keep a quieter tongue, or I, Hans Lange,

am no prophet. I am well paid for this task, or I would drop it even

now. Quick now! _Frisch!_ Up and over; but silent as tombstones.

There’s no time for mumbling.”

Adolf and Gunter had silently set the wheel-locks of their

arquebuses, and now levelled at the crest of the wall, clearly

visible, to take the first cutthroat as he should appear, but I

knocked up their barrels.

“Let them in,” I muttered; “all are then at our mercy.”

In an instant a tall figure stood on the narrow parapet, then sprang

boldly inside, landing on the slippery earth and sending the clods in

our faces. A second, a third, a fourth, a fifth followed. The last

two I knew clearly enough, by the flutter of their garments, were

Italians, but the first three were Germans, Swabian lanz-knechts who

would pawn their souls cheerfully for a little drink money. There

they stood, those five men of blood, each doubtless with more sins

than they had hairs. Before them, clearly in view, was the open

lattice of Dr. Luther, the sill so low as to be easily scaled by a

vigorous man; not fifteen feet away in the shadow of the wall stood

we. Adolf and Gunter had covered the gang with their arquebuses,

Amsdorf and I raised our pistols. All waited to follow my fire.

Surely if ever heaven delivered Amalek into the hands of Israel,

these five wild spirits were delivered into mine. And yet, though I

knew God and man would justify me in instant execution, I hesitated.

It was too much like slaying in cold blood. These creatures deserved

the law of the chase as little as kites or wolves, but to mow them

down before they had so much as regained their wind seemed an

unknightly thing.

Lange, the tallest, burliest, and evidently the conductor of the

gang, forgot his own prudence and swore a round oath over the

slipperiness of the ground. Then I saw him stretch out an arm.

“Here is the window,” he announced; “see, the Reverend Doctor is

still at his studies. We shall not need to awaken him.”

“No,” retorted Orosi, and I could imagine his grimace, “we are kind

physicians, the noble heretic suffers from wakefulness, we will make

him sleep, a fine draught, see!” And I caught the faint glint of a

dagger.

“Curses on us,” growled one German, “for not bringing firearms. A

shot through the window.”

“Would arouse the town, and get us torn in pieces. No, he was right.

Cold steel is the best.” (Whom “he” was, I could never discover;

possibly Forli, possibly some less ecclesiastical instigator.)

“Well, lads,” adjured Lange, softly, “swift and sure is our game. You

have the cloak to cast over his head ere he can scream, then one good

blow quells him.”

They moved together towards the window. Aiming as we were, no earthly

power seemed able to save that band the moment the finger of the

first touched the sill. But suddenly they halted, and instinctively

our levelled tubes sank. Clearly outlined in the window we saw Dr.

Luther.

For an instant I was disconcerted. We dared not fire from our present

positions lest we strike our beloved friend. I was in mortal fear

lest they spring in and stab him ere we could fly to the rescue.

I was about to drop my pistol, draw my rapier, and charge to the

attack, when Dr. Luther’s deep voice sounded out over that silent

garden. Stranger words those cutthroats never had heard, I swear.

In the candle-light we could see Dr. Luther’s face upturned, his

hands clasped and upraised.

“O God! God! God!” he spoke, and a quiver went through the murderous

five.

“He’s muttering spells,” I caught from one lanz-knecht. “He’s

devoting us all to perdition.”

“Don’t be a fool, Rudbert,” urged Lange, in a dangerously loud

whisper. “We’ll have him the easier now.”

“Wait! Bad luck to strike while a man’s praying. Wait!”

In a flash of moonlight, I could see Orosi cross himself nervously.

The whole band stirred. Had Dr. Luther’s thoughts been on anything

mundane, he would have easily discovered them gazing up at him blank

and spellbound.

“O God! God! God!” repeated Dr. Luther, still at the window, and we

all, attackers and defenders, stood silently gazing at him, as do

men in a catalepsy. Then at last his struggling emotions found their

shape. He began to pray aloud, unconscious of everything around.

“Almighty and Eternal God, how is it there is but one thing to be

seen upon earth! How the people open wide their mouths! How mean and

insignificant is their trust in God! How tender and weak the flesh,

and how mighty and active the devil, working through his apostles,

and those wise in the world! How the world draws back the hand and

snarls, as it runs the common course, the broad way down to hell!

It regards only what is pretentious, powerful, great and mighty. If

I should turn my eyes in that direction, it would be all over with

me, the clock would strike the hour, and sentence would be passed. O

God! O God! O God! Do Thou my God stand by me against all the world’s

wisdom and reason.”

“Holy Mother help us,” I heard one lanz-knecht muttering, “you have

brought us here to murder a saint. We are damned!”

“A wizard,” spoke Orosi, but I knew he had sheathed his dagger. Still

sounded the voice of Luther.

“O my God do it! Thou must do it! Yea, Thou alone must do it! Not

mine but Thine is the Cause. For my own self, I can do nothing

against these great earthly lords. Peaceful days I would have chosen,

and days afar from this sore strife. But Thine, O Lord, is this

cause: righteous it is and eternal. Stand by me, then, Thou true and

everlasting God! For in no man do I put my trust.” (By this time

the five cutthroats had slunk back to the wall, and would have gone

farther, save that they lacked strength and courage to scale it.

Luther prayed on.) “All that is of the flesh and that savors of flesh

is here of no account. God, O God, dost Thou not hear me? Art Thou

verily dead? No. Thou canst not die, Thou art only hiding Thyself.

Hast Thou chosen me for this work? I ask Thee how I may be sure of

this, if it be Thy will, for I would never have thought in all my

life of undertaking aught against such mighty lords.”

“Hence! Hence or we are damned forever!” The command came very

audibly from Hans Lange. “There is not money enough in all Germany to

make me do this devil’s work.” With one bound he cleared the wall,

and vanished.

“O you Tedesci cowards,” snarled Orosi, “scared as old women!” but

he was the second to leap. The others followed like a herd of goats.

As for ourselves, we stood transfixed. It was beyond my power to

break that spell, to nip the villains even as they were escaping

from our hands. Dr. Luther’s voice rang out again, swelling with an

indescribable emotion.

“Stand by me, O God, in the name of Thy dear Son, Jesus Christ, who

shall be my defence and strength, yea my mighty fortress, through the

might and strength of the Holy Ghost. Lord, where abidest Thou? Thou

art my God: where art Thou? Come! come! I am ready to lay down my

life patiently as a lamb. For the Cause is right and it is Thine, so

I shall never be separated from Thee. Let all be done in Thy name!

The world must leave my conscience unconstrained; and, although it

should be full of devils, and my body, Thy creation, be rent into

fragments, yet are Thy Word and Spirit good unto me. All this can

befall only the body. The soul is Thine and belongs to Thee, and

shall abide with Thee eternally. Amen. God help me. Amen.” [12]

Silence at last. Victorious in his wrestlings, comforted it seemed

in his spirit, Dr. Luther’s form vanished from the window. The alley

behind us was absolutely still. The five cutthroats had fled, routed

by a mightier power than our steel and gunpowder, nor did they ever

know how justly they had feared damnation as the price of lingering.

After a while I let Adolf search the alley. It was empty. Lange,

Orosi, and their confederates had not waited. There was nothing more

to fear that night.

I kept one of my retainers on watch in the garden until dawn, but

his presence was useless. Amsdorf and I returned to our chambers.

Dr Luther’s light was still burning, but we heard nothing from him

and did not disturb his meditations. With my mail shirt still about

me and my weapons beside me I cast myself upon a hard oaken bench

and caught a few hours sleep. In a troubled dream I thought myself a

crusader toiling over the sand deserts of Palestine, a scanty company

behind me, a clamorous host of the Infidel before. My lance was in

rest. I was riding to the charge wholly conscious that in one brief

moment of the delirium of battle my life would be snuffed out. Yet I

was glad, rapturously glad. My blood was tingling, my senses alert.

From my lance whipped the Regenstein banner. To my lips came the name

of my lady, whose gage I would bear worthily to this last battle.

“Ilsa!” I cried; “for God, the Cause, and Ilsa!”

My own voice awoke me. The sun was streaming in at the diamond-paned

windows. In the streets the noisy folk were passing. I rose and

pressed my head.

“The day!” I repeated aloud. “O holy Heaven, I thank Thee I am

permitted to live through this day.”

FOOTNOTES:

[12] The verbal accuracy of the prayer here quoted is vouched for by

first-class tradition.--EDITOR.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE WITNESS BEFORE CÆSAR

It was April 18, 1521 A.D., the day looked forward to by millions

throughout broad Germany. Would the friar, the peasant’s son, recant

before the princes, bishops, and Emperor, or would he stand fast?

Worms was divided into two hostile camps. Men almost came to blows on

the street corners. “He will retract.” “He will not.” I found even

the horseboys arguing it, when I made a chance visit to our stables.

We had not deemed it necessary to inform Dr. Luther of our

little adventure in the night time, but I communicated enough to

Deutschland, the imperial herald, so that he caused two or three

reliable men-at-arms to be stationed around the house of the Knights

to scrutinize all visitors, and I knew well enough that Emperor

Charles, little as he might love heretics, would fight against

them as became a lion and not a snake, and would visit condign

punishment on any would-be assassins. If Luther had wished any time

for deliberation it was well he spent the night at his vigils; he

had small peace all that day. His apartments literally swarmed with

well-meaning friends. Bucer had ridden over from the Ebernberg

with more letters and promises of military succour from Franz von

Sickengen. Saxon noblemen flocked to see Luther all the morning

long, greeting him with bluff heartiness and proffering much homely

cheer. “Herr Doctor,” ran their honest talk, “how are you? People

say you are going to be burned. That will never do. That would ruin

everything.” And my master, with untroubled brow and a fresh and

steady voice (as if he had had a peaceful sleep), answered them in

kind; never downcast, never boastful, but wholly cheerful, until, as

one visitor said to me when leaving, “You would think he was going

to a hair-splitting debate of harmless theologians to-day, and not

before the Estates and Emperor.” Only Amsdorf and I, who had heard

that prayer flung out into the garden, knew _whence_ came the noble

equanimity which set all the rest marvelling.

Out in the streets of the city the folk were elbowing and jostling

by thousands, and the tall houses had every window lined, man and

maid waiting, elbowing, craning to see “Him,” as he went to his great

ordeal. As for Amsdorf and myself, with a great effort we gained

Dr. Luther enough peace for us to sit down beside him, spread the

cloth, and force upon him the leg of a capon and a few tarts, that

he might not go before the Diet absolutely faint and fasting. We had

expected him to be summoned shortly after noon, but it was after four

o’clock when Ulrich von Pappenheim, hereditary marshal of the Empire,

and a file of twenty Swiss halberdiers in gorgeous scarlet surcoats,

came to escort the distinguished friar before his judges. Dr. Luther

needed no tarrying. Drawing his well-worn black habit about him,

casting upon the table the papers he had been conning, he arose to

go. I could see his lips were a little pale; possibly his steps were

short and nervous, otherwise he was perfectly natural. Amsdorf and I

each gave him a hand, and he returned the grasp warmly. We had long

since passed the time when many words were needed. The halberdiers

closed around him as if he were a prisoner. We followed at their

heels, and so out into the street.

But despite the imperial banner boldly fluttered before us by

Deutschland, despite sundry injunctions by the men-at-arms, and even

thrustings with their pike staves, so dense was the multitude that

we won a tardy progress; until at last Pappenheim, loath to keep the

Diet waiting, flung dignity to the winds, and turning us down a side

alley brought us by back ways to the privy gate in the garden wall of

the bishop’s palace, and so at last into the vast rambling structure

itself, and to the hall of audience.

Even within the palace every doorway, corridor, and overlooking

gallery was packed. Spaniards, Italians, French, Flemings, all were

there to stare at “_le grand heretique_,” as many whispered in our

hearing, though once or twice I caught a friendly word cast in some

tongue quite other than German. I saw not a few serving-men in the

livery of the Forlis, and once I believed I caught the serpent-like

eyes of Orosi peering out of a dark passageway, though of this I

could not be certain. Onward we went, until our way was blocked by

the guarded doors of the hall of the Diet; and while Pappenheim

went before to announce our coming, and we stood waiting in tense

expectancy, something occurred which heartened me at least not a

little. For, from his post as guards-captain at the entrance, came

Georg von Frundsberg, hardest-handed and most famous of the Kaiser’s

Lanzknecht generals, a man of more battles than he had surviving

hairs, and he smote his great fist on Dr. Luther’s shoulder, then

spoke with the voice of a bull.

“Little monk, little monk, now go your way, to take a stand which

neither I, nor any other commander in our sharpest battles, have

taken; yet if you be of good intent, and certain of your business, go

on in God’s name and be comforted. Never will God forsake you!”

Ere my master could answer him, Pappenheim was whispering “Enter.” We

passed inside before the Diet.

* * * * *

Begging friar and peasant’s son, no doubt, but judged by what a

court! The room used for Luther’s first hearing had proved too

small; the largest hall in the palace had been taken. Even this

was packed to the great impairment of imperial dignity. From high

windows the light of the afternoon sun was streaming in long golden

panels over an august array of ducal caps and electoral “hats of

presence.” At one end of the hall, upon a purple-covered dais, and

under a like colored canopy, sat a young man with pale and somewhat

vacant countenance, clothed all in black save for a wide collar of

white lace, while on his head perched a wide black hat. This was

Charles V, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, King of Spain and of

Naples, Archduke of Austria, Prince of the Netherlands, Dominator

of the golden Indies of the Western Seas,--the greatest monarch

since Charlemagne. At his left side, on a lower chair, was Prince

Ferdinand, his brother, destined soon to share in many of his

thrones. On his right side was a vacant seat, reserved for either one

of the Monsignori, the two Papal Legates; but they both were absent,

utterly outraged at the mere thought of seeming to parley with a

convicted heretic. To right and to left, on close-set benches, the

greater princes to the front, were the Electors, Landgrafs, and Dukes

of the Empire, by the score; and among them sprinkled the lordly

mitres of the prince-bishops whose temporal power made them mighty

potentates.

As I ran my eye over the array one and another familiar face flashed

before me: here was the handsome, sensual countenance of Albert of

Mainz, the first patron of Tetzel; here was the hard and cynical face

of his kinsman Joachim of Brandenburg, most venal and profligate

of all the Electors; and on the rear benches was many a prince

temporal or prince spiritual whom I knew wished Luther every ill.

But I saw not enemies only. From the lords of Brunswick, Pomerania,

Mecklenburg, Hesse, Lüneburg, there came friendly smiles; and on

the Electors’ bench, closest to the dais, sat the man whose rugged

bearded countenance lit up as my master entered--Frederick the Wise

of Saxony, the prince of the pure heart, who had been Luther’s best

friend, despite the fact that these days in Worms were the only times

he saw him.

Time would fail me to tell of the throng behind these princes. Counts

and Freiherrs were there, and all the deputies of the imperial

cities, all manner of captains, canons, doctors, and consequential

burghers, ambassadors of France, England, Venice, noble foreigners

and ignoble interlopers. It was hard for the Imperial ushers to keep

a decent space cleared around the very throne of majesty. Glancing

upward as I entered, I saw a lattice-work above the hall, and behind

it were moving the garments, and at times flashing the eyes of women.

Could I distinguish the face of Marianna? or the sombre robes of a

nun? Conjectures were vain at that moment. Amsdorf and I stood with

the other late comers near the doorway. The halberdiers opened their

ranks, Pappenheim went forward, and following him moved the friar of

Wittenberg--alone.

Standing on the first step of the dais, and facing the defendant,

was a man of imposing presence, clad in black, Johann von Eck,[13]

the “Official” of the Bishop of Worms and appointed as imperial

interrogator in the hearings. Hardly had the first whisper and rustle

caused by our coming passed, hardly had Luther ended his dutiful

reverence before the throne, when I saw the pale young Kaiser nod

to his spokesman. Silent enough was that hall when Eck began his

questioning. Speaking first in Latin for the learned, then in German

for the less lettered, he recapitulated what had befallen at the

former audience: how Dr. Luther had been given ample time now for a

final answer touching the charges against him. Every Christian should

give a reason for his faith, much more a learned theologian like

Luther; and now was the time for “the Herr Doctor to answer plainly

whether he stood by the contents of his books, or whether he was

ready to recant them.”

You could have heard a hair fall in that assembly when Luther began

his reply. Well though I knew him, I marvelled at his calmness.

He answered as deliberately as when he spoke to his students in

Wittenberg. His voice was clear, not shrill, and through it rang

strength and sweetness. He looked from Emperor upon princes; from

princes upon Emperor, as upon his peers, yet bravado was not in him.

Ere he had spoken three sentences I said in my heart, and hundreds

said with me, “It is well. God is with him. He will triumph.”

A second time he bowed to the Emperor, then likewise to the closely

packed Estates.

“Gracious Lord Emperor, and most serene Electors and Princes,” I give

his words as I recall them, “I crave your mercy if by my uncourtly

speech I do offend. For I am peasant-born and peasant-bred, and

untaught to stand before those whom God has set over the nations.

Nevertheless, since this is a matter of conscience, and touches even

the salvation of many souls, I will make bold to speak before you,

and I know that in your benignity you will pardon my rude tongue.”

So far the peasant’s son to the Emperor, then he fixed his eyes right

steadily on the Official.

“Worshipful Magister von Eck, you have asked me touching my books,

and now I will make answer. In my day I have written many books (with

a gesture to the volumes piled on a table below the dais), and much

do they differ in kind. For the first kind, they are books of pure

edification, nor has the bitterest foe found aught in them amiss.

How therefore dare I condemn the good words which they contain by

retracting them?”

(“A skilful retreat,” I heard a prince-bishop whisper; “he will save

a part of his writings by sacrificing the rest.”)

“Touching a second part, in them I have attacked that tyranny of

the Pope beneath which all Germany groans. And what man not blinded

by gold or the devil can deny that the whole land is most miserably

ensnared and vexed by these doctrines of the Papalists, to the

casting away of many souls. If therefore I should revoke these books,

would I not but add force to the former tyranny, yea, open not merely

the doors but the windows to destroying sin. In that case--holy God!

what a cover to wickedness would I not become! How may I recant them?”

“This sounds little like retreating,” a magnate under a ducal cap

whispered back to the bishop, but Emperor, prince, and prelate, all

kept silence while on spoke Luther.

“Finally, noble Sovereign and princes, I come to the third order of

my books. In these I have assailed divers persons who have sprung to

the defence of the Papal tyranny. Here I deny not I have perchance

shown frailty. Doubtless I have sometimes written over-harshly of

certain persons. A God I am not, but only a man, and prone to err,

through lack of charity, ill becoming the name of Christ, which I

do bear. Nevertheless I cannot retract even these books, lest in

recalling the harsh words against the Papalists I seem to soften my

attacks upon the tyranny and impiety itself, and thereby work greater

harm than that which I would fain undo.”

“He will not retract! The fiend curse him!” burst between the teeth

of the aforementioned bishop, but I could see his ducal companion

smiling broadly. The scene was desperately tense.

“Inasmuch, my Lord Emperor,” the friar’s voice still sounded, “as I

am charged with direful heresies, my books burned in many cities,

even my poor body threatened with the flames, I do remember in this

hour the word of my Master, even Christ, when the Jews haled him

before Annas, accusing him falsely of many crimes, ‘If I have spoken

evil, bear witness of the evil.’ For I am here not in my own pride,

but in the name of God and His Gospel; and I do assure your Majesty

and you noble lords that the moment I am proved to have written or

said aught against the Holy Scriptures, in that same moment I am the

first to cast my books upon the fire.”

“Blasphemer,” snarled the bishop. “Has not Rome spoken already

against him? Wherefore does he prate thus of ‘the Gospel’?”

“Because, Reverend Father,” spoke back the Duke, “a few of us sinners

are impiously preferring the Word of God to the word of Leo.”

The hall was filled with murmurs now, even from the princes’ benches.

The keepers at the door pounded for silence with their pikestaves.

Luther paused momentarily as they brought in tall red torches and set

them in the sockets around the high chamber. Presently the Emperor

nodded; and friar resumed.

“In days of old, and even in these present, it has been manifested

that the word of God would most assuredly prevail, as I am well

able to testify out of the Scripture; witness Pharaoh, the King of

Babylon, and Kings of Israel who were smitten down in the plenitude

of their power when they strove against the mandate of God. For it

is He who taketh the wise in their own craftiness and overturneth

even the mountains. Therefore it behooveth me to fear God. And this

I say, not because my admonition is needful to such noble lords, but

because the duty I owe to _my Germany_ (ah! the ring of those words!)

will not suffer me to recant. With this I do commend myself to your

Majesty and to your Lordships, humbly asking that you will not suffer

my accusers to triumph over me without fair cause. I have spoken.”

By this time I think that every man within that close-packed hall

was in one of two camps--those who believed they gazed on a fiend,

and those who believed they gazed on an angel. The black figure

on the dais stirred nervously. The Electors were leaning forward,

twisting their beards or knitting their fingers. It had grown dark

suddenly, and the torches sent an unsteady glare over us all. The

room was oppressively hot. Unpent emotions were venting themselves in

smothered oaths or praises. Was the Diet confronting Anti-Christ or a

new Apostle? Hardly a man but was ready with his certain answer, and

ready to defend it even to the shedding of blood.

Von Eck stood by the dais in silence, evidently at a loss for a

moment how to proceed. Then in a somewhat unsteady voice he directed

Dr. Luther to repeat the substance of his words in German, for the

sake of those who could not follow his Latin. This relieved the

tense situation for a little. But I could see my master’s forehead

bathed with perspiration. He stood steadfast, his voice was as calmly

strong as ever, but his face shone very wan under the hot torchlight.

Willing indeed was his spirit, but the flesh was weak. For a moment

fearing lest he was close to fainting, and himself sorely excited,

the Saxon Councillor Von Thun cast etiquette to the winds, and called

loudly across the press, “If you cannot go on, you have done enough,

Herr Doctor.”

But enough had not been done, either for foe or friend, and Luther

knew it. Completing his repetition in German, at the mandate of the

firmest will in the world his form seemed to straighten. Once more he

confronted the Official, and Von Eck, mindful of his part, returned

to the charge.

“You make many words, Herr Doctor, but your answers are not complete.

Likewise you do grievously abuse the high clemency of his Majesty and

the noble Estates in adding to your evil deeds these attacks upon the

Lord Pope and his defenders. You are here to defend your books and

teachings, not to defame others. Again in your arguments you advance

nothing new. Long debate there might be if any of your heresies were

novel, but such they are not. Long since like heresies have been

uttered by the ‘Poor Men of Lyons,’ by Wyclif of England, by John Hus

of Bohemia. Nor need I tell you that these heresies were condemned

at the great and ecumenical Council of Constance with the consent of

entire Germany. How then do you set your judgment, confessedly prone

to err, against the wisdom of that most holy Council?”

“Worshipful Magister von Eck,” retorted Luther, with the least tinge

of scorn in his voice, “I must answer you now as I have answered at

Leipzig. General Councils can err. The Council of Constance erred. My

conscience forbids me to retract.”

None who knew Luther marvelled at these words, but this clear

assertion of personal judgment over the authority of a universal

Council, a Council to which most good Catholics ascribed a power even

above a Pope’s, this, I say, set many a prince and prelate writhing

in his seat. Some even rose and cried out. There were mingled cheers

and hisses. The great prelates were gnashing with their teeth, as the

Jews over Stephen. Great beads of sweat stood on the friar’s brow,

but he held his ground, and faced unflinchingly the lowering Official

and the frowning Emperor.

“Holy God, Martin,” cried Von Eck, driven from his composure by

the calm audacity of the reply, “do you assert that Councils can

err,--can teach veritable heresy?”

“Even so,” the answer was less yielding than ever; “not once but many

times. I can prove it.”

“Prove it? Impossible!”

“In nowise. I can quote many passages of Scripture. My conscience

will not suffer me to go against them.”

Von Eck smote his hands together in rising anger.

“Martin,” he admonished, “let your conscience alone. Recant your

errors, and you will be safe and sound. Never can you prove that

Councils have erred.”

My master shook his head in silent negative. The hall, unsupportably

hot, was becoming noisy. High dignitaries were casting at Luther now

encouragements, now execrations. The Emperor stirred uneasily, as if

fain to bring the stormy audience to termination. For the last time

the Official faced his stubborn witness. His voice was sharp with

menace.

“Hearken then and make an end. His Imperial Majesty grows weary of

your stubbornness. The question set has been plain. Yes? or no? Omit

the classifications of your books, and the matter of Councils. The

Emperor demands a clear answer without horns. Will you or will you

not recant?”

Instantly the tumult was quieted. The great hall was absolutely

still. Every man looked on Luther with bated breath, while he very

deliberately squared himself before Von Eck. Then down the chamber

bore his voice, not shrill, not shouting, simply deep with the depths

of the mighty spirit within.

“Well, then, since your Serene Majesty and your Lordships ask for

a plain answer, I will give it without horns or teeth, and here it

is: Unless I am convinced by Scripture or by plain reason, seeing

that Popes and Councils have often erred and contradicted, I cannot

recant. I neither will nor can recant anything, because it is neither

safe nor right to act against one’s conscience. For my conscience is

caught in the Word of God.” Then he threw his arms wide, like some

warrior grappling the innumerable foe. “HERE I STAND. I CAN DO NO

OTHER. GOD HELP ME. AMEN!”

A great cry, hostile, friendly, broke from hundreds of throats. The

Emperor rose from his seat, and vanished by a rear entrance without

a word, while around Luther swirled a multitude that almost bore him

from his feet.

I elbowed my way to my master. Many friends were there before me,

for a score of high nobles and deputies of the towns had ringed him

around. They were pressing his hand, stamping, laughing, shouting,

even trying to kiss him. Good Elector Frederick did not tarry, but

as I passed him I heard him saying to the Duke of Pomerania, “Ah!

how well Dr. Luther spoke this day. Never now will I believe him a

heretic.”

At last the whole mass of us had my master out the door. As we

went, we saw the Italian and Spanish soldiers and prelates crowding

around, moving their dark lips, flashing malignity from their eyes,

and crying in their own tongues, “To the fire! To the fire! Burn

the heretic!” But the German nobles closed about him as a guard of

honor, and their swords flashed out and tossed wildly in the darkened

streets. Just as we reached the portal, and the cold air smote

us, Luther threw his hands high above his head, as would a ritter

returning victorious from the lists.

“I am through!” he cried, with feverish laughter, “I am through! _I

am through!_”

So back to the house of the Knights of St. John. Outside in the

streets we heard a true whirlwind raging; a concourse of all the wild

spirits in Worms was loose, drinking deep, shouting loud, clashing

its swords and bawling its “_vivats!_” for the peasant’s son who had

made even Emperor and Electors hear the cry of the Fatherland against

the tyrant of Italy. At our quarters there were other tokens of the

general favor, heartening messages from princes, city deputies, and

even high ecclesiastics, and Duke Erik of Brunswick sent Luther a

true German present, a mighty can of Einbecker beer from his own

table. Spalatin, Elector Frederick’s confessor, was there, with

cheering words from his sovereign, and a host of humbler friends who

had not been able to enter the hall, but who now caught as it were

for the hem of their leader’s garment.

Dr. Luther cast himself upon the bench and sat for long in silence.

He was terribly pale. His forehead was bathed with sweat. At times

he would tremble all over. But his eyes shone with a light almost

supernatural. He was very happy.

* * * * *

Years have passed over me since that afternoon in Worms. What I

thought then, is my thought even to this day,--that since the hour

when Jesus Christ cried, “It is finished,” on the Cross, and by His

sacrifice redeemed this world, mankind have seen few or no hours

greater, more potent for the far hereafter, than that scene in the

hall before princes and Emperor.

_He_ had done it. He, the peasant’s son, the begging friar. Against

him had been Roman Law and Canon Law, the authority of Councils, the

mandate of Popes, the tradition of the Church, the frowns of prince

prelates and Kaiser, the manifest warnings of a fiery death. He had

carried to the ordeal only the good wishes of those who trusted him,

and his own clear conscience. He had braved everything, Church, and

State, and physical terrors, and threatenings of hell. Where others,

the wisest and noblest, would have recanted, he had refused. Where

the bravest might have quailed, he had stood steadfast. He had been

true to himself, despite the scorn and thunder and fury of nigh all

the great ones of the world.

And I think it of little account whether in days to come men shall

say Martin Luther did well or ill in his exact doctrines, of “Grace,”

or “Faith,” or “Redemption.” Doctrines change, the shifting prism

of truth can find new colors, but the right of a man to stand

before his God and to avow, “This I hold to be Truth, for with the

powers Thou hast given, I see it so,” such a right, I say, is what

Luther defended at Worms. And till mornings and evenings cease, and

summer be confounded with winter, shall the fruits of this victory

abide; priest, and dogma, and human tradition and human law shall

no more stand betwixt the vision of Truth and him who shall seek it

reverently.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] He was no connection of the Eck who had confronted Luther at

Leipzig.

CHAPTER XXX

THE HAND OF FORLI

It is told in the Gospels how Our Lord and His disciples ascended

upon the Mount of Transfiguration, where were scenes passing the

imaginings of man, even the apparition of Moses and Elias out of

Paradise. Then after the cloud, the divine voice and the glory, they

must needs go down from the mountain, and lo! the world was not

changed, men were still eating, sorrowing, blundering as of old, and

the father of the demoniac boy was waiting to tell of his miserable

burden. So in small measure it was even with us after that afternoon

in Worms. The next morning we looked forth, expecting, as it were,

to behold a new heaven and a new earth, but half to our astonishment

we were in the former bustling, tale-mongering, intriguing city,

the Spanish courtiers were idling near the palace gate, the Swiss

halberdmen were over their beer in the taverns even as before. We

were in the same imperfect world as ever, and if the vision of glory

did not vanish from memory, surely the brightness of its reality was

a little tarnished.

I awoke late, and rubbed an aching head. I could at least comfort

myself that I was not paying the price of a carouse. Amsdorf was

silent and moody when we breakfasted, Andrea, who served us, was

heavy-eyed; even Dr. Luther (who joined us when we were nearly

finished) had little to say, although he professed to have slept

tolerably. Our remarks were very commonplace. Later in the morning

I wrote a long letter to my deputy at the Regenstein, touching the

new road I was causing to be built around my snug dominions, and

idled away an hour with an armorer who tried to sell me a new fowling

cross-bow. Even the report that there was another meeting of the

Diet called for that same day to deliberate on Dr. Luther’s answer

did not rouse my interest. My master had spoken his word, and I knew

that he had enshrined himself forever in the hearts of Germany. What

the Diet, dominated by a half-Flemish, half-Spanish Emperor, and a

great coterie of horrified prince-bishops might resolve, did not for

the moment greatly matter. If it voted Luther a heretic, the German

nation would thunder back the answer. As I sat toying with the new

cross-bow, I caught myself levelling it nonchalantly at imaginary

Spanish pikemen, who were striving to storm Wittenberg, and my mind

revelled in vast imaginary slaughter.

But about noon I had a visitor who shook me quickly enough out of

my lethargy,--Moritz von Blankenburg. The sight of that honest,

heavy-handed, hard-working young nobleman was ever welcome to me, let

alone his kinship to my Lady Ilsa. He had been one of the spectators

in the great hall of audience, had seen me in Luther’s company,

and had found our lodgings without trouble. Our first words were

naturally full of enthusiasm over the words and deeds of my master.

“Ah! Walter,” spoke he, while his hand closed over mine, “the black

crows shall not have Germany in their talons again till every graf

and ritter in the North Country is in a bloody grave. I know my

people. We do not have the million words and gestures of those apes

of the South, but our arms are strong; I know all I say. I am going

back to Blankenburg to make ready my lands and castle for the war. In

a month it will be on us.”

But by this time my belligerent day-dreams had been chased away, and

I shook my head.

“Nobly said, Moritz, and nobly done too if needs be. But it will not

come to that, God willing. We must bethink us; you, I, every friend

of Dr. Luther, for a way to save him, yet keep the peace. The Cause

must prevail, and shall, against all fiends, but not by culverins and

poleaxes save as last resort. Give us a little respite, a few months

even, and all will be well.”

Von Blankenburg laughed derisively. “You have not been to the Diet

this morning. The Emperor has caused a solemn statement to be read

setting forth that he and his Imperial ancestors have been loyal sons

of the Church and foes of heresy, that Luther has been clearly proved

obstinate in his errors and worthy of all punishment as a ‘true

and evident heretic,’ and the Estates are admonished to give their

judgment as to how to deal with him. The Papal Legates are beside

themselves with glee, the prince-bishops are snarling for blood like

jackals. Elector Frederick and the other friends of the friar sit

moody and without a word. Are we then to say ‘peace, peace,’ while

Luther is banned and burned?”

I checked his vehemence with a restraining hand. “You ask a very

witless question, Moritz. But hear my answer. That Luther should

be banned at the behest of the Emperor and bishops astonishes me

not at all, but burning is a different matter. He will in any case

be suffered to return to Wittenberg, unless Charles violate the

safe-conduct and enkindle the fury of Germany. And once out of Worms,

few will make haste to burn him. Do you know what will happen?”

“What?”

“I have been watching the foreign clouds, and hearing all the rumors.

Francis of France is about to seize our fine Kaiser by the throat.

There is a great war impending. One month, two, three, four, how many

I know not, but it will not be for very long. Once set the armies of

His Imperial Majesty and of the Most Christian King to marching, and

it will be a long day before the Emperor has much time or hankering

to embroil himself with his German subjects whose spears and taxes

will be very useful. If now Dr. Luther might be hidden away, might

vanish like a bird, captured not by his foes, but by his friends, and

remain hidden and safe for a little season, all will be well. Germany

will find herself. The Cause will be too firmly rooted to be shaken,

though all the winds of hell blow against it. When peace with France

comes, Pope and Emperor will find the task too great for them.”

Moritz stroked his blond mustache reflectively. “I would be glad to

see Luther in such an owl’s nest. There is one place possible, if the

Saxon court will suffer it;--the Wartburg.”

“The great castle of Thuringia? Nothing safer. But who is its

governor?”

“My own uncle, Von Steinitz; transferred from Wittenberg. Have you

not heard it?”

“Better friend to Luther does not breathe. What if the thing could be

managed! But, praise heaven, we have a respite, and my wits are too

dull to-day to outwit a sheep, much less the Monsignori. Let us talk

of other things.”

Then I asked him about his journey to Worms, and the welfare of his

aunt and sister, whereat his brow clouded, but he told me readily.

The abbess had need to visit Worms on the business of her order,

some appeal to the Pope’s Legates as to a new “tenth” laid by the

Vatican upon the Abbey lands. She had, he thought, taken Ilsa with

her as travelling companion more because she distrusted leaving

the young nun alone at Quedlinburg, than because she found her

company congenial. She could not well refuse Moritz’s proffered

escort, because it was notorious that the roads were infested by

“free ritters,” to whom an abbess was no more sacred than a fat

burgomaster; but all the way she had taken pains that Moritz and Ilsa

should speak together as little as possible.

As for the abbess’s opinion of Luther, it had been one of

uncompromising hostility. On the afternoon of the great ordeal she,

with Ilsa and many other ladies, had listened to the great heretic

through a grille above the hall. She had professed loud expectations

that at the last “his father the devil” would forsake the friar,

and leave him recanting and confounded. After the audience Moritz

had seen his aunt and sister, and in the enthusiasm of the moment

had heaped all manner of praise on Luther. His words had been flint

against the abbess’s steel. A bitter dialogue had followed. Ilsa

had taken sides warmly with her brother and incidentally with the

heretic. Her aunt had turned on her in fury, had charged her with

violating her sacred vows, “in hope, and thought, and everything but

deed,” and finally had forbidden her “on her obedience as a nun,” to

speak again to her “blasphemous and heretical brother.” The scene

had ended with the abbess suddenly quitting the inn where the party

had lodged, and seeking apartments at the castle. And as for Moritz,

he, poor fellow, could only “bite his thumbs and look sour while his

sister was led away.” The abbess, he hoped, would presently relent,

“but sometimes he thought it more profitable to beseech a stone

horse-post than his holy Aunt Theckla.”

“Moritz,” said I, directly, “is your sister Ilsa happy?”

“Happy?” he reëchoed, “I think she is one of the most miserable

creatures in all the world.”