“Moritz,” I continued, “you believe in God. You believe that He is

kindly, compassionate, forgiving; that if He is merciful to our sins,

He is still more merciful to our blunders. Do you think it for His

honor and glory, and do you think He is well pleased that when one

of His children has taken upon herself vows for a life for which she

is all unfitted, a life which makes herself and one she truly loves

miserable beyond words, that those vows should be kept forever?”

He looked at me distractedly an instant, then his eyes opened in a

mingled wonder and dread. “Holy Christ!” he swore, “you do not mean--”

With him I knew there was no way better than perfect frankness. “I

mean full soon to ride into the Regenstein with your sister my true

and honored wife.”

He was somewhat slow of thought; at last he spoke, though all over he

was a-tremble.

“Yesterday at this hour I would have vowed ‘impossible.’ To-day,

after hearing Dr. Luther’s great words, after feeling that the

old priests’ faith was dying, that the better men’s faith was at

hand--what shall I say? She is my sister. Who shall guard her honor

save I?--” A long pause, and then, “You shall have her, Walter, if

but Dr. Luther bless your wedding; and then God keep and bless us

all!”

We pressed hands silently. A little later Andrea came to say that a

strange man in burgher’s dress demanded to see me, and I went to the

outer chamber.

* * * * *

It all befell very simply. I had gone to my fate as blindly as an ox

to the slaughter. A decently dressed fellow of few words had asked me

to visit a certain obscure inn situate near the Rhine gate, “Where he

believed he could reveal to me a conspiracy against Dr. Luther.” I

had followed him unhesitatingly, without even a word of explanation

to Moritz. My informant declared I must come alone, or the plotters

would grow suspicious. Possessed by the single thought that my

master might be in some new danger, I had gone out into the street

with barely the word to Andrea “To watch Dr. Luther like gold till I

returned.” As for myself, I had not the least anxiety in the world.

Was I not surely as safe as the hundred other German nobles attending

the Diet? I had followed my conductor through circuitous and noisome

alleys, until we passed into a narrow court before a tall, but very

decrepit ancient mansion. Throwing open the narrow battered door the

fellow motioned me to enter.

“This is a strange place to bring me,” I remarked with a shrug, for

the first time debating the good faith of his errand.

“Your Lordship will discover in a moment the object of bringing you

hither,” came the complacent answer. “You will have opportunity to

hear the converse of some of Luther’s most malignant enemies.”

“After all,” I reflected, “conspirators must choose uncanny holes!”

And so I stepped inside. The instant I had done so, however, I turned

on my conductor sharply. “Fellow, you declared you would bring me to

an inn. This silent house is no more an inn than it is a cathedral.”

Before I could receive his answer, I was startled by the rush of

feet down the dark passage. At least four men were on me, and the

door was instantly closed behind, cutting off nearly all the light.

I struggled desperately to draw my walking rapier, but the odds were

too great. In a moment I was on my back, with some sort of a shawl

closely pressed over my head, stifling my outcries.

“Lie quiet, Excellency,” spoke a guttural voice which I recognized as

possibly Hans Lange’s, “we are rough valets, but your life is in no

danger if you but submit quietly.”

Having exerted myself to the very limit of my powers, I was fain

to yield, being in fact too bruised and out-of-breath to think

connectedly, and presently I was rudely hoisted to my feet with a

muffler tied across my mouth, a dark handkerchief across my eyes, and

my arms pinioned together not very gently. In this condition I was

perforce led some distance through what I conceived to be, by the

smell, musty apartments, and then again out into the open air; next

I was thrust, or rather cast, upon the straw of what seemed a wagon.

My captors beyond a doubt had been entirely prepared to deal with me,

for the instant I was in the vehicle I felt them all clambering in

beside me, and the former speaker ordered huskily “To close the wagon

cover, and drive away.”

I heard the cracking of a whip, and in a moment we were off, bumping

and rattling over the merciless cobbles of the city streets until

every bone of my body, already sorely bruised, ached as if on the

rack. Speech was forbidden to me, and my custodians said little,

save that one cursed at times “that I had nigh bitten off his ear

whilst we struggled on the floor.” Presently we were beyond the

paved streets, and to my great relief upon some kind of a more level

earthern road. Forcing myself to collect my wandering wits I tried to

note the turns the wagon might take, and to compute the lapse of time

consumed in the driving; but any guesses were obviously futile. I

could only imagine I was being conveyed to some prison at a distance

from the city walls. I was too conscious of much physical pain to

reason connectedly; I could only console myself that at least my

kidnappers were not assassins, until a “_Jesu-Maria!_” from one of

the men about me taught half the story instantly.

“Ah! Eminenza di Forli,” spoke I in my heart, “it is to you that

I owe this fair hospitality: you are about to repeat with greater

address those worthy deeds you attempted at Palaestro! But we shall

discover.”

In fact, my spirits rose a little. After all, in dealing with Forli I

was dealing with a man whose means and mental processes I thoroughly

understood, and was not that half the battle?

Presently the wagon rattled over a drawbridge, and halted for a

murmured conversation, possibly with a sentinel on duty; we soon

drove on, up a considerable incline, as if into a castle courtyard,

and the hoofs clicked on more cobbles; next I was seized like a log,

stood on my feet, and hurried down a flagged passage and up two

long stairways. I heard a rattling of bolts; a door creaked open;

I was thrust inside. Then the mufflers were withdrawn from my eyes

and mouth; the pinions from my arms. Before me stood two low-browed

loutish men with great rings of keys at their waists, evidently

regular jailors, and by no means my late captors and companions. I

eyed them severely.

“Well, my merry masters,” said I, glad to find my tongue, “will you

deign to inform me why I am so suddenly summoned to partake of your

kind hospitality?”

“Your worship will know presently,” remarked one, with a very sullen

reverence.

“I am glad to see that you have the grace to bow to your betters. You

would do still more wisely to consider whether it is safe for you

to hold a free Count of the Empire in this most unlawful custody.

Because I do not rave and curse do not think I am insensible to my

treatment.”

“We have high warrant. Your worship will be told presently,” was all

I could get out of him, and then perhaps fearing to have me question

further, they turned suddenly and quitted the cell, leaving me to my

thoughts and to cultivate the captive’s slow virtue of patience.

A cell the place surely was, although not quite a dungeon. I had soon

paced off its nine feet by eight. The walls were roughly smoothed

limestone. A single small and heavily barred window close to the

ceiling showed nothing but a blank bare wall of masonry. There was a

hard pallet with a rough blanket, a hay-stuffed sack for a pillow,

a three-legged stool, an earthern cruse of water. On the walls were

scribblings and rude pictures, the handiwork of former prisoners,

but I could not interpret them then. That was all. My explorations

were soon finished. Seating myself on the edge of the pallet I began

to take account of my own physical state. Fortunately I was really

none the worse save for a few scratches and bruises, although my

arms were very sore where the cords had chafed. My clothing had been

rent to shreds in the struggle. The kidnappers had appropriated my

purse and gold chain, and of course my sword. I washed myself with

the water in the cruse, drank a little, and felt somewhat refreshed,

but my mental condition was none the happiest. This was a far more

serious bondage than that from which Andrea had nimbly extricated

me at Palaestro. In addition to wrath at the actual outrage came

wrath at my own simplicity. How utterly I had played the fool! Had

asked almost no questions, had taken no precautions, had informed no

friends. Bewitched by the magic words “A plot against Luther,” I had

walked into a trap a simpleton would have scorned. Verily I deserved

every misery that might be awaiting!

Thus raced my first thoughts, but after these came others more

bitter. Why had I been singled out for this treatment, even by an

unmoral being like Forli? The answer came quickly enough; because

in removing me, there was removed one of the chiefest guardians of

Luther. My kidnapping was the prelude to a fouler plot to break the

safe-conduct and to work some mortal harm upon the great foe of the

Vatican. So after the moments of wrath came the moments of rage,

when with none to witness me I cursed, swore oaths fit, I fear, for

a lanz-knecht, bade God smite me dead, mew me up in prison forever,

tear me limb from limb on the rack, if only my master might be saved,

and the Cause move on to its eternal triumph.

At length the passion died. Heavy-hearted, weary in mind and body,

sorely perplexed, I sat down again on the bed. I realized now that I

was hungry, nor was I sorry when one of the scurvy jailors opened

to pass me in a small loaf and a wooden platter of ill-cooked peas

and lentils. I ate them greedily, and was again sitting idly, musing

on the sore perplexity my disappearance would cause to Dr. Luther,

when again the bolts rattled. I saw the jailors scraping in abject

servility before a personage in a bright red cloak. It was the

Cardinale di Forli.... His smile was as gracious as of old, when we

met casually on the Corso. His features had possibly coarsened a

trifle in the past few years, and he had grown more portly, otherwise

I could not detect the slightest change. There was a tinge of

delicate perfume about him. His rings and the linen at his neck and

wrists were exquisite. I rose and bowed with some stiffness, both

mental and physical. At sight of my tattered clothes he raised his

hands deprecatingly.

“Alas! my poor Gualtiero. What disarray you have caused yourself by

your ill-timed resistance. I charged my worthy servitors to conduct

you here as gently as possible.”

“Then I owe to you, Eminenza, the vast courtesy of this encounter,

this ride and these present hardly sumptuous quarters.”

“It will be your own fault, my dear fellow,” he rejoined “if you do

not speedily exchange them for better. As for your clothes, that

matter shall be remedied immediately.”

“I have more serious affairs upon my mind than the state of my

doublet,” I returned coldly.

“I am delighted,” he observed, ignoring my remark, “that you retain

your use of the Italian tongue so perfectly. I feared your accent

had been ruined by these years of hearing only barbarous German

gutturals.”

“Why your particular satisfaction, Eminenza?”

“Because you are so shortly to return to Italy as a country of

permanent sojourn; in short, to resume your rightful estate,

character, and life as the Conte di Palaestro.”

“Whether Palaestro or Regenstein is to be my name,” I cast back,

paling possibly at the implied threat, “I trust Monsignore il

Cardinale will be gracious enough to let me choose for myself.”

He moved his fat hands deprecatingly, and fingered the rare cameo

dangling at his neck.

“You drive me to very blunt speech, Gualtiero; but allow me to state

our intentions as delicately as possible. You will doubtless recall

the advice of the famous physicians of antiquity--simply to name

Hippocrates and Galen,--who urge the wise professor of the art of

Æsculapius not to refrain from some necessary surgery or caustic,

however sharp, notwithstanding that the sick man cries out vehemently

against the inevitable pain. So we, physicians for your highest weal

and happiness, cannot be deterred from our wholesome ministrations by

any forms of protest, which you, _carissimo_, may feel in duty bound

to utter.”

“I correctly apprehend your meaning,” I returned, “yet you will

pardon my impoliteness if I fail to display true gratitude. However,

you will suffer me to observe that this is Germany, not Italy,

this is Worms, not Rome. It may prove an awkward, nay an highly

embarrassing thing for even the Cardinal Legate of the Pope to have

been the promoter of the lawless kidnapping of a free Count of the

Empire. You fail in your customary shrewdness if you imagine such a

proceeding will advance the prestige and favor of His Holiness in

Germany. If I live, I will seek ample redress for your deeds this

day. If you murder me, I can at least promise sufficient vengeance.”

“You speak as lustily as a Neapolitan bravo, my dear fellow,” spoke

Forli, showing his teeth most unpleasantly. “I assure you your

firm front, in what is confessedly a painful predicament, does you

infinite credit. I will not fail to repeat it all to the admiration

of Marianna. However, to return to the present discussion; you will

perhaps modify your judgment of me when I show you this.”

He drew from his sleeve a small paper. As he unrolled it, my eyes

caught the red seal with the Hapsburg double eagle. He passed it to

me, and I read in French.

“For high reasons of Church and State, his Eminence, the

Cardinale di Forli, is permitted to seize the person of Walter,

Graf von Regenstein, otherwise called the Conte di Palaestro, and

to keep the said Walter in such custody as he may see fit.

“Such is our Imperial pleasure.

“_Carolus Imperator._”

There seemed nothing to say. I simply bowed and returned the writing

to Forli, who waited considerately for the first shock of my

discomfiture to pass.

“You see we were driven to these measures, Gualtiero,” he said

at length, replacing the paper. “Your attitude towards Marianna

was so absolutely unconciliatory. Santo Spirito! The poor girl

was completely prostrated when I found her soon after you left

her. Fortunately His Majesty was moved to do me a service, but

out of consideration to yourself, no less than with a view to the

disturbance your public arrest might create, I caused you to be taken

most privately. Marianna has begged that you be humiliated as little

as possible.”

“Cardinale di Forli,” I broke in, “grant me no favors, save as you

would grant them to your mortal enemy. I will not waste tongue and

breath on oaths, swearing that I will neither go to Italy nor stay

in Italy save as a close prisoner. You think you know me, and of a

surety I know you. Therefore our relations are simpler. Yet answer

if you will one thing--am I here because Marianna will not see me

escape her meshes, or because I have befriended Luther? Why should

the Emperor order my arrest, even at the bidding of a Papal Legate?”

I could see Forli was not glad to have me press the question. His

eyes moved shiftily.

“I cannot answer you now, Gualtiero. Perhaps there was a mixture of

motive. You shall see what you shall see.”

“I thank you, Eminenza,” said I, with a sarcastic shrug, “for your

enlightening answer.”

Evidently he saw our conversation was leading nowhere, and he moved

backward to the door, nor did I make effort to detain him.

“Addio,” spoke he, going out, “till to-morrow. I will report your

gracious speeches to Marianna.”

The waiting jailor flung open for him, the door closed behind him,

and the bolts rattled back. The room was already darkening with the

advancing twilight. I was alone with the four gray walls and my hard

pallet. Long, long I sat with my head on my hands, trying to solve

the riddle of Forli’s schemes and of my own fate. That the Cardinal

and Marianna should seek my mischief was likely enough; but why the

Emperor, who might strike more open blows, should condescend to this

dagger-thrust, was beyond my guessing. Surely, Charles had hitherto

seemed an honorable foe,--a lion, not a jackal.

I was weary in mind and body. My brain refused to work clearly. The

prison around me was still,--terribly still. My absolute loneliness

added to the fearfulness of my predicament. I would have been glad of

some veritable idiot with whom I might go through the form of taking

counsel. The black wall before me was not more unscrutable than my

future. Only two things could I forsee clearly. Luther was about to

confront some terrible and unexpected danger, and I was removed,

partly lest I prevent that danger. Again, the Cause was like to

perish, and with the Cause went every hope I had so loftily vaunted

to Moritz touching Ilsa. She would die a Quedlinburg nun! And I--was

I to be held in Italy like a dumb sheep, till I consented again

to lead the old heathen life as the lover of Marianna? But here my

manhood uprose in hot revolt. I was in prison, but I had still hands,

heart, head, and wits. Luther was in danger, but he was not yet dead.

The Cause in peril, but not yet ruined. Wherefore had men praised my

learning, physical address, prudence, and worldly wisdom if I could

not use them for mighty ends? The crisis was on me. By some power I

knew not, and by some voice I heard not, it was borne home to me that

in the next few days would come the test of my entire life; that I

was to be put in heaven’s crucible and tried, to see how much was

dross, how much was gold; that I must calm myself; must speak no word

lightly; do no deed rashly; and be ready for whatsoever sacrifice

high Duty might demand. Then, and then only, come what might, I would

redeem my soul. And whether after that I lived or died would matter

very little.

Remembering the example both of my master in Worms and my other

Master in heaven, I cast myself beside the bed and prayed earnestly

and long.

“Lord,” I concluded, “human help is failing me. Human philosophies

and wisdom profit me nothing. Send down from Heaven Thy strength that

I may save Dr. Luther and the Cause. May I be true to myself, and to

the trust which Ilsa has set in me. Grant only that--then do with me

as Thou wilt.”

When I rose to my knees a panel of moonlight from the tiny window

threw itself across the flagged floor of the cell.

“A fair omen!” I thought. Nor was I troubled because the conceit

seemed pagan.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE OFFER OF CÆSAR

I slept with tolerable soundness, but awoke with a start very early,

just when a bar of gray light was thrusting in at my little window

and making the blackness of the cell barely visible. Outside my door

some turnkey went past with his heavy keys jangling. The events of

the past day and my present helpless predicament all surged back to

me in a flash. The pallet had been very hard. My ribs ached, and I

felt little refreshed by my slumber. Nevertheless, in the darkness I

was fain to lie meditating on all things unpleasant until the gloom

had changed to twilight, the twilight to clear daylight. Then I

perceived that while I slept my tattered doublet and cloak had been

removed, and replaced by others of elegant material and tailoring,

suitable for the walking dress of a nobleman; and there was even a

sword laid upon them, although it was a poor mean thing for a weapon,

with a rare chased hilt, but a blade not fit to slay a toad. In

short, I was led to augur that the present phase of my captivity was

not likely to continue very long.

This impression was heightened by the demeanor of the jailor, who

soon entered with my breakfast. He was brusque enough, answering my

questions with nods and monosyllables; but the food he brought was

far superior to the prison fare of the past day, and I was glad to

eat heartily. On putting on my new clothes, I observed that their

whole cut and fashion was Italian, and that everything about my

apparel suggestive of Germany had been carefully removed from the

cell. My curiosity was thus distinctly heightened, but I was fain to

nurse it in solitary patience through a good interval of the morning,

till at last I heard a distinct trumpeting, as if without the

fortress, and a clangor of arms, and shouting of officers “to turn

out their men.” This was followed by a thundering salute from several

culverins, and more confused shouting. It required little discernment

on my part to conclude that a princely personage had been entering

the castle, and I conjectured (it soon appeared rightly) that I was

confined in one of the half fortresses, half summer-houses on the

Rhine, possessed by the Bishop of Worms and now at the temporary

disposal of the Emperor. The tumult and uproar died presently, and

I was becoming sufficiently impatient and moody, when the cell was

again opened, and my jailor beckoned me forth with more civility than

on former visits.

“Will my gracious Lord follow me?” and I was fain to trudge at his

heels down a number of bat-dark corridors and vaulted passages, until

at last we passed a doorway guarded by a mustachioed Spanish pikeman,

when presto! I was in another world! Rich carpets were under our

feet. The walls were hung with intricate tapestries; I caught the

sniff of spring flowers from some garden. Wide windows, flung clear

open, let in the ample April sunlight and the balmy breeze that blew

across the Rhine. The turnkey led me up to a smooth-faced valet in

brown livery, saluted, turned on his heel, and was gone to his own

part of the castle, leaving me to follow my new guide, who with a bow

and flourish worthy of a Parisian led me through several chambers,

only to halt finally at another door and announce in sonorous

Italian, “His Excellency the Conte di Palaestro.”

“Let him enter,” returned a voice which I at once recognized as

Forli’s, and I was instantly in the presence of the Cardinal.

The prelate rose with his most condescending smile to greet me, would

not let me kiss his hand, and insisted that I sit beside him upon the

broad couch by the windows. Below us in admirable vista spread the

muddy Rhine and the green Palatinate country to eastward. The manner

of Forli was more than bland. A stranger would have believed this

the meeting of an affectionate uncle and a highly dutiful nephew, a

picture truly edifying and touching.

Forli surveyed me carefully, noting with approval the fit of my

clothes and my general carriage.

“Admirably done. This Tuscan broadcloth makes another man of you.

Marianna was very sure the dark blue would become you rarely, and she

was right. What taste the girl has! She could qualify as a feminine

Petronius, the Arbiter Elegantiae of the court of Nero. You recall

the allusion, of course?”

“Most decidedly. You are extremely apt. Marianna is all you say,” I

rejoined in a tone that might have carried a trifle of sarcasm.

“I knew you would applaud her choice. Poor maid, she has found your

attitude so unflinching! but after all I said to her, ‘Remember

Gualtiero is half a German, and the evil blood is bound to show

itself at times; besides the poor fellow is bewitched. We will

dispose of the wizard, and remove his victim to Italy. Then your

heart will very promptly be mended.’”

I felt the muscles of my forehead begin to twitch, but I am sure

Forli saw nothing.

“Well, Eminenza,” spoke I, “I am too long honored by your close

acquaintance not to feel myself a lamb before a leopard in dealing

with your high decisions concerning me; yet even apart from the

wisdom of your course, even apart from the question whether Luther

be wizard or apostle, you must at least remember I call myself a

cavaliere, a man of honor; and my honor is sorely touched by having

been thus seized for bearing like a caged starling from Worms to

Rome. I do your Eminence only justice when I say that either I must

be fairly convinced my return to Italy is not against my honor,

or I will make every effort to escape from your custody, however

honorable.”

Forli eyed me very shrewdly; his smile was benignant, but altogether

inscrutable.

“To Italy you shall go, Gualtiero,” said he, at length, “will-you,

nill-you; but I think you will not find it contrary to your honor.”

“Your Eminence may well summon up all your justly famous eloquence to

convince me; all your orators’ precepts from Quintilian and Tacitus.

I have been with Martin Luther now these two and more years. I have

heard all the arguments which Rome can bring against him. I have

weighed carefully the possible cost of supporting his cause. I will

not anger your Eminence by words in his behalf which you will call

weak sentiment and bathos; but far as the eastern and western seas

our minds now stand asunder. You will never win me.”

“I shall not try,” and still he smiled on.

“I fear I divine your meaning,” I rejoined; “you believe Madonna

Marianna will prove the more eloquent orator. Great are her gifts;

but they are not for me. Spare us both another painful scene. She

likewise will prove powerless.”

“Our advocate will not be Marianna,” said Forli, with that smile

which only deepened.

“Who, then, Eminenza?”

“Charles the Fifth--Holy Roman Emperor.”

And then I was shaken for a truth, and the cardinal grinned amiably

at my surprise. “_Per deos immortales_, Gualtiero, you need not be

amazed! You have really become quite a man in the world. At every

court men are guessing at your motives. At Rome they say it is

because you did not get the red hat. Let that pass. Certain it is,

all our Vatican party are saying ‘it is your Palaestro who has swept

the Elector of Saxony and so many North German princes and Free

Cities into the Lutheran net. _He_ it is who has made it so difficult

to burn _il heretico_ without convulsing all Germany.’ It was partly

on your account I quitted Paris so suddenly and came to Worms. Do not

then wonder that His Majesty knows all about you, and sends for you.”

“But by every power, Eminenza,” cried I, aroused, indeed, “for what

purpose does the Emperor send for me, unless indeed I be such a

dangerous public firebrand I must be forever smothered in a dungeon.”

“Hardly that; you shall discover directly. You are to have immediate

audience.”

“With the Emperor?”

“Even so. Doubtless you heard the cannon booming when he came out

from Worms.”

He paused to help himself to some strong waters from a silver

decanter. I was glad of the respite. More clearly than ever I knew I

was facing some mortal crisis. I bowed my head as if resting, but it

was to seek also a strength beyond strength of man. Hardly had Forli

refreshed himself when a Spanish gentleman, immaculately clad from

cap to heels in gray, bowed himself into the room.

“I have the honor to transmit the Emperor’s commands,” spoke he in

French, but accompanying with a profound Castilian reverence, “that

the Conte di Palaestro wait on him immediately.”

Forli rose, waving me a kind of god-speed with his hand.

“Be sensible, Gualtiero,” he enjoined; “do not be swayed by silly

sentiment. I will have Marianna meet you when you quit His Majesty.”

* * * * *

I was in the presence of the man who had it in his certain power to

order my execution, to fling me into unending prison, to consign me

to exile: Charles of Hapsburg. I had seen him at the Diet, but only

from a distance, and my thoughts had all been for Luther. Now we were

face to face.

He was seated at a low desk covered with papers, in a small room

conspicuous by its plainness. A gorgeously dressed courtier kept

the door; a sprucely dressed secretary stood at his elbow to supply

any documents needed out of several capacious leathern portfolios,

but the Emperor was dressed in dead black, with almost monkish

simplicity. From the heavy golden chain at his neck, as sole ornament

dangled a copper medal of some patron saint. When I was announced, he

glanced up, nodded a very brief recognition, then went on writing. I

was able to survey his person at leisure. Here was a young man just

of age, of middle stature, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a

high, intellectual forehead. His nose was decidedly aquiline. The

whole aspect of his countenance was pale, grave, melancholy, yet

withal commanding. The eyes were blue and keen, the hair blond,

almost reddish. I instantly recognized the projecting lower jaw, with

its thick heavy lip, the true family mark of the princely Hapsburgs.

The lower part of his face was veiled by a very thin beard. Barring

the light hair there was nothing German about him. “A Spaniard at his

heart,” thought I, and I believe history will testify I was right.

He continued writing until I had become tense and uneasy with the

waiting; then I saw him fold the paper with his own hands and give

it to the waiting secretary. Very deliberately then he pushed back

his leaden inkstand and fastened his eyes on me. His gaze was deep,

inscrutable; it was impossible to call it either hostile or friendly.

“The Conte di Palaestro?” asked he in Italian. I bowed. “Do you

speak French?” he continued in that tongue. “I prefer it.”

“I am fortunate, your Majesty, in having passing command of the

language.”

“Good, then. We may converse.”

“I attend the Emperor’s pleasure.”

He did not reply immediately, but continued his cold, passionless

scrutiny. The interval was not agreeable, but I strove to endure with

composure. At last he spoke again in a slow, monotonous tone; all

intellect, but no fire.

“You have made no small name for yourself, Conte di Palaestro, or

Graf von Regenstein--whichever title you prefer. It is thanks partly

to you that so many princes refuse to set their names to a decree of

the Diet condemning Luther. It was a heavy thing for a nobleman of

your youth, and of an honorable yet hardly princely rank, to attempt

what you have done. This Luther is causing me and my councillors many

anxious hours.”

“Your Majesty overpraises my influence,” I replied, “the princes of

Germany are their own masters. In arguing the cause of Luther I have

but argued as one of your loyal subjects. The arousing wrath of your

people of every sort and condition against the evil deeds of the

Papalists has done the rest.”

“I have not summoned you to hear one more defence of Luther.”

“I am most humbly waiting your gracious pleasure, Sire,” spoke I, at

once anxious and curious.

He beckoned to the secretary, and whispered a request. Forth from

one of the portfolios came a document covered with writing. Charles

spread it on the desk.

“Here, Conte di Palaestro, is all I can learn about you. My agents at

the different princely courts of Germany and Italy have compiled it.

Your ancestry, estates, education, prospects, habits, friendships,

in short everything relating to you and your life are herein set

forth. Can you imagine wherefore I have singled you out, amid all my

innumerable cares, for this intense curiosity?”

“I cannot divine, your Majesty.”

Charles gave a single wave of his hand. Instantly the secretary and

attendant courtiers moved toward the door. I was about to follow when

he checked me by a glance of the eye. We were quite alone ere he

spoke again. Then he resumed in the former slow, passionless voice.

“Conte di Palaestro, this Luther you have seen fit to befriend has

caused me sore disquietude. And wherefore? Not because he is not a

heretic. The Church has spoken against him. That for me is enough.”

He crossed himself with deliberate piety. “We Hapsburgs are ever

loyal sons of the Church. But wherefore is Luther strong? Because

while uttering his heresy he has also voiced the wrath that is nursed

through all Christendom against the sins and worldliness of Rome. Not

that Luther is so strong, but that Rome is so open to attack; that is

what makes good sons of the Church, even as I, tremble at the days

before us. Do you understand?”

“I follow the Emperor’s argument.”

“A hundred and forty years ago was the Great Schism; a pope at

Avignon and a Pope at Rome anathematizing one another; Christendom

shuddered. The Church was rent in twain. The Hussite heresy rose.

Then later at the great Council of Constance, the schism was healed.

Hus was sent to the fire. The Church seemed even as before; but

wise men wagged their heads, ‘A second schism will not be healed

so easily. Let the Vatican repent of its sins. Let the Pope and

Cardinals be true shepherds of their sheep.’ That was a hundred

years ago. How has Rome learned the lesson? Have recent Popes been

better or worse than those of the days of the schism?--Innocent

VIII, whose deeds made his name a mockery; Alexander VI, mixing his

Borgia poisons and plotting with his son Caesare; Julius II, storming

a smoking breach in his cuirass; Leo X, chattering Latin poetry and

writing me lying letters about seizing hamlets in Italy, when lo!

half of Europe is about to revolt against him! What, I say, have

these ‘Servants of the Servants of God’ done to avert the day of

trouble now come upon them? Answer if you may, Conte di Palaestro.”

As Charles had proceeded his eye had lit up, while his voice rang

clearly.

“Nothing, Sire. But your Majesty surely argues in no manner to please

the foes of Luther.”

“I am no friend of Luther,” he retorted, growing cold, “mark you

that. But of these men of Rome I am become unutterably weary. Leo

opposed my election as Emperor. I know the value of his promises to

aid me against France. I owe him nothing. I will not spare him. I

will save the Church but I will save it by scourging Rome. I have

Germany, the Low Countries, Naples, Spain, the Indes,--God has

given me power enough,--ha! All the world will thank me. In yonder

portfolio are the _gravamina_, the bills of complaints against the

exactions and evil doings of the Papalists, and signed by the most

orthodox of German princes, men who would hurry Luther to the stake.

Now for this task of purging I need a _man_.”

He spoke the last word almost fiercely, and his eyes were upon me.

“Conte di Palaestro, I need a man of good physical presence who will

win the imaginations of the unthinking when they look on him; a man

who knows Germany, that he may espouse truly the demands of Germany;

who knows Italy, that he may meet Italian craft with craft; who is

of the learning to win scholars, the breeding to win princes, the

experience in manipulating men to surmount obstacles; who has an

iron will and is not prone to shrink from difficulties; finally, one

whom I may trust to serve me implicitly in return for the honors I

will gladly heap upon him.”

Still he looked on me, and I was listening; but he had not finished.

“That man I will send to Italy clothed with the plenitude of my

power. He will go to Rome and speak to Pope and Curia as they have

never been admonished before. He will command the Vatican to purge

itself of the extortions and malefactions which have made the name

of Rome a byword and a hissing. Pluralities, first-fruits, nepotism,

indulgence hawking, expectatives, every other gross evil, shall cease

altogether. Nay, that part of Luther’s doctrine which impartial

divines pronounce good and truly Catholic shall be embedded in the

doctrine of the Church. My high deputy shall do all these things.

If the Vatican hesitate, he shall have behind him every pikeman of

Castile, every lanz-knecht of Germany. And _then_ even Rome will hear

him.”

He paused, evidently expecting me to say something, and I made shift

to remark.

“To find the ambassador the Emperor desires will be hard.”

His eyes cut me through at a glance.

“I have found him. He is here.”

Involuntarily my eyes roved around the room in a kind of maze.

Then Charles spoke again. His tone was passionless and prosaic. “He

is yourself. I have studied your career and qualifications closely.

You are both German and Italian. Because you are in a measure a

dreamer is no disadvantage. You will therefore follow your object

the more devotedly. You will have vast obstacles to overcome, but

you will surmount them. I will bestow on you, if you wish, a Spanish

dukedom, so that you may take rank above all great personages, save

reigning princes. You will not at first display armed force at Rome,

but armed force shall not fail you when you summon it. I know Leo de’

Medici. He will rage, threaten, but he will not fight. You will win

the praise of all good Catholics and of your Emperor.”

For an instant as Charles spoke I felt my senses reeling. I turned

hot, then cold. I was thankful I was not pressed for instant reply.

When at length he paused I strove desperately to answer calmly.

“Your Majesty has overwhelmed me. What am I to say? Regenstein and

Palaestro are noble houses, but we are not princes of the blood.”

“I am satisfied with your nobility,” was the imperturbable answer.

“Your Majesty has omitted one thing. What is to be the disposition of

Luther?”

The Emperor frowned. The question, I instantly knew, was unwelcome,

but he answered it directly. “Inasmuch as this reformation is to be

made _for_ the Church and not against the Church, it is the more

needful that I avoid open countenance of heresy. Luther is manifestly

guilty of many matters touching not morals merely, but doctrines. He

must return to Wittenberg; there the ban of the Empire will be issued

against him, he will be seized and punished according to the ancient

law touching heretics.”

I stood in silence. Never had I felt my blood tingling more rapidly.

My eyes seemed dimmed, though not by tears. Charles was still

surveying me coldly, evidently expecting my answer. Realizing that to

continue the present situation was impossible, I fell on one knee,

and seized the Emperor’s left hand (which he yielded limply) and

kissed it, then spoke hurriedly. “Your magnificent generosity, Sire,

has deprived me of my reason. Until I regain it how dare I answer.

Pardon my prayer for an interval until to-morrow, ere I answer you.”

Charles’s pale face tinged with a faint shade of disappointment, but

he beckoned for me to rise.

“You, like your Luther,” he remarked with obvious irony, “take one

day to hear, the next to answer. But your prayer is granted. Give me

your word to-morrow when I breakfast.”

He touched a silver bell upon the table. Instantly the doors opened,

the attendants reëntered. As for me, I must have bowed decently, and

departed past them. Surely I walked as men walk in their sleep.

* * * * *

I was prepared to endure threats, dishonor, imprisonment, death for

the Cause--but not for this, dear God, not for this! No instant of

respite was granted me for the barest reflection. Even on the other

side of the cabinet doors a woman came towards me. I knew who she

was by the fall and rustle of her dress ere ever I raised my eyes.

It was Marianna. She wore a dress of sea green silk, close fitting

and exquisite. White flowers shone in her hair. But I have praised

her beauty often enough. I will not repeat. While I moved on in my

trance, while I saw the grave Spanish courtiers looking at me very

respectfully, as the man whom Majesty had honored with such privy

audience, I felt her arm being put within my own. She led me back to

the chamber above the Rhine where I had quitted Forli.

“Ah! Gualtiero, _mio carissimo_,” she was saying close to my ear,

“you have heard the Emperor, you have been offered the great embassy

to Rome, you will be the most famous man in the world. They will

worship the ground you tread upon,--ah! Gualtiero, Gualtiero.”

“He has offered it, yes, Madonna.” My mien and voice were doubtless

vacant and gloomy.

“Offered it? Mother of mercies, and you have not accepted it? You

turn mad!”

“I prayed his Majesty for permission to defer my answer until

to-morrow.”

She looked on me with eyes flashing at once infinite wrath and equal

compassion.

“Till to-morrow? The most imperial proffer ever made in the world?

The thing touching which my father came from Paris post-haste, and

has conferred with the Emperor two whole nights? Is it you that rave,

or do I not hear aright? Have you no words of gratitude to my father,

to me whose part has not been small?”

She had one hand upon either of my shoulders, and was trying to catch

me, to fascinate, snake-wise, with her glances. A little roughly I

put her away.

“Madonna Marianna,” spoke I, striving hard to control my powers, “for

all you have done for me, so far as it was done in friendly kindness,

I bring full gratitude. The Emperor has consented to await my answer,

you and your father cannot show greater importunity than he. But know

you this. My errand to Rome, if performed, will be a dreadful one.

Your father and his friends will cry out the loudest at my scourge. I

shall curry no more favor with His Holiness.”

“We understand, we clearly understand. My father made it most plain

to the Emperor he has no personal love for Leo. We know you will

never mar _our_ fortunes.”

I held out my hand, beckoning her to cease.

“Madonna, if indeed your devotion is not of word only, do me one

favor. Question me not, leave me unurged, unsolicited, this night and

during the morning. As a free man, with a free mind and will I must

decide the Emperor’s ‘yea’ or ‘nay.’ Therefore no more of this. But

tell me if I am a prisoner within this castle. What are the bounds to

my liberty?”

“Within the castle you are wholly free. The Emperor has come hither

with the Spaniards and Italians of his court to enjoy a few days of

respite from the “ja’s” and beer-swilling of your Germans at Worms.

The guards have orders to halt you at the gates. Inside go where

you will. You were brought here thus secretly that you might break

wholly with your heretic friends and your degraded past, that like a

new star you might emerge to shine dazzling in your true firmament

hereafter. Within this castle, saving a few menials and nuns, there

are only men and women of the South. To-night you resume that

glorious life broken off when the fiends tempted you to leave dear

Italy, the life of laughter and noble mirth, of sunshine amid the

roses.”

But again I forbade her words. Prompted by some angel, I asked a

question.

“You said there were some German nuns within the castle. How is that?”

“How can I recall the name? An abbess from a strange abbey. She

prefers residence here to the crowded town. Her chambers lie not far

from these. The abbey of Qued--your German names are so rough! _Santo

Dio_, you are white and fainting!”--

“I have been on the rack these days,” I said, clutching a pillar,

“you must bear with me. I need food and drink. Go from me, Madonna.

Leave me to my own thoughts, or by my father’s soul you are my foe

forever.”

My command was obeyed. She swept out of the room. I was too torn

myself to consider whether I had wounded her needlessly. Very soon a

smooth serving-man in the Forli livery brought in a tray covered with

tempting viands. Again I observed that the cookery was truly Italian,

the bottle of wine was from the Alban hills. But how could I complete

the illusion, when under my eyes from the casement flowed the mighty

Rhine, and the very breeze that fanned my cheeks carried the sniff of

the giant pines and the budding oaks and beeches of the Black Forest?

No, I was in Germany yet, and hard by was Worms, and in Worms was

Dr. Luther, who, Charles the Emperor had said, must be “punished

according to the ancient law concerning heretics.”

By an effort of self-command I made myself eat and drink. So doing I

became calmer. I knew that I had been taken by the devil up into the

exceeding high mountain, and shown all the kingdoms of the world, and

the glory of them, and all these would be given in return for one

little word of mine.

I could behold myself a very Hercules cleansing the Augean stables at

Rome. What havoc would I not work among the white-handed Monsignori?

I pictured to myself the casting out of their fair inamoratas,

their simpering page-boys, the restoration of monkish simplicity

at innumerable convents, the banishing of the huge swarm of Papal

chamberlains, of the notaries who fattened on unjust litigation, of

the general army of purchasers and sellers of ecclesiastical favor.

The chaste honest life of the Church in the days of her holy poverty

would return. Good men from all over the world would flock to second

my efforts, and the performance of the lords of the Vatican would at

length comply with their high profession, not weary God and man by

the perpetuation of one vast lie. All this seemed within the scope

of accomplishment. Was I not young? Was I not conscious of a mighty

reserve of talent and energy? Was not the mere fact that the Emperor

had chosen me as his instrument a token that I was well fitted to

succeed? Did I not know Leo de’ Medici as few others knew him; and

could I not even hope to make him my supple ally?

The vision, the possibilities, the questions, at times made my brain

reel. Thrice I arose, saying nigh audibly, “I accept, O Emperor.”

Thrice I sat. Clearer, ever clearer I knew acceptance of Charles

meant the forsaking of Luther, Ilsa, the Cause. And I seemed to hear

Dr. Luther’s great voice saying “What doth it profit a man if he gain

the whole world and lose his own soul.”

CHAPTER XXXII

I REFUSE CÆSAR

Late in the afternoon I roused myself from my reverie. I had now

chosen my path. I knew that no argument or consideration could swerve

me from it. The consciousness that I had made the decision raised my

spirits. In some measure at least I could divine the future. I asked

the honor of waiting upon Forli and Marianna, and when I met them

craved their pardon for my brusque behavior, explaining it, as well I

might, on the ground of all I had recently undergone. They pressed me

for my decision. I told them my first answer was for the Emperor, and

they were fain to wait, but their gleaming eyes and cheerful gestures

indicated that they regarded all omens as favorable.

“Ah! Gualtiero, we know that at your best, you can match the wits of

Caesare Borgia,” said the Cardinal, and then proceeded to tell with

gusto how the foreign noblemen surrounding the Emperor had arranged

an impromptu ball that evening, and that I was very welcome to

attend if only I would appear in domino--as would indeed many of the

guests. I consented, with an alacrity which no doubt heightened their

expectations.

So for one evening I seemed almost recalled again to the Southland.

A masker’s dress was provided, sufficiently resplendent in gold lace

and Flanders point to satisfy a Venetian magnifico. One of Forli’s

clever valets completed my toilet with a skill worthy of Andrea. When

I drew my domino over my eyes, and stepped out into the corridors

already full of silk trains and scarlet bravery, instinctively I

felt the senses quicken, the blood rise. For the moment I was living

even as I had lived before I heard the dread name--Luther.

A great hall of the castle had been used for the fête. A thousand

candles swung from their hanging sconces. Fresh leaves and spring

flowers hid the barren walls behind. From a bower of laurel sounded

music, harps, and tender viols, and the music was not the stately

rhythms of the north, but the pulsating, stuccato melodies of Italy

or Spain. Under the lights moved all the high dames and dignitaries

of Castile, Aragon and Naples who had followed the court of the

Emperor; Spaniards with their stately grace, Italians whose vivacious

talk was as much with their hands as with their tongues. From under

the masks I saw dark eyes that had learned to flash languorously in

the orange-groves of Seville or Palermo. On an easy divan by one

entrance lounged Forli, smiling benignantly from his red cap and robe

upon us all, yet lamenting that years and churchly dignity forbade

him to join in the revelry. In and out of the thronging dancers went

a woman in a lustrous yellow dress, its color made vivid by its

trimming of black. The closeness of the fit and the low cut neck

displayed her figure rarely. Despite her mask I knew that half the

company identified her.

“Oh, marvellous creature,” raved a Sicilian beside me, “the form of

Venus, and the mouth of Juno! Who is she?”

“Ask not too many questions,” replied a more contained Spaniard;

“piety toward Holy Church forbids. For the sake of naming her, let me

call her the Cardinal’s ‘niece.’”

“Ha!” laughed the Sicilian. “I understand.”

But even as he spoke I saw the Portuguese ambassador, in all his

cloth of gold, bow to Marianna, and an instant later she whirled down

the great hall as his partner. The spirit of the hour was upon me.

Captured by the swaying music I offered myself to a tall, stiffly

dressed Castilian, to my belief the Duchess of Lerida, and found her

a very happy companion. Other dances followed. I forgot everything

in the spirit of the hour. I was almost unconscious of the flight of

time, as I exchanged harmless badinage with some Italian lady whose

accent was Venetian,--when the voice of the master-ushers sounded,

“His Majesty the Emperor!”

Charles entered by an upper doorway. Ten flunkeys carrying tall

candelabra marched before him, making his entrance one blaze of

light. The music stopped an instant, then revived in a fiercer,

swifter strain. The Emperor seated himself upon an armchair upon a

low dais, and I saw him despatch a page to summon Forli. The Cardinal

joined the sovereign upon the dais, and conversed long. I would have

given much to have overheard them. When the dancing resumed, by a

kind of mutual consent all the revellers held back to make way for

a _passionesa_. A tall Spanish gentleman advanced to the middle of

the floor. He wore a long blue cloak reaching to his heels. To meet

him came my lady of the yellow dress. Never had I seen Marianna

dance more rarely. They went through the difficult figures with

marvellous grace, leaping very high, advancing, retreating, sometimes

almost sinking into one another’s arms, but never touching, and

always facing one another. The hall rang with applause. I heard the

Emperor’s “bravo!”

As the general dancing resumed I brought myself beside Marianna. Old

instinct made me bow her my invitation. She held out her hands. Once

in the dance I almost regretted my boldness. She was like a wild

thing under my touch. Faster and faster we whirled, and her face

was very close to mine. I felt her hot breath on my cheeks. On my

forehead was the intoxicating touch of her flying hair. A strange

feeling of enchantment, bending my will, subverting my powers,

seemed stealing over me.

“Gualtiero,” she said out of lips all red and pearls, “Gualtiero! I

have conquered, have conquered! _Caro mio!_ let us dance and dance

forever!”

But I would not kiss her, not even when we swung under the shadowy

pillars by the musicians. The dance ended. I disengaged her arm,

alleging that I saw a great French nobleman glancing her way, and of

a truth it was probably the Comte de Ponthieu who danced with her

next. Yet despite his well-trained gracefulness, it was a very cold

and unresponding lady he led about the room.

Then as I stood watching the swaying glittering hall, the hollowness,

the mockery of all this spectacle swept across my soul with a kind

of nausea. Here were we, the noble and mighty of Christendom dancing

our nights away while God’s truth was being crucified, while human

wrong and sin went unreproved, while Dr. Luther lay at Worms with the

ban of the Empire about to be fulmined against him. I was at the end

of my masker’s mood. The dancers were already beginning to scatter

toward their several apartments. I went toward the rooms which had

been placed at my disposal by Forli.

I had drunk again from the Southern goblet. The first taste had been

sweet, but the dregs were bitter.

* * * * *

As I left the festival hall no one seemed watching me, and for an

instant a wild thought entered my mind of slipping past the guards,

and out into the wide night and freedom. But it was unlikely that I

would be allowed to pass the gate, and an unlucky attempt would make

my last condition far worse than my present. One thing, however, I

felt bound to do. Wandering around the great complex of passages,

galleries, and cabinets that made up the state apartments of the

castle, I stumbled upon a yawning serving-man, who was evidently

one of the regular denizens of the residence, and very glad to find

a soul among his new guests who could speak a word of German. From

him (with a little well-feigned questioning) I readily learned where

lay the chambers of the Abbess of Quedlinburg, and thither I took my

steps. I was not mad enough to try to penetrate the chambers of nuns,

and I knew the chances were all against accomplishing anything, but

to lie down under the same roof that covered Ilsa and make no effort

in her behalf and my own comported neither with love nor courage.

And then for once Fortuna (treacherous lady!), was not wholly unkind.

Near the entrance way to the abbess’s apartments I found a balcony

which by vast good luck actually overhung the great hall from on

high. The dancers were dispersing now; the tall candles were flaring

down in their sockets, but the weary viols were still scraping out

their last numbers. In the balcony, intent on the sights of splendor

below, I caught the leaning forms of two or three women. There was

light enough for me to see them clearly. By their dress they were

beyond doubt lay servitors of Quedlinburg, and my heart beat faster.

Now or never I must play my game. Drawing my domino closer across my

face, and adopting a rolling gait as if I were a cavalier who had

partaken too freely of the _aqua vitae_, I came up boldly.

“Holla! my fine wenches,” cried I, in affectedly broken German, “I

swear there has been a pretty sight down there under your eyes, but

not so pretty as if some of you had been dancing yourselves.”

The girls looked up, scared and simpering. They were quite of a class

to take kindly to the advances of any individual with a mustache and

the clothes of a gentleman.

“Oh! gentle sir!” began the boldest, “you make us blush. Surely you

do not mean your fine words.”

“Of a truth I do, by St. Maria. There is no countess or duchess down

below with a whiter neck and a slimmer waist than yours, my pretty.”

And here with an abandon that did me credit as an actor, I put my

sinful hand around the very body of one of the girls--to wit, Trude,

with that mingling of force and cozening which will make the average

country hussy pledge her soul.

“Oh! sir, oh! sir,” began she, turning very red, “I am a poor but

honest maid. My father is an honest man. I do not know you--”

“Come, come, my lass,” I enjoined, “I mean not the least mischief,

just that you walk with me a few turns in the gallery. If my Lady

Abbess’s maids wish to sit up late to watch his Majesty’s ball, they

surely must pay the dance-groschen afterward.”

The other women cast envious glances at Trude. She hung back an

instant, modestly fighting against the delicious flattery of being

favored by even a tipsy gentleman in such fine clothes. I knew she

dared not make outcry. Her mistress would never forgive such a breach

of decorum by her servants as watching out the imperial ball, when

they should have been in bed. In a moment I had her around the corner

of the gallery where it was dark, and with no one listening in case

she gave a little scream. Then my hand around her waist relaxed. I

spoke to her in the broad Harzland brogue. When I told her who I

was, she all but fainted; but speedily, being indeed a girl of good

fundamentals, recovered herself, and listened to me.

I told her rapidly but completely the story of how I came to be in

the castle, and explained at least a part of my former relations to

the Forlis, and my present predicament. Only the proffer made me by

the Emperor I kept hid. That was a matter I scarcely dared to open

even to my own soul. When I had finished this I began to press her to

use every means to communicate with Graf Moritz and Adolf and her

own father as to my captivity, and to urge them to set some manner of

watch to discover whither I might be carried in custody. “For though

I seem so free to-night,” I concluded, “I fear much I shall not be so

free to-morrow, but again in close custody.”

To my entreaties, however, Trude shook her head. She said the

abbess had withdrawn Ilsa from Worms because her mistress had

become thoroughly suspicious lest in some occult way her niece was

giving room to thoughts and deeds unlawful; and that Trude herself

was suffering from this same treatment. She had not been permitted

to leave the castle since entering, and as for Ilsa, her aunt had

confined her in a narrow chamber on bread and water. “No one in the

castle talks anything but Italian or Spanish gibberish,” the poor

girl asserted. “I have no friends. The sight of so many strangers

scares me. I know not what to do. Ach! _liebe Gott_, I wish we were

all safely back in the Harzland!” A sentiment wherein I am sure I

heartily joined.

Time was flying. I dared not linger with her longer. It was torturing

to know that behind closed doors, so near at hand, was my Lady Ilsa,

and that to her I could speak not one syllable; but what must be,

must. I heartened Trude as best I could, promised a great reward if

I got my liberty through her, and as a final bait told her that I

would make any young peasant on whom she might cast eyes into a rich

farmer. Then I took my leave, after sundry short but tender messages

to Ilsa. Trude could only promise “to do her best,” but I was a

little comforted. Sooner or later she at least was bound to regain

her liberty of action, and I knew she was a girl of resources and

energy.

Returning to the Forli chambers, I met the Cardinal as he was being

divested of his regalia, and he congratulated me upon my fine

appearance at the ball.

“Many spoke of ‘that elegant masked nobleman’ and how charmingly

he wore his clothes and swept down the floor with the ladies. Ah!

Gualtiero, you will win vast credit for us yet. The Emperor was more

certain than ever that he has chosen aright.”

I fear I was not enthusiastic in my answer. I slept soundly, the good

bed under me being a notable improvement upon the prison pallet. When

I awoke in the morning it was already late. One of the Cardinal’s

smiling valets was at my side to tell me that the Emperor breakfasted

shortly before noon, and that I was expected to appear then for

audience. Again an irreproachable costume had been laid out for me,

nor was anything omitted to enable me to look the part of the man

whom the sovereign delighted to honor. I did not see Forli, but I was

informed that he would be present at the audience. By the time my own

toilet was completed and I had eaten some white rolls washed down

with a little excellent wine, the noon hour was at hand and another

smiling gentleman usher conducted me into the Emperor’s breakfast

room.

I had heard that Charles was an immoderate eater, and my eyes

confirmed the tale. He sat in solitary state at a broad table,

dressed as always in immaculate black, relieved only by a small cap

of deep purple. Silent-footed pages bore in and out the large silver

platters of roasts and highly spiced pasties. His Majesty had in

truth a most Bœotian appetite, cutting off huge pieces of the hearty

dishes, thrusting into his mouth large squares of bread, and at times

signing to his body physician, a grave Bolognese, who would hand him

a silver cup of wine duly admixed with some cordial. In the open

space before the table a deformed Moorish buffoon in his motley, with

a small ape, went through a series of antics at which the Emperor

occasionally deigned a smile. When I entered Charles cast me one

glance of recognition, then went on eating heartily, while by a door

opposite I saw Forli join us. We remained standing until the Emperor

thrust back the last plate, and the pages had cleared the board. Then

the cold, penetrating eyes of Charles, those eyes so young in years,

yet old in intellect, were turned upon me. At a nod the courtiers and

pages fell back beyond range of low conversation.

“Well, Conte di Palaestro,” spoke the Emperor bluntly, in French,

“you have considered. Your answer?”

I felt as if a bowstring were tightened around my chest, but I think

my voice and mien were steady.

“May it please your Majesty, with a deep sense of the loyalty which

I owe the Emperor, and speaking with the profoundest gratitude for

the high favor I have been accorded, I am constrained to decline your

Majesty’s magnificent proffer.”

The blood mounted to Charles’s brow. The lip on his projecting jaw

curled.

“I had not expected this, Conte di Palaestro. My commands are

commonly obeyed.”

I bowed obediently. “That which the Emperor commands me as Conte or

Graf I execute with all diligence. It is when the Emperor proposes

for me a commission to Rome proper only for a prince of the blood I

feel compelled to draw back.”

Charles reached for a quill from a plate, and picked his teeth

nervously. His frown was very black. “Your reasons,” he ordered

brusquely.

“I will answer your Majesty even to the risk of offence. The Emperor

would send me to Rome to enforce certain outward reforms upon Pope

and Curia, which reforms it may prove needful to compel at the

culverin’s mouth. At the same time Martin Luther, instigator of these

reforms, is to be burned as a heretic. I would to God the venality

and worldliness of the Curia might cease, but will the Emperor

believe me in this,--the mere cleansing of the Vatican will be only

as the cooling of the forehead of a man wasting with fever; comfort

for the instant, but never the cure. We of the party of Luther would

go beyond these palliatives. It is perverted faith which has led to

perverted morals. The dogma and doctrine of the Church seem to us

wholly wrong, so utterly beyond repair we may never mend them. Let

us, therefore, turning reverently to the Scriptures, build with God’s

help a better Church, exempt from the inveterate errors of the old.”

“Holy Mother!” swore Charles, half rising. “I asked you, sirrah, for

a personal answer. I am given a heretical sermon.”

I faced him steadily. A greater than Carolus Quintus would not have

shaken me in the mood that held me then.

“Take not my refusal, Sire, as ungrateful churlishness. The Emperor’s

opinion and Luther’s differ as to the crying need of the Church. With

all loyalty to the Emperor, my conscience binds me to the opinion of

Luther.”

Charles surveyed me with mingled wonderment and wrath. “You are not

flattering, Monsieur. The Wittenberg heretic is preferred by you to

myself.”

“Then let me name a higher authority. Your Majesty would reform the

old Church. In other words, new wine should be put into very old and

rotten wineskins. A wiser and mightier than the Emperor has long

since asserted that this cannot be done.”

The Emperor laid down his knife, and his suspicious scrutiny grew

keener.

“Monsieur, if I did not know by indubitable evidence that you

had thwarted the cleverest Papal agents in your intrigues to win

the northern princes to Luther, if I did not know you had almost

persuaded Leo himself to withhold his Bull, I could scarce believe

you sane. Tell me now, on your knightly word, do you profess your

true reasons for rejecting the fairest proffer ever made by prince to

subject?”

I bowed low. “Your Majesty has been pleased to seek some hidden

motive in my words. I will speak more boldly. This man whom Rome and

the Emperor deem worthy of the fire, I, with millions of others,

esteem a saint. I have walked with him, talked with him, lived with

him. Wizard or apostle as men may call him, for _me_ at least he has

been the restorer of hope in God and of joy in living. He has made

me know that even a reformed and chastened Rome shall no more lord

it over the souls of men. I dare to enroll this banned heretic as

an apostle worthy of the right hand of God, and for Martin Luther

and his cause I will spend my uttermost powers. I know I have not

satisfied your Majesty. Yet it is better to seem even to offend the

Emperor than to pawn one’s soul.”

We confronted one another silently for a moment, then Charles spoke

with ominous mildness. “You appreciate, monsieur, that the rejection

of the proffer I have made you under the conditions which you create,

will lead to serious consequences for yourself. I cannot leave you as

a firebrand to scatter your sparks through northern Germany.”

“I am entirely aware of the Emperor’s probable disfavor. I counted

the cost before I made my answer.”

“But consider well, Conte di Palaestro. I am not wont to supplicate.

Yet I have no other instrument ready for this stroke at Rome. I have

pitched entirely on you. Do not let fantastic reasons ruin you.”

“Can the Emperor spare Dr. Luther?” I threw out, with a gleam of hope.

“Impossible. He will return to Wittenberg. Perhaps ere the ban can be

enforced, which will be some few weeks or even months, he will see

reason and recant. Otherwise there is only one law for him.”

“Then,” I responded firmly, “I shall only deceive the Emperor by

affecting to reconsider. I cannot go to Rome for your Majesty.”

All this time I had never taken my eyes from Charles, to let them

wander to the listening Forli. Now with a dry “ha!” the sovereign

turned abruptly to the Cardinal. The prelate’s round face was

exceedingly sour.

“You have heard this fellow,” spoke Charles, with a disdainful

gesture toward myself.

“_Misericordia!_ every word, Sire, oh! the foul _ammaliamento_, the

witchcraft. Perhaps when Luther is burned and returned to his father

the devil, the spell will vanish. My heart is torn at the despite he

has shown your Majesty.”

“He has at least saved his Holiness at Rome for a while from an

unpleasant hour,” spoke Charles, biting off his words one by one.

“The sapience of your Eminence will no doubt discover the precise

nature of his mad infection presently. It is sufficient that he

will not execute my commands, and he is therefore remanded to your

custody.”

The Emperor raised his hand. A Spanish guards-captain approached

instantly, and stood at attention. Then again Charles spoke. “This

nobleman here is under arrest. It is to be understood that he is

mentally unpoised and irresponsible. His Eminence of Forli has

consented to conduct him back to his friends and estates in Italy.

For many high reasons this case is to be kept from vulgar rumor. You

will take the prisoner back to the Cardinal’s apartments, and later

the Cardinal will keep him in such a manner of custody as he may

prefer, and take such measures as he may see fit for the conveyance

of this unfortunate man to Italy.”

The officer’s hands fell on my shoulder. I drew myself up calmly, and

offered him my walking sword. It was indeed a pitiful weapon, and he

almost smiled as he took it.

“You see I am not a dangerous maniac, señor,” said I, under breath;

then I bowed ceremoniously to the Emperor. He looked after me with

his hard, fishlike eyes. Never again did I meet him face to face.

Often I think of him, as he who might, had Heaven opened his vision,

have been the friend, not the foe, of the Reformation; and by his

skilful fostering of the Cause, have saved infinite tumult, and

hatred, and blood; yea, have saved Christendom from being severed

into two cursing and hostile camps. But it was not so ordered,

and let no man forget that his Spanish mother was the daughter of

Isabella the Catholic. Judge him not harshly; yet I hold he was one

of the world’s wise and mighty, who saw the hour of opportunity at

hand, and then in Dante’s phrase, “made the great refusal.”...

All the way back to his chambers Forli followed me, his face crimson,

and gnawing at his rings in sheer rage. Then he burst out, bellowing

the words into my face.

“Fool!” he cried, “fool! German, German sheep and fool!”

As for me, I walked to my captivity right happily; I had not betrayed

my soul.

* * * * *

I had expected to be flung back into my prison cell, but that was

spared me. On the contrary, I was allowed almost the same apartments

as before, except now in my rooms all the windows were so high and

small it was impossible to peer from them. There could be no illusion

as to my fate, however. Hardly had I returned from the Emperor when a

low-browed armorer entered, and stood before me sheepishly.

“It is commanded, your Lordship. Take no offence.” And with that

apology, and with a grin possibly sympathetic, he proceeded to snap

about my ankles and wrists fetters, light indeed and not painful, but

connected by thin, keenly tempered chains which effectively prevented

me from taking more than the shortest step, or even moving my hands

enough for elegant eating. Hardly was he gone, than after him came

Forli’s chief body-servant with bowl, razor, and shears, who with a

smirk fit to enrage a Socrates, bade me to submit whilst he shaved

off my mustache and beard, and clipped my hair exceeding close, thus

altering my whole appearance.

When this second emissary had departed I was fain to cast myself upon

an armchair. The touch of the steel had set all my senses tingling. I

held out my manacled wrists before my eyes as though I were gazing on

something wholly apart from my own identity.

“And yet, and yet,” I repeated aloud in a kind of wonderment, “an

hour ago, on my bare word to the Emperor ‘I accept your service,’ I

could have been envied by all the world. And now--” my voice broke in

what was neither a sob nor a laugh, “I am truly glad!”

Nor was this last hypocrisy. I was in one of those strangely exalted

states, wherein all the common goods of life seem to take on values

wholly new. I seemed a prisoner as hopelessly as if I were immured

in a Castilian Inquisition dungeon, or spiked to the bench in the

Turkish galleys. I knew there was every chance that Forli would be

able to execute his purpose of conducting me unhindered to Italy, and

once there I knew enough of the bolts and bars of Papal palazzos to

be sure of going forth a free man perhaps never, perhaps only when

my hair was bleached to snow. Yet I refused to despair, I refused to

tell myself I had played the fool and authorized Forli’s anathemas. I

knew that what I had done that day would stand justified to Ilsa, to

Luther, to God. I cared for little else. And again, even as I felt of

the strange steel upon my wrists, and heard the clink of the chains,

it was brought home to me that I was to do some other signal service

for the Cause, that in some great way, I knew not how, Luther and

I had not been sundered forever; that I must keep my head clear,

my senses alert, my courage ready. Perhaps the call would come only

after years of weary prison, perhaps in an hour; only let me not fail

to do my part.

So passed that day, and so several others, and I was buoyed up by an

unnatural kind of excitement which I think made Forli and my keepers

sadly puzzled when they looked for some sinking of spirit. Then at

length on a morning as I sat striving to read the Cardinal’s new

copy of Musæus, Forli himself entered and with him some high Italian

ecclesiastic whom I did not recognize, but who doubtless was a member

of the Papal legation. The newcomer started at sight of my ornaments,

and Forli deliberately tapped his forehead and shook his head sadly.

“The case I have mentioned. Very pitiful. A fine young cavaliere

utterly bewitched by the heretics. I am conducting him back to Italy

with as little noise as possible. We need not fear to talk freely

before him. He can do nothing.”

I understood entirely that Forli had arranged to hold the dialogue in

that place for my particular benefit, but that could not prevent me

from being all ears.

“I understand the great heretic leaves Worms to-morrow,” continued

the Cardinal.

“Even so, Eminenza. He has refused all the terms of accommodation

proffered him by the Archbishop of Trier and other prelates, who went

to the very verge of true faith to recall him. He stands steadfast in

his blasphemies.”

“Then he will return to Wittenberg, and there await the issuing of

the Imperial ban?”

“Such will happen, unless your Eminence can persuade the Emperor to

violate the safe-conduct, and surrender him immediately.”

“The Emperor is stubbornly fixed. He declares his word is pledged.

‘He does not wish to blush like Kaiser Sigismund, who surrendered

Hus at Constance.’ He will not recall his pledges.”

The other prelate shook his head. “Then Mahomet escapes. The ban

of the Empire is a fearfully slow weapon. Luther goes back to

Wittenberg, and is surrounded by his friends. There are all manner of

legal delays. Perhaps armies are raised for him in Saxony. Charles is

about to lock horns with Francis. If the first battle goes in favor

of the French, the Emperor will dare to do nothing to enrage the

Elector of Saxony. A thousand zechins that Luther goes free!”

“He shall not,” asserted Forli, with a stamp.

“I trust your Eminence can persuade the Emperor, then.”

To which the Cardinal answered with a very vulpine laugh.

“_Caro amico_, it is a true saying of old Cosimo de’ Medici that

‘you cannot govern a state with paternosters,’ nor save the Church

either, as I add. The Emperor is too scrupulous. Good, then, His

Holiness’s legate must act without him. My mission here to Worms has

been quasi-private. I can readily depart on some pretext and make

no tongues chatter. I have often travelled incognito as a French

nobleman. It will be very easy to overtake _il grande heretico_ at

some dark turn of the road, and carry him off bodily, as easily

as, well,--as I shall carry off this unfortunate crazed gentleman.

If there is danger of rescue, then,” Forli’s finger passed lightly

across his throat, “but you will see how I shall entirely prosper.

There will be a bonfire yet in the Piazza di San Pietro.”

The second Italian regarded Forli in a kind of hesitant admiration.

“You are magnificent, Eminenza, but consider the risk of scandal! The

Emperor will be furious.”

“The Emperor will know nothing for long. Nothing until our fine friar

is safe and snug in Italy or lying with his throat cut. Luther will

simply vanish from sight. Good Catholics will hold that his friend

the devil has flown off with him. Then at last when the truth leaks

out, bah! the Emperor will prove a very sensible man.”

“The Cardinal of Forli speaks with the just confidence of an

Alexander.”

“An Alexander Borgia,” quoth the other, smiling subtlely. “Come,

Monsignore, we have much more to talk of, and we will leave this poor

gentleman to compose his crazed wits by reading.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

ILSA VICTRIX

On Friday, May 3, 1521, a date never to be forgotten in my memory,

quite early in the morning the Vicomte de Barras left Marburg with

a portion of his company, on some hurried expedition, the precise

object whereof he was not careful to announce. His niece with another

portion of his cortège remained behind at the commodious _Blauer

Engel_ Inn. It was understood at the inn that there also remained

behind the unfortunate crazed gentleman, whom it was necessary to

chain and, at times, lest his cries become highly distressing,

even to gag, and whom the Vicomte was conveying to his kinsfolk in

Gascony. It is possible that some one of the inn servants imagined

that the Vicomte talked with his people in a strange dialect sounding

more Italian than French, but after all foreigners were foreigners in

a small German city, and certainly the Vicomte was charmingly free

with his money.

The good folk of Marburg would surely have marvelled much had they

known how that nobleman rode out of Worms a few days before with a

red cassock and a red hat, taking ceremonious leave of His Majesty’s

courtiers, as being about to revisit France to exercise the good

offices of the Vatican in behalf of peace. A few leagues his company

had travelled straight westward, then at a solitary spot in the

road the master of the party had given a sly laugh. The cavalcade

had halted. He of the red robe had dismounted, had exchanged his

red gown and hat for a very secular blue doublet and cloak, and a

gray hat with a rakish heron’s feather. At his side he had girded

a long Toledo. Presto! the Cardinale di Forli had vanished, the

Vicomte de Barras took command. The retainers had given a shout of

approval. The melancholy, crazed nobleman had been allowed to peer

out of the windows of his closed coach. The beautiful niece of the

Vicomte had clapped her hands, crying in admiration “_Voila, le

galant gentilhomme!_” Then the leader had remounted, and briskly led

the way, not westward now, but northward, passing close to Mainz but

not entering that city, crossing the Rhine near Bingen, not on the

regular ferry, but on the barge of some obscure water-man they hired

towards evening. They had lain over that night at Rudesheim, then

continued their travels very quietly, avoiding frequented roads,

yet occasionally halting (so their most unfortunate prisoner could

understand), to inquire of peasants and wayfarers, “Whether the

famous Dr. Luther had returned from Worms that way?”

It was misinformation upon this point which undoubtedly brought them

to Marburg, for a false rumor made that much discussed theologian

take the northerly route towards Hesse, whereas later and more

authentic tidings reported him as travelling by way of Frankfurt

and Hersfeld. When the party had come to Marburg and discovered

themselves upon a wrong scent the Vicomte was heard to indulge in

many brisk oaths, proper indeed for a secular nobleman, though they

would have been deplorable in the Cardinale di Forli. On the morning

in question the Vicomte had held a rapid colloquy with his niece,

wherein it appeared that it was necessary to overtake Dr. Luther

with speed, and also necessary to keep their crazed prisoner in sure

custody (it being possible to convey him only in the heavy closed

coach). The Vicomte therefore resolved to take his best horses and

the better part of his men and to ride post on his errand, while the

lady with her maid and four of their less active varlets would remain

to guard the prisoner and await directions as to rejoining her uncle.

At about seven in the morning the Vicomte rode away. From a chamber

window that luckily commanded a little view of the inn court the

“melancholy crazed nobleman” (so the servants called him) could

see the company depart. The Vicomte, despite his girth, carried

himself excellently on a powerful stallion. His eight followers

included three who professed themselves Frenchmen (“surely Gascons,

they were so dark”), and five Rhinelanders and Swabians, tow-pated

jail fledglings, strange birds to see in the retinue of so genteel

a cavalier, “but, after all, honest Germans did not like to take

service with foreigners, and travellers must take what rascals

presented themselves for hire.”

The prisoner saw the Vicomte depart. The clatter of hoofs died

on the cobble-paved street. Dead silence seemed to reign through

the inn broken only by the ticking of the great clock which stood

behind the door of the room occupied by the presumable madman. The

prisoner leaned on the casement, and studied for the twentieth time

the view across the red roofs of the little city to the graceful

green hill where rose Landgraf Philip’s sturdy Schloss. He had

been in Marburg before and knew that behind the inn ran the swift

green Lahn, and that the winding streets of the town made it among

the most picturesque in all picturesque Hesse. All this, however,

did not relieve the fact that he was manacled hand and foot, and

that a sullen, taciturn fellow, whose grunts seemed to prove him a

Hollander, sat by his door with a heavy partisan. This was indeed

only proper, considering the danger of the poor nobleman doing

himself a mischief, yet it could hardly raise that individual’s

spirits.

About ten o’clock, after long contemplation at the window, and after

being rewarded by nothing more exciting than the sight of a vast

flock of geese sweeping its hissing, honking way along before the

skilful snapping of the whip of the blue-kerchiefed goose girl, the

prisoner turned wearily back to the table, sat himself and began

turning a Seneca’s _De Clementia_ which his captors had thoughtfully

allowed him. The prisoner was exceeding quiet, and beyond possibly a

certain hectic flush betrayed no signs of his occasional insanity,

at least so his guardian Jan Praet may well have cogitated. From

the Weinstube below came a drinking song, indicating how Jan’s

three companions were whiling the time away. It is certain he found

watching the prisoner a tedious duty and allowed his thoughts and

gaze to wander.

About half past ten one of the inn servitors came into the room,

alleging he must fill the water jugs. Immediately he called attention

to what Jan had not noticed before, that the hand of the clock was

sadly broken and ready to fall off, a fact which (asserted the

varlet) would make the landlord exceeding angry, and likely to

visit his wrath upon the unlucky speaker as being careless. Jan was

sympathetic. The injury was such as a skilful tinker could mend in

only a few moments. Was there such a man about the inn? Jan professed

himself a stranger. The other declared that he believed there seemed

to be a clever fellow in the company “of the other great folk who

came yesterday.” He might be approached by means of an extra seidel

filched from the keg room. Would Jan object if some one came at once

to mend the clock? It would save the poor varlet at the least from a

beating.

Jan hesitated. The lady had clearly ordered it, ‘no one in the

room with this prisoner except the inn servants, and then only for

a moment.’ Still what harm would it do? ‘The poor gentleman was

always so melancholy and silent. “Jan would look the other way, if

he also had had an extra seidel and the fellow were quick about his

business.”’

The varlet went out. The prisoner indeed sat very still. For days

now the prisoner had been extremely still. Possibly in his heart he

had resolved upon a policy of absolute passivity and non-resistance,

until his guardians, convinced that the iron had sunk deep into his

soul, should cease to maintain their catlike vigilance. In any case

he seemed very intent upon the _De Clementia_.

Presently there was another rap upon the door. The question of Jan

was answered in very broken German, that ‘here was one who could

mend the clock.’ A strange, bent, red-headed man entered, who cast a

single sidling glance upon the prisoner, then turned away, leaving

the prisoner to stare at him and wonder, “where have I seen those

eyes before.” He laid down a few tools and addressed himself to the

clock. Jan affected to be interested; “Are you a regular tinker?”

“_Mon dieu!_ no! I am in the company of her Reverence the Abbess who

came yesterday. I have only a little skill in such matters.”

“So you are another Frenchman?”

“_Oui_,” the prisoner however could swear as to the Italian accent.

“I am a right Norman, from Rouen; do not insult me by calling me a

Gascon like those rascals with the Vicomte.”

The prisoner now was staring at the stranger very hard, but Jan did

not observe him.

“Surely it is tedious here,” commented the tinker, removing the hand

from the clock. “Is this poor gentleman often violent?”

“They tell me he is. Anyway I am well paid to watch him.”

“A fly could watch him, he is so firmly chained.”

“Well, orders are orders. You must hasten. Finish with the clock.”

“Mon ami,” quoth the other, “I can never finish with anything while

that sweet breath of yours is coming over my shoulder, and you are

watching every turn of my fingers. Ha! what’s that by the door. A

pigeon, I swear.”

“A pigeon, I don’t understand.”

“A pigeon in petticoats, oaf! Look and see if I’m right.”

A comely maid was indeed lingering just outside the door. The hang of

her red kirtle, the droop of her mouth, said one thing clearly, “Come

and talk to me.” Jan did not wait for a second invitation.

By this time the prisoner had lost all interest in Seneca’s _De

Clementia_.

Still with his back to the prisoner the red-headed stranger spoke

suddenly though softly, and this time all his words were Italian.

“Eccellenza, have the chains that confine your feet spread out

smoothly on the floor so that it will take only one blow to sever

them.”

* * * * *

As in kind of a trance I listened to Andrea while he talked in low

whispers, interrupting his utterances frequently by loud pounding

with his tools.

“So your Excellency is surprised? Ah! it was not so hard, not,

that is, after Trude at last got to us; Andrea had been suspicious

already. Graf Moritz wished to go to the Emperor with loud outcry. I

dissuaded. There was no water in that well. Did il Cardinale think

he could get away from Worms by such a shallow devise? Bah! did

not a man in our hire track him? But we could not follow always.

We must needs separate. Graf Moritz took the road to Giessen, I

found the Abbess of Quedlinburg leaving Worms, and needing a groom.

Very easy to win her service. Said I was a Norman pilgrim bound

for St. Sebald’s in Dantzic and working my way. She was pious and

unsuspecting. I have talked with Donna Ilsa. She is very brave,

worthy to be born in Siena. Yesterday I was sure il Cardinale was

going to Marburg; I told the abbess the roads were better this way.

The rest? Ecco! The moment your feet are free we escape across the

passage to Donna Ilsa’s room. It is not so high above the ground as

this. Easy to clamber down. Horses are below. Off for Giessen. A deed

worthy of Andrea!”

All this time I spoke never a word, but watched the doorway across

which Jan, as by a potent loadstone, was being slowly drawn. Trude

simpered and smirked, answered his clumsy compliments with broad

blushes, turned away her head when he beamed most tenderly; in short

no trout on the hook was ever played more skilfully than the unwary

Jan. His great bulk disappeared from the doorway. I could hear his

feet going haltingly down the hall towards a convenient window, where

his back would be toward the door, and he could lean delightfully

out the casement with a very pretty face near to his. Andrea, whose

red hair dye I was admiring vastly, and who looked a veritable

Norman, continued assiduously at his work and whispering, sometimes

straightening the offending clock-hand with resounding blows, until I

saw his whole form squirm like a cat’s. Jan was at the window.

“Now!” He turned like lightning. I stretched my feet, holding the

chain taut on the hard oak floor. A hatchet of notable edge and

temper flashed once, then descended. A blow worthy of a mastersmith!

The chain at my ankles sprang into two glittering fragments.

Bounding to his feet Andrea caught the ends of the chains and thrust

them in a twinkling into my shoes, then seized me by the shoulder

and without saying a word half led half carried me across the narrow

passage. Three long strides did it. By some occult power the door

opposite flew open. I saw a figure in black standing behind it. Into

the strange room,--and all I could see for an instant was a white,

white face shining out from under the black coif.

“Ilsa!” “Walter!” Andrea was bolting the door, while we sprang into

one another’s arms. Oh, that moment, that moment! Gladly would I have

paid for it with a captivity not of days, but of years!

Yet the period of our joy was one of a fleeting minute. Andrea was

far too devoted a rescuer to let his fair project fail through

overmuch lover’s ardor.

“Away! away! Eccellenza! Release him, Donna! Instants are precious.

Jan may discover at any time. The Conte must have his wrists free

in order to clamber down the vine trellis. There is much to do.” He

clapped his hand to his belt, then actually turned pale, “Diavolo!”

“What has happened?” cried Ilsa, first to win back her tongue.

“Call me the prince of fools!” raged Andrea. “I have left the pincers

wherewith to clear the Conte’s hands in the other room.”

“Cannot I get down without them?” I demanded; but a glance from the

window at a gnarled mass of vines that descended a sheer twenty feet

convinced me that while an active man could do the deed easily, it

were madness to try it manacled.

“I will lose no time,” proclaimed Andrea, unbolting again. “I go and

return in a trice; Trude can detain Jan a thousand years.”

Boldly enough he flung open the door, only to recoil in absolute

consternation. In our excitement and raptures we had heard no steps

without; we were face to face with no less a personage than her

Reverence the Abbess Theckla, and her companion nun, the dried old

Sister Hemma. What fiend had prompted them to visit Ilsa at this

instant, time lacked to discover. They crossed the threshold before

even Andrea recovered enough to close against them. Face to face we

all stood, while one could count a slow twenty, before they found

wits and we breath enough to speak a word. Then the abbess spoke,

shaking all over with struggling passions. “Holy Mother! What--what

is this!”

Moving by a kind of instinct I strode beside Ilsa. My hands were not

too bound to place them upon her shoulders.

“Reverend Mother,” spoke I tensely, “what you see is the Graf von

Regenstein and his affianced wife.”

But the horrified groan of the lady abbess was drowned by the scream

of Sister Hemma. With a shriek that might have stirred the dead she

flew out through the door, and instantly the inn resounded with her

howlings.

“The maniac! The maniac! He is loose! He is assaulting Sister Ilsa!”

Almost at her flying skirts went Andrea. “He saves himself!” were the

ungrateful words that came springing to my lips, when from the door

of my former prison room I saw him bounding back again. In the left

hand he grasped the pincers, in the right the huge partisan which in

his unlucky moment Jan had discarded. But Jan had roused and turned

like a startled wild boar. With a great roaring he made after Andrea,

but the Sienese with a flying leap was before him. We slammed our

door in Jan’s face, and bolted it, whilst he beat on it, cursed, and

yelled like a fiend.

In the inn below reigned indescribable confusion. “The maniac is

loose!” twenty were bawling, and we heard the trampling of feet.

Abbess Theckla made wild passes with her hands toward us. She would

have flown at my throat, had not her strength failed her. In the

tumult we could not follow her desperate reproaches. Andrea, whose

brain had never faltered, approached me.

“They will be forcing the door in a moment, Eccellenza. It will go

better if I release your hands.”

“You cannot save me,” I commanded; “save yourself. It can still be

done. Get to Giessen and Graf Moritz. Tell him the Cardinale di

Forli, passing as the Vicomte de Barras, has ridden in quest of

Luther to seize or slay him. Away instantly or Luther is lost!”

“It will be wiser to remain, and to save both the Conte and perhaps

Luther also,” observed Andrea imperturbably, at the word wrenching my

left wrist free; “now for the right.”

By this time there was a rush of feet in the passage, and a confused

shouting. A good dozen were without the door, and while it was

relatively solid and fitted with a heavy bolt, it was not proof

against well-used axes. I shook my right hand clear. The sense of

freedom sent the blood springing through my veins. Again I was

myself, my own master, and on my powers that day hung not my own life

only, but the life of Luther, and the hope and honor of the woman I

loved. Should I be caught here again like a caged rat, to be drowned

at the bidding of my captors? Not so! All my trust in God, all the

blood of the Regenstein ritters of old cried out against it. With

liberty so nigh, I could not dare to fail!

“Andrea,” I spoke, seizing the partisan he had so opportunely brought

us. “We must play fox and lion alike. You are the first. I will be

the second. Let us at least make our guests outside to hesitate. Ten

minutes may be worth ten thousand ducats.” Then I raised my voice,

“Ho! you without there. If there is any honest German present not in

foreign hire let him talk to me. I can prove readily enough that I am

not crazed. This Vicomte de Barras is no French cavalier. He is of

the spawn of Rome, a Pope’s legate, and he has ridden off to seize

Dr. Luther. You who love Dr. Luther stand back, and do not damn your

souls by helping his arch enemies.”