Whilst brother Ambrosius was yet looking anxiously from the windows of his cell, over the pines of the Black Forest into the free expanse, another was riding out of the gate of a princely castle near the woodclad mountains of Thuringia. Behind him lay the dark _Drachenschlucht_; before him the long ridge of the magic Hoerselberges, wherein dwelt an enchantress, to whom the Pope, that wicked forgiver of sins, had once driven back the repentant Tannhaeuser. But the dry stick which the Pope had then thrust into the ground, brought forth green foliage during the night; God himself confuted the Pope. The poor penitent man no longer required the Bishop of Rome to enable him to find mercy and grace from his heavenly Father; but the wicked Pope himself would descend into the jaws of the old dragon. The exterior of the man who was riding down from Wartburg to Wittenberg, shall be described by a young student who was travelling with a friend from Switzerland to Saxony. His narrative is well known, yet we must not omit it here. His name was John Kessler; he was born at St. Gallen, in 1502; his parents were poor citizens; he attended the school of the monastery there, studied theology at Basle, and went early in the spring of 1522 with a companion to Wittenberg, to continue his studies under the Reformers. In the autumn of 1523, he returned to his native town, and as the new doctrines had not yet taken root there, being very poor he determined to learn a trade, and became a saddler. He soon collected a small community round him, taught and preached, laboured in his workshop, wrote books, and became at last schoolmaster, librarian and member of a council of education. He had an unpretending, pure nature, with a heart full of love and gentle warmth, but he took no active part in the theological controversies of his time. His narrative begins as follows:-- "When we were travelling to Wittenberg to study the Holy Scriptures, we arrived at Jena in Thuringia, in, God knows how wild a storm; and after many inquiries in the city for a lodging wherein we might pass the night, we could not find any; everywhere lodging was denied us, for it was Shrovetide,[25] when pilgrims and strangers were little cared for. So we determined to leave the town, and endeavour to reach a village where they would lodge us. In the mean while we met at the gate an honest man, who spoke kindly to us, and inquired where we were going so late, as there was neither house nor farm that we could reach before night; besides which, it was a road that was difficult to find; therefore he advised us to remain there.