“Never am I ‘Father’ to such as you. Call me Brother. ‘Brother Martin,’ your brother in Christ, by whose dear name we are taught to have hope in heaven. And now talk to me, Walter, talk to me even as a man talketh to his friend.” “Walter?” So to this heretic friar I was not Graf von Regenstein, but only brother and familiar friend. The thought brought infinite joy. I stood again, and let him lead me to a hard oaken bench. And there we sat down together, his arm around my shoulders, even as my father’s had been the night before he departed to his last battle. And once started, all the tale of my youth came out. Frivolities or worse at Florence and Rome that must have vexed my companion’s very ears; the story of my career with Marianna; the circumstances of my banishment to Germany; my hour of temptation at Mainz and how I had yielded; and finally how I had quitted Palaestro, and my last sad encounter with Ilsa. Then silence at length, after I had poured out the very dregs of my spirit. At last Dr. Martin’s deep voice answered me. “They are very joyful in heaven this night.” “What do you mean?” “Is it not written, ‘joy shall be in heaven over one wanderer that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance?’” “Ah, yes, Brother Martin, but being sorry is not being healed. You have taught me the folly of the indulgence papers that have salved so many. I am very sick.” “Sick indeed _liebe_ Walter; and it is not easy to name the saint for your ailment. St. Antonius avails they say for swollen limbs, St. Blasius for a stiff neck; but whom save the Lord Christ for the illness of the soul.” “You speak of Him. He is very far away and strange. Socrates I can understand, and Plato and Plotinus. I can see in divers saints of the Church examples to honor, nay imitate; but the Lord Himself--it is hard.” Dr. Martin’s strong hand clinched. “Oh! Rome, this is thy handiwork--the building of high bulwarks ’twixt the soul that seeks and the God that loves. Have you, Walter, ever _believed_ that you believed the formal teachings of the Church?” “In a blind and formal way, yes. They have never entered into my life.” My companion gave a bitter laugh. “You remember the story told by Erasmus. A man lay dying. The devil came to him, striving to trip him into some heresy, then snatch his soul. Thus they debated, the devil asking, ‘What do you believe?’ ‘What the Church believes.’ ‘And what does the Church believe?’ ‘What I believe.’ ‘And what then _do_ you believe?’ ‘Why, what the Church believes.’--The chain seems endless. You are brought to a trackless desert, starving and without water.” “Even so.” “Well, then, Walter mine, a great sinner am I, but not Erasmus’s devil; so answer me. Is there nothing you truly believe in, beyond the certitude of your own wretchedness?” “Yes, one thing. I cannot say with sincerity ‘I believe in God,’ but I can say to all the world ‘I believe in Martin Luther.’”