Despite adverse omens, I omitted no precaution to improve my chances. I learned that the Bull against Luther was being cast in final shape by Cardinal Accolti after a contest with Cardinal Pucci, both jealous of their own skill as Latinists. The document might go to Leo at any moment for final action. I therefore at once despatched a messenger to the Pope’s hunting lodge, La Magliana (six miles up the Tiber) requesting an immediate audience. As a token of loyalty I sent also a manuscript of the Third Philippic of Demosthenes, which I had purchased at Genoa, and which contained at least five paragraphs lacking in the best copy in the Vatican. I was rewarded by a speedy reply that “His Holiness would graciously see me to-morrow at noon in the interval between the morning and afternoon hunting.” In dealing with Leo, I at least understood my man. Any high moral appeal would be valueless, not because he was in any sense immoral or evil loving, but because he was essentially a temporal politician, despite a large admixture of the tastes of an æsthete. To make this clever, urbane, pleasure-loving son of Lorenzo the Magnificent comprehend the soul-searchings of Luther was a task beyond angels. Yet I believed Leo had his approachable side. “Let us then enjoy this Papacy, seeing that God has given it to us” had been his alleged remark when told of his election: and if only I could convince the very secular and ambitious prince that banning Luther was pouring oil on a truly great political flame, he might still be turned aside to conciliation. This seemed my only chance. In the morning I let Andrea dress me with the informal elegance befitting an informal interview. “And my own livery to-day, Eccellenza?” he asked. “None at all,” I answered, and then even as his face lengthened and protests began, I cast a glance about to be sure my other valets were absent. “Andrea,” I continued, a hand on his shoulder, “you will have other work. Either your master returns to you to-night the happiest man in Italy, or he will return wholly defeated. Yet not defeated only: every Dominican will be crying, ‘To San Angelo with him.’ Nay, they may think it a case for Orlando the Moor.[9] For it is no light thing which I risk this day. You will have ready fast horses, a few trusty varlets, travel money, passports, everything needful for a swift journey, so that I may leave Rome most suddenly before the Monsignori can form too many schemes against me. You understand?” “_Si, si_, Eccellenza!” He bowed so low I could see his nose sticking betwixt his legs. I knew I needed to say nothing more to him. Leaving him therefore to care for all I had suggested, I took my way out to La Magliana.