“Priario,” quoth he, after a pause, “what do you reply?” The legalist’s slow jaws opened sententiously. “Holy Father, the Conte has argued of things impossible. Germany will not espouse the cause of this desperate friar. If Germany did, her fate would become a by-word and hissing through Christendom. As Vicar of Christ and responsible to God for the feeding of His sheep, your duty is plain. Let me cast it in a syllogism. _Prima_, the Church plainly teaches heretics must burn. _Secunda_, Luther is manifestly a heretic. _Conclusio_, Luther must burn! No other answer is possible.” “Well, Gualtiero,” asked the Pope nervously, “what have you to say?” “That Luther is not a heretic until the Pope formally declares him such, and there are many reasons why this should not be done.” “Ah, if I had not to decide! If I had not to decide!” Leo’s hesitancy was painful to behold. The apartment was very still. Priario and I stood silent. Then all unwarned a clear, sweet blast from a huntsmen’s bugle pealed in at the casement. Long and silvery it rang,--the summons for the grooms to prepare the horses for the afternoon chase. As at an omen the Pope seized the pen. Even as the notes died I saw him signing the packet. He cast it from him with a sigh of relief. “The hunt is waiting. I can dally no longer. Your arguments are impossible. _Fiat justitia!_ Let the heretic burn.” Priario’s eyes shot flames of triumph, as he caught up the paper. “ROME HAS SPOKEN!” he proclaimed so that all could hear him. “Rome has spoken,” I answered him, a little hoarsely, “but mark you, Monsignore, Germany will speak to-morrow.” * * * * * That evening, just at sundown, I turned on my horse as my company rode up the Janiculum. By the church of San Pietro in Montorio we halted for a moment. Below me in the evening light I saw spread far the Holy and Eternal City, the domes and towers of the churches, the great mass of the Vatican, the tawny pile of the Colosseum, the innumerable palaces, the monuments of eld; behind all, the Latin hills and the deepening blue and gold of the Italian sky. My heart was stirred. I knew I was leaving Rome and Italy forever. Unhappy Leo, generous prince, munificent art patron, lover of poetry, kindly master! How as secular king or Emperor would not thy name be praised! And thou, O Italia! Italia! thou with thy hot bright beauty, beauty of sky and mountain and river, beauty of artist, of sculptor, of poet, thou land set to lead the world up to the God-like, thou to whom God hast given every grace, every talent! Over thee Christ must have wept as over Jerusalem, having promised to cherish thee “even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings,--and thou wouldest not.”