Not that evening but in the clear warm morning sunlight was the final issue drawn. I was there with Philip Melanchthon and Dr. Nicolaus Amsdorf, a careful young theologian who had become Luther’s left arm, if Melanchthon was his right. Dr. Martin had taken us on a walk through the brilliant green country down toward the swirling Elbe. As we walked out of the Eastern Gate two curly headed children, the boy and girl of some parishioner, ran out to their stalwart friend and nestled up by him, one on either side. They went along with us for a while right merrily, talking about their school, their plays and how their big sister was going to marry a Dessau hops-merchant. Luther twined his big fingers in their long hair, pinched their red cheeks, and asked innumerable questions. Then he told them a story of how the night before he had dreamed of a bright and glorious city, wherein were a hundred million boys and girls like themselves with marvellous toys wherewith they never grew weary playing, and most beautiful clothes which never grew soiled. And he had asked a holy man present (he thought he was an angel), if the little folk of Wittenberg could some day enter into that city too? “Yes,” had been the answer, “but many years hence, after they were grown up, and only then if they obeyed their parents, learned of their teachers, and loved the dear God.” Our artless companions listened open-eyed and trustful, ever asking for “more stories,” until at last their attention was diverted by some gorgeous butterflies, and away they went, hot on the chase. Dr. Martin was looking after them very earnestly. “Is it not written,” he asked, “‘of such is the kingdom of heaven,’ and again, ‘a little child shall lead them’? Good, they have led us here! And if it is not God who has led us to-day through them, I am sure it is not the devil. The devil is far too gloomy a gentleman to show his ugly nose on so fine a day. Come, Philip; come, all of us. Let us sit on these old timbers and deliberate, for we are not as the old Persians, who took advice only in their cups.” Before us was the rapid river, with here and there a brown, lumber-laden barge drifting toward Magdeburg. A northern wind made the open sun delightful. We sat for some time in a contemplative mood, saying little. At last Dr. Luther broke the silence. “Hearken, noble and learned friends of a poor and simple friar. Here I am told that a Bull has been fashioned against me at Rome. A Bull very terrible, such as princes and kings might well quake to have launched against them, let alone the son of poor Hans Luther, the miner of Eisleben. That being the case, if I am to save soul and body, tell me what I am to do, having neither soldiers nor gulden to avoid the onslaught?” The words were lightly said, but I knew not so lightly meant. It was for no mere summer stroll we had been taken out that day. Amsdorf, ever cautious, began dryly.