The morning of the short winter day dawned gray and tolerably warm. A damp mist was driving across the Elbe marshlands, and above it the towers of the two Wittenberg churches and the tops of the tall poplars by the river loomed like great dim cones floating upon clouds. Long before the time set, the crowds were in motion, from Von Steinitz in his fur-lined cloak, and the pompous city “Honorability” to the begging itinerant students, ragged at knee and elbow. All lectures had ceased in the University. Down Collegien-strasse we streamed, a silent, thoughtful multitude. The mist had lifted a little by the time we passed the eastern Elster-gate, outside of which stood the little Chapel of the Holy Cross. Hard by was a small pest-house used in days of the plague, and before it an open space where infected clothing had been burned. On this appropriate spot the zealous students had heaped dry wood, well soaked with pitch--a goodly pyre. We stood in a wide circle, drawing our cloaks about us, while waiting the little procession from the Augustinian Convent. There was no long delay. About a dozen of Luther’s theological friends, capped and gowned according to their masterships and doctorates, accompanied their friend and leader. He carried his head high, and his body a trifle rigid. Never had I seen a deeper light in his eyes. No elaborate ceremonies delayed him. Perhaps by the mere simplicity of his act he desired to mark the antithesis to the ponderous ceremonial and procedure of the Church whereon he was declaring war. The crowd opened to let him pass. His arms were full of books,--I could guess their titles, “Gratian’s Decretals of the Canon Law,” “Thomas Aquinas,” “Albertus Magnus,” and the other great schoolmen whose teachings had been to Rome a front and rear ward. Silent stood we all, while he advanced and laid them on the pyre, then stepped back. A man in a master’s robe appeared with a firebrand, and cast it far into the pyre. The flames caught instantly. They mounted crackling toward the winter heavens. Soon they roared in a mighty blaze. Then we saw Dr. Luther approach again. From under his cloak he drew a scroll and held it aloft that all might witness--those near enough could behold the Papal arms, and the seal of Leo de’ Medici. It was the Bull of Excommunication. Out into the flames he flung it, as one would fling a snake, while his great voice sounded to the confines of the breathless crowd:-- “_Because thou has troubled the Holy One of God, may the eternal fire consume thee!_” The Pope had excommunicated Martin Luther. Martin Luther had excommunicated the Pope. He stood a little while in a kind of revery, watching the dancing fire until books and scroll had glowed away to ashes; then amid a tense silence of the people he wrapped his black cassock about him, and followed by his friends went quietly back to the convent.