Many are the fair cities of Germany, but few I think nobler situate than ancient Quedlinburg, on the eastern verge of the Harzland. They say old King Henry the Fowler founded the town, and his son, the first Otto, transported hither the nuns of Wenthussen, giving them the queenly abbey which dominates the burghers’ houses and the markplatz from its steep, nigh unapproachable, hill. All around below this convent-citadel spreads the rolling farm country, and to south and west open the noble summits of the Harz, at this time sparkling again under their mantle of snow. The twin towers of the abbey church rose from the crest like two slim fingers pointing towards the blue, silent monitors of the way to heaven. It was a perfect winter’s day. Cold but very still. The smoke from the chimneys mounted upward in straight columns until it faded away, a gray mist in the sun-shot heavens. In the market-place, before the ancient brick Rathaus, donkeys wheezed as they brought in their loads, geese and hens cackled, pigs squealed, housewives and market women upraised shrill voices as they debated the price of eggs or of frozen herring. Every one was too busy to pay attention to a beggar who came stealing out of the horse stalls by the _Weisser Engel_, especially as this same beggar avoided any attention. The beggar was myself. “Playing with fire?”--I surely knew it. I had told myself it was treason to the Cause a hundred times. But, good God, what stuff was I made of? When, on my return to the Regenstein, I had met a letter telling me to postpone for two weeks my projected mission to the Palatinate, could I sit cooling my heels in lonesome grandeur in my chilly hall of state, with no brisker company than Adolf? Risks I ran, and I candidly confessed them. Discovery would doubtless ruin utterly my influence for the Cause, and yet I felt that Dr. Luther, if consulted, would have bidden me “go in God’s name,” and have only prayed the harder if I seemed thrusting into peril. As I moved cautiously from the inn, the spirit of adventure rose within me. My disguise was admirable, and I conceived that some slight experience as Harlequin and Pantalone in divers polite comedies and maskings at Rome enabled me to carry the part. I was arrayed as a wandering pilgrim, begging his way from shrine to shrine, and what with very tattered brown mantle and hose, a capacious bag for alms, a heavy staff and a villainous trim on my beard, I think I fairly looked the part. As I went up the street I even paused at an open door where a rosy-cheeked young matron was scrubbing the lintel, and held out my bag, just to gain practise and courage. “_Panem propter Deum_--bread for God’s sake, gracious mistress,” I whined through my nose, and she looked up at me quickly. “You are a genuine pilgrim, poor man,” quoth she; “surely your cloak is ragged enough.”