“And I, Ilsa von Blankenburg,” she spoke a trifle shrilly, token of her inner strain, “do promise that I will ever bear you on my heart, will ever pray for you and for the Cause you say may set us free. Yes, I will even dare to hope also. And do you, Walter, go forth to your knightly battle, for Luther, and righteousness, and God; a warfare nobler than those Crusades against the distant infidel, on which once rode your ancestors and mine. And if the day ever comes when I may join you as your honored bride, I am ready. And if not--then is left to us the fair Hereafter.” I rose. We kissed again, then joined hands and spoke in concert, “The Lord watch between thee and me while we are absent, one from the other.” “Sister Ilsa! Sister Ilsa!” called a cracked voice from within; “dismiss that greasy beggar and his tales. Has he bewitched you? The service is half chanted.” “I come immediately,” she answered. Without more ado, she gathered her black robe around her and was gone down the dark passage. I was left standing in the bleak roadway. “Ei! my fine pilgrim,” cried the gate-keeper as I went down, “you were well fed and gossiped by that Sister Ilsa, I warrant.”... Late that night I had regained the Regenstein. After warming myself at the roaring hearth fire I dismissed my servants, and clambered alone up dizzy stairs and blind ladders to the topmost parapet of the black donjon. Below me lay the vast pile of the sleeping castle, and around spread the snow peaks, their frosted contours sparkling back the innumerable stars. Not a sound of beast nor man, nor even of the wind broke the awesome stillness. For many moments I stood in profound thought, then I prayed, not kneeling, but aloud and lifting up my hands to the great dark dome on high. “Oh! God,” I prayed, “Thou God who by the stirring of my soul and the word of Martin Luther hast plucked me out of the Italian paganism and mire, who has made a man of me, set to do a man’s part, accept this proffer of my uttermost powers even to do Thy will, not mine. Nevertheless if it be possible, if it be that the Cause shall triumph and men’s souls be redeemed from error and fear, grant that Thy mercy descend on Ilsa von Blankenburg, for her need is great. If pain must be, let it be mine to bear it, not hers. Yet if it be Thy will, let the bondage which withstands our happiness vanish away.” Then presently I prayed again. “O Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!” Gone was the lore of Plato, Aristotle, Plotinus, Lucretius, and all their peers; gone that accursed confidence in my own wit, wisdom, and abilities; gone everything save a knowledge that I was an insufficient, fallible, sinful man whose only hope was in the help of Heaven. I went down from the tower, and sought my bed. The memorable day ended with a peaceful, refreshing sleep. FOOTNOTES: [10] A name often given greedy begging monks and pilgrims. CHAPTER XXV