It is told in the Gospels how Our Lord and His disciples ascended upon the Mount of Transfiguration, where were scenes passing the imaginings of man, even the apparition of Moses and Elias out of Paradise. Then after the cloud, the divine voice and the glory, they must needs go down from the mountain, and lo! the world was not changed, men were still eating, sorrowing, blundering as of old, and the father of the demoniac boy was waiting to tell of his miserable burden. So in small measure it was even with us after that afternoon in Worms. The next morning we looked forth, expecting, as it were, to behold a new heaven and a new earth, but half to our astonishment we were in the former bustling, tale-mongering, intriguing city, the Spanish courtiers were idling near the palace gate, the Swiss halberdmen were over their beer in the taverns even as before. We were in the same imperfect world as ever, and if the vision of glory did not vanish from memory, surely the brightness of its reality was a little tarnished. I awoke late, and rubbed an aching head. I could at least comfort myself that I was not paying the price of a carouse. Amsdorf was silent and moody when we breakfasted, Andrea, who served us, was heavy-eyed; even Dr. Luther (who joined us when we were nearly finished) had little to say, although he professed to have slept tolerably. Our remarks were very commonplace. Later in the morning I wrote a long letter to my deputy at the Regenstein, touching the new road I was causing to be built around my snug dominions, and idled away an hour with an armorer who tried to sell me a new fowling cross-bow. Even the report that there was another meeting of the Diet called for that same day to deliberate on Dr. Luther’s answer did not rouse my interest. My master had spoken his word, and I knew that he had enshrined himself forever in the hearts of Germany. What the Diet, dominated by a half-Flemish, half-Spanish Emperor, and a great coterie of horrified prince-bishops might resolve, did not for the moment greatly matter. If it voted Luther a heretic, the German nation would thunder back the answer. As I sat toying with the new cross-bow, I caught myself levelling it nonchalantly at imaginary Spanish pikemen, who were striving to storm Wittenberg, and my mind revelled in vast imaginary slaughter. But about noon I had a visitor who shook me quickly enough out of my lethargy,--Moritz von Blankenburg. The sight of that honest, heavy-handed, hard-working young nobleman was ever welcome to me, let alone his kinship to my Lady Ilsa. He had been one of the spectators in the great hall of audience, had seen me in Luther’s company, and had found our lodgings without trouble. Our first words were naturally full of enthusiasm over the words and deeds of my master.