He paused to help himself to some strong waters from a silver decanter. I was glad of the respite. More clearly than ever I knew I was facing some mortal crisis. I bowed my head as if resting, but it was to seek also a strength beyond strength of man. Hardly had Forli refreshed himself when a Spanish gentleman, immaculately clad from cap to heels in gray, bowed himself into the room. “I have the honor to transmit the Emperor’s commands,” spoke he in French, but accompanying with a profound Castilian reverence, “that the Conte di Palaestro wait on him immediately.” Forli rose, waving me a kind of god-speed with his hand. “Be sensible, Gualtiero,” he enjoined; “do not be swayed by silly sentiment. I will have Marianna meet you when you quit His Majesty.” * * * * * I was in the presence of the man who had it in his certain power to order my execution, to fling me into unending prison, to consign me to exile: Charles of Hapsburg. I had seen him at the Diet, but only from a distance, and my thoughts had all been for Luther. Now we were face to face. He was seated at a low desk covered with papers, in a small room conspicuous by its plainness. A gorgeously dressed courtier kept the door; a sprucely dressed secretary stood at his elbow to supply any documents needed out of several capacious leathern portfolios, but the Emperor was dressed in dead black, with almost monkish simplicity. From the heavy golden chain at his neck, as sole ornament dangled a copper medal of some patron saint. When I was announced, he glanced up, nodded a very brief recognition, then went on writing. I was able to survey his person at leisure. Here was a young man just of age, of middle stature, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a high, intellectual forehead. His nose was decidedly aquiline. The whole aspect of his countenance was pale, grave, melancholy, yet withal commanding. The eyes were blue and keen, the hair blond, almost reddish. I instantly recognized the projecting lower jaw, with its thick heavy lip, the true family mark of the princely Hapsburgs. The lower part of his face was veiled by a very thin beard. Barring the light hair there was nothing German about him. “A Spaniard at his heart,” thought I, and I believe history will testify I was right. He continued writing until I had become tense and uneasy with the waiting; then I saw him fold the paper with his own hands and give it to the waiting secretary. Very deliberately then he pushed back his leaden inkstand and fastened his eyes on me. His gaze was deep, inscrutable; it was impossible to call it either hostile or friendly. “The Conte di Palaestro?” asked he in Italian. I bowed. “Do you speak French?” he continued in that tongue. “I prefer it.” “I am fortunate, your Majesty, in having passing command of the language.” “Good, then. We may converse.” “I attend the Emperor’s pleasure.”