I bowed low. “Your Majesty has been pleased to seek some hidden motive in my words. I will speak more boldly. This man whom Rome and the Emperor deem worthy of the fire, I, with millions of others, esteem a saint. I have walked with him, talked with him, lived with him. Wizard or apostle as men may call him, for _me_ at least he has been the restorer of hope in God and of joy in living. He has made me know that even a reformed and chastened Rome shall no more lord it over the souls of men. I dare to enroll this banned heretic as an apostle worthy of the right hand of God, and for Martin Luther and his cause I will spend my uttermost powers. I know I have not satisfied your Majesty. Yet it is better to seem even to offend the Emperor than to pawn one’s soul.” We confronted one another silently for a moment, then Charles spoke with ominous mildness. “You appreciate, monsieur, that the rejection of the proffer I have made you under the conditions which you create, will lead to serious consequences for yourself. I cannot leave you as a firebrand to scatter your sparks through northern Germany.” “I am entirely aware of the Emperor’s probable disfavor. I counted the cost before I made my answer.” “But consider well, Conte di Palaestro. I am not wont to supplicate. Yet I have no other instrument ready for this stroke at Rome. I have pitched entirely on you. Do not let fantastic reasons ruin you.” “Can the Emperor spare Dr. Luther?” I threw out, with a gleam of hope. “Impossible. He will return to Wittenberg. Perhaps ere the ban can be enforced, which will be some few weeks or even months, he will see reason and recant. Otherwise there is only one law for him.” “Then,” I responded firmly, “I shall only deceive the Emperor by affecting to reconsider. I cannot go to Rome for your Majesty.” All this time I had never taken my eyes from Charles, to let them wander to the listening Forli. Now with a dry “ha!” the sovereign turned abruptly to the Cardinal. The prelate’s round face was exceedingly sour. “You have heard this fellow,” spoke Charles, with a disdainful gesture toward myself. “_Misericordia!_ every word, Sire, oh! the foul _ammaliamento_, the witchcraft. Perhaps when Luther is burned and returned to his father the devil, the spell will vanish. My heart is torn at the despite he has shown your Majesty.” “He has at least saved his Holiness at Rome for a while from an unpleasant hour,” spoke Charles, biting off his words one by one. “The sapience of your Eminence will no doubt discover the precise nature of his mad infection presently. It is sufficient that he will not execute my commands, and he is therefore remanded to your custody.”