“Then Tetzel must continue to play the Simon Magus with his lecherous villainy?” “For a while, yes. One must endure him now, as one bears the plague. He is mortal.” “But meantime he will continue to hoodwink and plunder from thousands?” “I presume so.” The friar seemed to grow a foot taller. Thunderbolts seemed springing out of his countenance. Unconsciously he lifted his hands on high, and raised his voice as in the pulpit before his people. “Oh! dear Lord Jesus Christ: when Thou didst die for sinful me upon the cross, shall I draw back from my sworn task when Thy word is being defied, Thy little children led astray, Thy holy gospel brought into contempt, and the devil’s wolves and hirelings are raging within the fold, and all because this noble Graf here says it will blast my chance of worldly greatness, and even expose me to the slanders of evil men. Oh! let rather this poor carcass of mine, which folk call Martin Luther, go straight to the scorching flame, than that I show such contempt for all Thy love, sacrifice, and bloody sweat.” Never in my life--and though not old, I had lived through many a strange scene--had I experienced the sensations I did when that trumpet call sounded in my ears. It came like a blast from another world, speaking a tongue I knew not, though every word I understood. For here was a man speaking good Latin, and with learned books on his table. He was no bead-counting, unwashed Italian hermit run after by an adoring country-side. No crack-brained lay enthusiast. No smugly hypocritical mendicant seeking an alms. And behold! he was speaking of “the Love of Christ” as of a very intimate and wholly tangible thing, and meeting my cry of “expediency” with an argument before which all my skilfully wrought reasonings would fly back blunted. And yet I would not retire thus. I also rose from my seat. “Your Reverence speaks eloquently, but your heart masters your head. Granted your willingness to make great sacrifice, you must in any case be sure your sacrifice will achieve its end. I tell you, therefore, in all fairness, I believe you will be speedily silenced, and your memory condemned.” “St. Stephen was silenced. That was no reason to him for denying his Lord, though no doubt the Jews condemned his memory.” “But your Reverence can do vast good in a long life if you will only be discreet to-day. Public gossip makes you a bishop ere very long. Your piety is famous.” “Fools will babble folly. My piety is but as filthy rags. A noble bishop would I make to my people, when I bought the mitre at the price of my soul!” “Believe me,” I said deprecatingly, “I have no brief for Master Tetzel. Haste is never a good councillor. If you will but consider carefully you will find a thousand reasons for caution. As Aristotle says--” Again I struck sparks from his eyes.