I fear I smiled with a superior wisdom. “Ah! Dear Dr. Martin. We will know a little better after the Pope understands that the indulgence money has ceased to flow in.” Thus we went through December very pleasantly, and were entering January, when of a sudden Ilsa’s delightful sojourn ended, and mine with hers. A letter from Abbess Theckla was the bearer of ill-tidings. “Your father,” ran the substance, “lies sorely ill at Blankenburg. Hasten back to him, or come too late.” There was but one thing to do. Moritz would escort her. As for me, I had too long trenched on the hospitality of their kinsfolk. We had to set forth hurriedly, and I had only time for a brief word with Dr. Martin. Again he held my hand before the departure. “Fare you well, dear Graf Walter, and the good God keep you. And if poor Martin Luther has any word that may ring truly in your ears, remember you are a Christian and a knight. Seek God with a clear heart, and leave the rest to Him, and He will bring to pass that which is beyond all that you can ask or think.” A Christian and a knight?--I?--But not stopping to inquire into his injunction, I thanked him warmly. I promised to return in three months to Wittenberg, bringing him various books then at the Regenstein. Ilsa knelt for his blessing. Moritz and I respectfully veiled our caps. We rode out across the winter country, with the Wittenberg church spires long in sight. I was not to reënter the little Saxon city until after a momentous interval. As I rode westward, perhaps it was Dr. Martin’s last words which recalled Dame Hedwig’s prophecy, and I mused considerably thereon. “Half of Northland, Half of Southland, Never gay Till all of one land.” After all, which was it to be? Was I to prove German or Italian? CHAPTER XI I COME TO MAINZ On our travel we had abundant chances to measure popular opinion touching Dr. Luther. Whether on the road, or halting for dinner at the inns, or lodging for the night with some hospitable nobleman, the remark “we are from Wittenberg,” was the signal for numerous questions, followed by comments almost invariably friendly to the hardy Augustinian, whilst the views expressed about his monkish maligners were frequently violent. “No, by my father’s bones!” swore an impetuous ritter as we left his schloss one morning; “we have had enough of priest-made bonfires with honest men, who have told the black crows their sins, thrust into them; and ere they light one for Martin Luther, there’ll be a mighty clattering of swords from every ‘circle’ of Germany.”