Pleasant indeed for me was that early springtime at Mainz. Again I was mingling with men of gentility and ideas; again I was speaking French, Latin, and often the incomparable Italian. Many a day I rode back to the Electoral schloss intoxicated by the favor and beauty of Marianna, while her tall palfrey pranced beside mine. Yet I was never wholly at my ease. Very soon this lotus eating at Mainz would end, and then--whither should I go? Back to Italy, to the roses, poets, Michelangelo’s sculptures and Raffaelo’s paintings? Or to Saxony, where the clouds of battle were gathering, where warriors were buckling on the cuirass for a contest not with French or Turkomans, but with powers spiritual and celestial,--and the stake the empire over men’s souls? Marianna pressed me, but I long evaded discussing my intents. Quickly I had learned that arguments to turn the Prince-Archbishop in favor of Luther were as dust sprinkled on the ocean. Already the high prelates of Germany had prejudged his cause. “I will not lay down my head in peace,” the Bishop of Brandenburg had vowed, “until I cast Martin into the flames like _this_!” whereat into the roaring fireplace he had flung a dry faggot. From Rome issued anxious orders to “quiet the tumult.” And speedily I knew would come to Luther, to his friends, nay, to all Germany, the direful choice--to bow to the Vatican or join battle with Rome,--a battle older than the Church and always lost. And where should I stand? I who had come to think of that friar of Wittenberg as of no other living man? I who knew that truth and God--if God there was--were with Luther and against Tetzel and Rome? Who had promised to revisit Wittenberg in the springtime? Who had also given my promise to Ilsa von Blankenburg to return to the Harzland, and to break the monotony of her barren life with her sottish and dying father? In short, what should be my great, abiding choice,--peace or storm, ease or knightly battle, Southland or Northland? How would Dame Hedwig’s song find its fulfilment?... Coward fashion I postponed decision, and then, even as I deserved, it was thrust upon me. I was standing one afternoon at a glorious mullioned window in an upper hall of the palace, looking out upon the country just turning green under the northerning sun, when beside me stood Marianna. Her black dress of Lyons silk fell around her in lustrous sheen. On her hair were the white spring flowers I had left at her chambers that morning. What wonder my heart beat faster! “Well, Gualtiero,” she began in her most musical Italian; “I have tidings for you.” “Of what, Madonna?” “My father is recalled to Italy. I cannot stay here alone. What--” oh! the subtlety of her eyes as she put the question--“what are you going to do?” I stood for a long time sillily playing with my sword belt, and willing to give a thousand gulden for an hour’s quiet reflection.