Instantly I felt the cords of my tongue loosed. “Yes,” I answered. “I would stay for his sake. He is not a friar, he is a man. He is protesting against foul hypocrisy and iniquity. I do not follow all his theology, but I know _he_ for one believes all he preaches, and he is no ignorant, unlearned bawler either. He has hatched the egg, which great Master Erasmus laid years since,--the egg wherein is contained the exposure and ending of all this merry indulgence selling, and cant, and filching that men have called religion. For religion I care little; for theology I care less: but for an honest man fighting a brave fight I care much. And such a man is Martin Luther.” I had spit out my words in a counter passion of fury, which Marianna cooled by a long, musical laugh that left me silent and flushed. “O greater miracle! The Conte di Palaestro turning from his course to aid--an honest friar. Staying in Germany to aid--an honest friar. Yes, running even into the pains of heresy for his sake. What will your friends say? What will the Corso say? What will they say at Messere Chigi’s and Cardinal di Rocca’s parties? Give me wings--wings to flit back to Rome with the wondrous tidings. The tale is too good to keep!” The laugh; her gesture more potent than the laugh; her words; the picture conjured up in my mind of my boon companions roaring at her recital,--all were like ice to freeze up my zeal and courage. Why, ah! why had I not been given an hour of calm reflection alone. But Marianna was there, alert, persistent, aggressive. She gave me no quarter. “Come, now, Gualtiero. You say you will stand by this silly friar? Good, then, what will you do?” “Plead for him, argue his cause with such German princes as I can visit.” “And what can _they_ do?” “Why, much. At their request His Holiness will go slowly.” “Slowly? perhaps. But Rome is always most terrible when she moves slowly. Do you think your Luther will retract his errors?” “Sooner will the stars fall. I have taken measure of the man.” “Then, Gualtiero, speak sensibly. No princes can save him. They could not if they would. Many of your loutish Germans wish him well. Very likely. They have no armies, however. See in your mind his end.” “You mean?--” “A great company, perhaps at Rome in the Piazza di San Pietro,--for there he will be sent,--a great pile of faggots, a mighty blaze, a procession of Swiss guardsmen and the holy Inquisitors, your Wittenberg friar clothed in a yellow robe and pinioned in the midst--and then--” “It cannot be. You are imagining.” “This Augustinian is not the first to rail against what are called ‘the misdeeds of the Vatican.’ Others are before him: yes, and they did not lack brave friends. Recall them. What befell Arnold of Brescia?” “Burned.” “And Wyclif of England?” “His bones cast into the river.” “And John Hus?” “Burned.” “And Jerome of Prague?” “Burned.” “And Savonarola?” “Burned.” “And Martin Luther?--”