We organized classical revels after the manner of Theocritus, and far up among the rocks above the palazzo we found the ruins of an ancient temple, three shivered columns, and a great rock whereon a millennium and more ago they had burned the sacrifice. Here one day we imitated the rites of Pan, slaying a young kid, crowning ourselves with fern and fennel, and shouting a mad “Evoë!” as we danced like Grecian mænads. “In truth, our worship was more interesting,” said one of the ladies, as with blithe steps we descended the mountain, “than what the Church teaches to-day. Not that I am a heretic,” she crossed herself--“but you understand--” “Assuredly, noble Signora,” spoke Signor Campelli, “only you must not dream that the true Hellenist is hostile to the Church. Ours is the truest piety. Has not our incomparable Marsilio Ficino established that Zoroaster, Socrates, and Vergil are but prophets to prove the divinity of Christ? Believe me, our cult to-day was as truly religious as a Christian mass, only its significance is of course hid from the unlearned.” “Pope Pius II made a true remark,” added Rocca at my elbow. “He said, ‘Even if Christianity were not confirmed by miracles, still it ought to be accepted on account of its morality.’ The Church naturally shows one face to the multitude, another to the wise and initiated.” * * * * * Unbridled indeed had been my joy that day; and yet in the evening, as I stood in my chamber, overlooking the starlit valley, the great mansion still, the guests all retired, I experienced one of the most marked revulsions of feeling it has ever been my fate to know. I saw again as in a dream--yet never was I more awake--the little room in the Augustinean convent at Wittenberg, the green tile stove, the books and papers on the table, and beside me was the deep-voiced friar with his wonderful eyes, speaking to me of duty and righteousness, making the chamber ring with the grave melody of the Psalter, using arguments no pagan could refute, and speaking as though dweller in a world no pagan could enter. And I almost heard again his word as I went forth from the humble doorway: “My heart is moved for you. Oh! seek humbly for a new and better mind; be not Italian, but German; for whether Martin Luther lives or dies, the Fatherland will have need for all brave young nobles such as you.” And I had answered his appeal--by going to Palaestro.