But letters, like misfortunes, seldom come singly, and surely I was ready to call them all unlucky. About a week later came a letter in German, forwarded by a courier of the Elector of Saxony bound for Rome. It was from the Freiherr von Steinitz at Wittenberg, and I could not complain that it was not informing. On the contrary, I read it through thrice and carefully before tearing it into very small bits. The Freiherr was clearly disappointed I had not kept my pledge to return to Wittenberg. “We speak of you often and miss you much; but of course you will be again in Germany ere many months.” Then he went on with news. Old Graf Eckbert of Blankenburg was dead. His last days had been drunken and blasphemous. Even his wildest “drink brothers” had shuddered at his end. Naturally he left to Moritz only a decrepit castle and heavy debts owing the Frankfurt Jews. Moritz would have to cut down most of his fine forest to pay them. As for Ilsa, she was of course left with next to nothing. Her aunt Theckla was bringing great pressure upon her to take the veil at Quedlinburg, as the only means to redeem her father’s soul. She would have already consented had not her Wittenberg kinsfolk, under the advice of Dr. Luther, strongly urged against it. “For,” said Von Steinitz significantly, “we would rejoice to see her married to some noble young graf or ritter who would do her honor, and we engage she shall not come to him without a fair dowry, seeing that God has denied us daughters of our own. However, if no such proper gentleman appears soon at Blankenburg, we fear the abbess will have her own way.” After this broad hint he went on to speak of Dr. Luther and the contest raging around him. The struggle had passed far beyond any matter of indulgences. Men were wagging their heads over questions as to the whole of the priest’s right to power. It was hard for an unlearned man to know what was right, but Von Steinitz would never believe such a saintly man as Dr. Luther a heretic,--and he knew ten thousand other German nobles felt with him. They would not let the friar be haled to Rome to fall into the claws of his enemies. If he must be judged, it must be before an impartial tribunal, and in Germany. Otherwise they would teach His Holiness and the cardinals a few plain things. The letter concluded with expressing an earnest hope that I would soon return to Germany, “where there is a work for all of us.” Yes, a work! Life was real there; real deeds to do; real hopes to strive for; real deaths if needs be to die. And lo! I was spending the months in this palace of dreams at Palaestro. And while I tarried Ilsa was hesitating on the threshold of the convent. Why were such obnoxious questions and choices thrust upon me? “Your letter was from Germany?” asked Marianna that afternoon. “Yes, Madonna.” “That is why you are all scowls; why your laughter and jests are forced; why you lapse so often into silence. I have a command to give you.” “Deliver it.”