Two days later I reached Vienna, but I did not find my most gracious master Ferdinand, King of the Romans, in the city. At present his place at Vienna is occupied by Maximilian, King of Bohemia, whose kindness has made me well nigh forget the hardships I have undergone; but I am still so reduced by loss of flesh and lack of care, and the inconveniences arising from travelling whilst sick, that many imagine I have been poisoned by the Turks. At any rate, the other day, when the Archduke Ferdinand was here and I bowed to him, on his asking one of his people who I was, the man replied, loud enough for me to hear, that ‘my looks might tell from what country I had come;’ probably intending to suggest that I had swallowed the same sort of mushroom as Claudius[149] of old. But I am quite certain that I am suffering from nothing of the kind, and that after a little rest I shall recover my colour, my strength, and my general condition; indeed, I feel every day that there is a gradual change for the better. In the meantime I have sent news of my return to the King of the Romans, informing him at the same time of the six months’ truce, and giving him a short account of the negotiations in which I have been engaged. When he returns from the Diet, in the affairs of which he is now engaged, I shall be able to give him a full report. Many, who from fear or some other reason, shrank from accompanying me to Constantinople, would now give a handsome sum for the honour of having returned with me. Their case reminds me of the famous line in Plautus— ‘Let him who would eat the kernel crack the nut.’ A man has no right to ask for _part_ of the profit, if he has not taken on himself _part_ of the work. You have now got an account of my journey to Amasia as well as the history of my journey to Constantinople; the yarn I have spun is rough and ready, just as I should tell it if we were chatting together. You will be bound to excuse the want of polish, inasmuch as I have complied with your request, and despatched my letter at an early date. In mere fairness you cannot expect fine writing from a man who is hurried and overwhelmed with business. As to fine writing indeed, I do not believe I am capable of it, even if I had time to think and leisure to compose. But while I own my deficiencies in this respect, I have the satisfaction of feeling that I can claim for my poor narrative one merit, compared with which all other merits are as nothing. It is written in a spirit of honesty and truth. Vienna, September 1, 1555.[150] LETTER II.