Chapter XXXIII: Ilsa Victrix

On Friday, May 3, 1521, a date never to be forgotten in my memory, quite early in the morning the Vicomte de Barras left Marburg with a portion of his company, on some hurried expedition, the precise object whereof he was not careful to announce. His niece with another portion of his cortège remained behind at the commodious _Blauer Engel_ Inn. It was understood at the inn that there also remained behind the unfortunate crazed gentleman, whom it was necessary to chain and, at times, lest his cries become highly distressing, even to gag, and whom the Vicomte was conveying to his kinsfolk in Gascony. It is possible that some one of the inn servants imagined that the Vicomte talked with his people in a strange dialect sounding more Italian than French, but after all foreigners were foreigners in a small German city, and certainly the Vicomte was charmingly free with his money.

The good folk of Marburg would surely have marvelled much had they known how that nobleman rode out of Worms a few days before with a red cassock and a red hat, taking ceremonious leave of His Majesty’s courtiers, as being about to revisit France to exercise the good offices of the Vatican in behalf of peace. A few leagues his company had travelled straight westward, then at a solitary spot in the road the master of the party had given a sly laugh. The cavalcade had halted. He of the red robe had dismounted, had exchanged his red gown and hat for a very secular blue doublet and cloak, and a gray hat with a rakish heron’s feather. At his side he had girded a long Toledo. Presto! the Cardinale di Forli had vanished, the Vicomte de Barras took command. The retainers had given a shout of approval. The melancholy, crazed nobleman had been allowed to peer out of the windows of his closed coach. The beautiful niece of the Vicomte had clapped her hands, crying in admiration “_Voila, le galant gentilhomme!_” Then the leader had remounted, and briskly led the way, not westward now, but northward, passing close to Mainz but not entering that city, crossing the Rhine near Bingen, not on the regular ferry, but on the barge of some obscure water-man they hired towards evening. They had lain over that night at Rudesheim, then continued their travels very quietly, avoiding frequented roads, yet occasionally halting (so their most unfortunate prisoner could understand), to inquire of peasants and wayfarers, “Whether the famous Dr. Luther had returned from Worms that way?”

It was misinformation upon this point which undoubtedly brought them to Marburg, for a false rumor made that much discussed theologian take the northerly route towards Hesse, whereas later and more authentic tidings reported him as travelling by way of Frankfurt and Hersfeld. When the party had come to Marburg and discovered themselves upon a wrong scent the Vicomte was heard to indulge in many brisk oaths, proper indeed for a secular nobleman, though they would have been deplorable in the Cardinale di Forli. On the morning in question the Vicomte had held a rapid colloquy with his niece, wherein it appeared that it was necessary to overtake Dr. Luther with speed, and also necessary to keep their crazed prisoner in sure custody (it being possible to convey him only in the heavy closed coach). The Vicomte therefore resolved to take his best horses and the better part of his men and to ride post on his errand, while the lady with her maid and four of their less active varlets would remain to guard the prisoner and await directions as to rejoining her uncle.

At about seven in the morning the Vicomte rode away. From a chamber window that luckily commanded a little view of the inn court the “melancholy crazed nobleman” (so the servants called him) could see the company depart. The Vicomte, despite his girth, carried himself excellently on a powerful stallion. His eight followers included three who professed themselves Frenchmen (“surely Gascons, they were so dark”), and five Rhinelanders and Swabians, tow-pated jail fledglings, strange birds to see in the retinue of so genteel a cavalier, “but, after all, honest Germans did not like to take service with foreigners, and travellers must take what rascals presented themselves for hire.”

The prisoner saw the Vicomte depart. The clatter of hoofs died on the cobble-paved street. Dead silence seemed to reign through the inn broken only by the ticking of the great clock which stood behind the door of the room occupied by the presumable madman. The prisoner leaned on the casement, and studied for the twentieth time the view across the red roofs of the little city to the graceful green hill where rose Landgraf Philip’s sturdy Schloss. He had been in Marburg before and knew that behind the inn ran the swift green Lahn, and that the winding streets of the town made it among the most picturesque in all picturesque Hesse. All this, however, did not relieve the fact that he was manacled hand and foot, and that a sullen, taciturn fellow, whose grunts seemed to prove him a Hollander, sat by his door with a heavy partisan. This was indeed only proper, considering the danger of the poor nobleman doing himself a mischief, yet it could hardly raise that individual’s spirits.

About ten o’clock, after long contemplation at the window, and after being rewarded by nothing more exciting than the sight of a vast flock of geese sweeping its hissing, honking way along before the skilful snapping of the whip of the blue-kerchiefed goose girl, the prisoner turned wearily back to the table, sat himself and began turning a Seneca’s _De Clementia_ which his captors had thoughtfully allowed him. The prisoner was exceeding quiet, and beyond possibly a certain hectic flush betrayed no signs of his occasional insanity, at least so his guardian Jan Praet may well have cogitated. From the Weinstube below came a drinking song, indicating how Jan’s three companions were whiling the time away. It is certain he found watching the prisoner a tedious duty and allowed his thoughts and gaze to wander.

About half past ten one of the inn servitors came into the room, alleging he must fill the water jugs. Immediately he called attention to what Jan had not noticed before, that the hand of the clock was sadly broken and ready to fall off, a fact which (asserted the varlet) would make the landlord exceeding angry, and likely to visit his wrath upon the unlucky speaker as being careless. Jan was sympathetic. The injury was such as a skilful tinker could mend in only a few moments. Was there such a man about the inn? Jan professed himself a stranger. The other declared that he believed there seemed to be a clever fellow in the company “of the other great folk who came yesterday.” He might be approached by means of an extra seidel filched from the keg room. Would Jan object if some one came at once to mend the clock? It would save the poor varlet at the least from a beating.

Jan hesitated. The lady had clearly ordered it, ‘no one in the room with this prisoner except the inn servants, and then only for a moment.’ Still what harm would it do? ‘The poor gentleman was always so melancholy and silent. “Jan would look the other way, if he also had had an extra seidel and the fellow were quick about his business.”’

The varlet went out. The prisoner indeed sat very still. For days now the prisoner had been extremely still. Possibly in his heart he had resolved upon a policy of absolute passivity and non-resistance, until his guardians, convinced that the iron had sunk deep into his soul, should cease to maintain their catlike vigilance. In any case he seemed very intent upon the _De Clementia_.

Presently there was another rap upon the door. The question of Jan was answered in very broken German, that ‘here was one who could mend the clock.’ A strange, bent, red-headed man entered, who cast a single sidling glance upon the prisoner, then turned away, leaving the prisoner to stare at him and wonder, “where have I seen those eyes before.” He laid down a few tools and addressed himself to the clock. Jan affected to be interested; “Are you a regular tinker?”

“_Mon dieu!_ no! I am in the company of her Reverence the Abbess who came yesterday. I have only a little skill in such matters.”

“So you are another Frenchman?”

“_Oui_,” the prisoner however could swear as to the Italian accent. “I am a right Norman, from Rouen; do not insult me by calling me a Gascon like those rascals with the Vicomte.”

The prisoner now was staring at the stranger very hard, but Jan did not observe him.

“Surely it is tedious here,” commented the tinker, removing the hand from the clock. “Is this poor gentleman often violent?”

“They tell me he is. Anyway I am well paid to watch him.”

“A fly could watch him, he is so firmly chained.”

“Well, orders are orders. You must hasten. Finish with the clock.”

“Mon ami,” quoth the other, “I can never finish with anything while that sweet breath of yours is coming over my shoulder, and you are watching every turn of my fingers. Ha! what’s that by the door. A pigeon, I swear.”

“A pigeon, I don’t understand.”

“A pigeon in petticoats, oaf! Look and see if I’m right.”

A comely maid was indeed lingering just outside the door. The hang of her red kirtle, the droop of her mouth, said one thing clearly, “Come and talk to me.” Jan did not wait for a second invitation.

By this time the prisoner had lost all interest in Seneca’s _De Clementia_.

Still with his back to the prisoner the red-headed stranger spoke suddenly though softly, and this time all his words were Italian.

“Eccellenza, have the chains that confine your feet spread out smoothly on the floor so that it will take only one blow to sever them.”

* * * * *

As in kind of a trance I listened to Andrea while he talked in low whispers, interrupting his utterances frequently by loud pounding with his tools.

“So your Excellency is surprised? Ah! it was not so hard, not, that is, after Trude at last got to us; Andrea had been suspicious already. Graf Moritz wished to go to the Emperor with loud outcry. I dissuaded. There was no water in that well. Did il Cardinale think he could get away from Worms by such a shallow devise? Bah! did not a man in our hire track him? But we could not follow always. We must needs separate. Graf Moritz took the road to Giessen, I found the Abbess of Quedlinburg leaving Worms, and needing a groom. Very easy to win her service. Said I was a Norman pilgrim bound for St. Sebald’s in Dantzic and working my way. She was pious and unsuspecting. I have talked with Donna Ilsa. She is very brave, worthy to be born in Siena. Yesterday I was sure il Cardinale was going to Marburg; I told the abbess the roads were better this way. The rest? Ecco! The moment your feet are free we escape across the passage to Donna Ilsa’s room. It is not so high above the ground as this. Easy to clamber down. Horses are below. Off for Giessen. A deed worthy of Andrea!”

All this time I spoke never a word, but watched the doorway across which Jan, as by a potent loadstone, was being slowly drawn. Trude simpered and smirked, answered his clumsy compliments with broad blushes, turned away her head when he beamed most tenderly; in short no trout on the hook was ever played more skilfully than the unwary Jan. His great bulk disappeared from the doorway. I could hear his feet going haltingly down the hall towards a convenient window, where his back would be toward the door, and he could lean delightfully out the casement with a very pretty face near to his. Andrea, whose red hair dye I was admiring vastly, and who looked a veritable Norman, continued assiduously at his work and whispering, sometimes straightening the offending clock-hand with resounding blows, until I saw his whole form squirm like a cat’s. Jan was at the window.

“Now!” He turned like lightning. I stretched my feet, holding the chain taut on the hard oak floor. A hatchet of notable edge and temper flashed once, then descended. A blow worthy of a mastersmith! The chain at my ankles sprang into two glittering fragments.

Bounding to his feet Andrea caught the ends of the chains and thrust them in a twinkling into my shoes, then seized me by the shoulder and without saying a word half led half carried me across the narrow passage. Three long strides did it. By some occult power the door opposite flew open. I saw a figure in black standing behind it. Into the strange room,--and all I could see for an instant was a white, white face shining out from under the black coif.

“Ilsa!” “Walter!” Andrea was bolting the door, while we sprang into one another’s arms. Oh, that moment, that moment! Gladly would I have paid for it with a captivity not of days, but of years!

Yet the period of our joy was one of a fleeting minute. Andrea was far too devoted a rescuer to let his fair project fail through overmuch lover’s ardor.

“Away! away! Eccellenza! Release him, Donna! Instants are precious. Jan may discover at any time. The Conte must have his wrists free in order to clamber down the vine trellis. There is much to do.” He clapped his hand to his belt, then actually turned pale, “Diavolo!”

“What has happened?” cried Ilsa, first to win back her tongue.

“Call me the prince of fools!” raged Andrea. “I have left the pincers wherewith to clear the Conte’s hands in the other room.”

“Cannot I get down without them?” I demanded; but a glance from the window at a gnarled mass of vines that descended a sheer twenty feet convinced me that while an active man could do the deed easily, it were madness to try it manacled.

“I will lose no time,” proclaimed Andrea, unbolting again. “I go and return in a trice; Trude can detain Jan a thousand years.”

Boldly enough he flung open the door, only to recoil in absolute consternation. In our excitement and raptures we had heard no steps without; we were face to face with no less a personage than her Reverence the Abbess Theckla, and her companion nun, the dried old Sister Hemma. What fiend had prompted them to visit Ilsa at this instant, time lacked to discover. They crossed the threshold before even Andrea recovered enough to close against them. Face to face we all stood, while one could count a slow twenty, before they found wits and we breath enough to speak a word. Then the abbess spoke, shaking all over with struggling passions. “Holy Mother! What--what is this!”

Moving by a kind of instinct I strode beside Ilsa. My hands were not too bound to place them upon her shoulders.

“Reverend Mother,” spoke I tensely, “what you see is the Graf von Regenstein and his affianced wife.”

But the horrified groan of the lady abbess was drowned by the scream of Sister Hemma. With a shriek that might have stirred the dead she flew out through the door, and instantly the inn resounded with her howlings.

“The maniac! The maniac! He is loose! He is assaulting Sister Ilsa!”

Almost at her flying skirts went Andrea. “He saves himself!” were the ungrateful words that came springing to my lips, when from the door of my former prison room I saw him bounding back again. In the left hand he grasped the pincers, in the right the huge partisan which in his unlucky moment Jan had discarded. But Jan had roused and turned like a startled wild boar. With a great roaring he made after Andrea, but the Sienese with a flying leap was before him. We slammed our door in Jan’s face, and bolted it, whilst he beat on it, cursed, and yelled like a fiend.

In the inn below reigned indescribable confusion. “The maniac is loose!” twenty were bawling, and we heard the trampling of feet. Abbess Theckla made wild passes with her hands toward us. She would have flown at my throat, had not her strength failed her. In the tumult we could not follow her desperate reproaches. Andrea, whose brain had never faltered, approached me.

“They will be forcing the door in a moment, Eccellenza. It will go better if I release your hands.”

“You cannot save me,” I commanded; “save yourself. It can still be done. Get to Giessen and Graf Moritz. Tell him the Cardinale di Forli, passing as the Vicomte de Barras, has ridden in quest of Luther to seize or slay him. Away instantly or Luther is lost!”

“It will be wiser to remain, and to save both the Conte and perhaps Luther also,” observed Andrea imperturbably, at the word wrenching my left wrist free; “now for the right.”

By this time there was a rush of feet in the passage, and a confused shouting. A good dozen were without the door, and while it was relatively solid and fitted with a heavy bolt, it was not proof against well-used axes. I shook my right hand clear. The sense of freedom sent the blood springing through my veins. Again I was myself, my own master, and on my powers that day hung not my own life only, but the life of Luther, and the hope and honor of the woman I loved. Should I be caught here again like a caged rat, to be drowned at the bidding of my captors? Not so! All my trust in God, all the blood of the Regenstein ritters of old cried out against it. With liberty so nigh, I could not dare to fail!

“Andrea,” I spoke, seizing the partisan he had so opportunely brought us. “We must play fox and lion alike. You are the first. I will be the second. Let us at least make our guests outside to hesitate. Ten minutes may be worth ten thousand ducats.” Then I raised my voice, “Ho! you without there. If there is any honest German present not in foreign hire let him talk to me. I can prove readily enough that I am not crazed. This Vicomte de Barras is no French cavalier. He is of the spawn of Rome, a Pope’s legate, and he has ridden off to seize Dr. Luther. You who love Dr. Luther stand back, and do not damn your souls by helping his arch enemies.”

Whatever else my words accomplished they at least produced a momentary lull in the beating upon the door. There was a jangle of voices. I continued my admonishings, well knowing the prejudices of the average German burgher folk against all Latins, crying out that I was a Harzland nobleman carried off by the crows of Italy, and promising great reward to whosoever would aid procuring my liberty and saving Dr. Luther.

“Do not heed his ravings,” I heard a woman’s voice urging in very broken German; “he is beside himself. Down with the door!”

The attack, however held back. I could hear angry arguments and counter arguments. The hint about Luther had been enough to rob Marianna’s commands of half their force. It was no light thing in Marburg to be called the foe of the hero of Germany. After a space a familiar voice spoke in Italian against the keyhole.

“Gualtiero.”

“I hear you.”

“Admit me.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I would reason with you ere all is too late.”

“Very well,” I assented. Then I sent my voice out loudly, “The lady is permitted to enter. The man who strives to thrust after her dies instantly.”

I took station by the door so that any forbidden intruder might feel the full weight of my partisan. Andrea opened a little. Marianna entered. For the first time she and Ilsa were face to face.

The Italian wore a short red travelling skirt and a richly slashed and embroidered bodice. Her dark hair was flying. Her eyes were like coals. A thousand passions were struggling on her face. In her belt was a long knife and a pair of the very small firelocks, called pistols. Ilsa stood calmly before her in her trailing black, a perfect antithesis: it was the meeting of southern heat and of northern cold. The old abbess, utterly terrified at one horror after another, clung desperately to one arm of her niece.

Andrea bolted again. Critical as our situation was, a grim sense of humor seized me as I saw Marianna staring in wonderment upon the silent nun.

“Madonna,” said I, with a manner of flourish, “you have the honor to meet the most noble Lady Ilsa, soon to be Gräfin von Regenstein.”

If Marianna had been a Medusa she would have frozen us with her eyes. Lightnings seemed to spring out of them. Without shame I confess to wincing, but Ilsa regarded her as calmly as a rock. Marianna’s teeth shone like those of a beautiful beast when she flung her questions at the German, wholly ignoring my presence.

“So _this_ is the woman who has stolen him from me?”

“I have loved him,” was Ilsa’s steadfast answer.

“Madre di Jesu, you are a nun?”

“Yes,” came the wholly measured reply.

“And you dare to love him?”

“I do.”

“You, a nun, will even talk of marrying him?”

“I will.”

“Your vows? Pray when, gracious mistress, has His Holiness issued his dispensation from them?”

“God, bearing his message through Dr. Luther, has loosed them.”

“A right approved and saintly deputy! Since when has this fine assurance come?”

“Not ten moments since, when Walter took me in his arms.”

The word “Walter” made Marianna’s face ashen. I cannot describe her glance of fury and incarnate hate.

“Prove then that you love him, you, _you_,--low, ignorant German wench, with the face of a she-goat and the modesty of an ape. You dare to set your love against mine--” But here Marianna’s German ended. She dissolved in Roman curses, lost upon Ilsa. I moved as if to end the fearful colloquy, then halted at a nod from Ilsa. Like a silver bell sounded the Harzlander’s voice in answering.

“I have loved him enough to bury myself in the convent for his sake, to save, as I dreamed, his soul. I love him enough now to defy the world and marry him despite all scorn and hissing, for I know that God is better pleased that an evil vow were broken than kept. Betwixt you and me there has been a great battle for Walter’s soul. With all your powers you have striven to drag him down to hell, and Satan has been with you. You are beautiful enough to pluck to damnation a saint. And I have striven against you as a weak, untaught mountain girl with only her white conscience and her prayers to save him from you; to save him and all his glorious gifts of heart and mind for the works of heaven. And I have won--have won! The dross has been purged out of him. On my side has been the dear Lord God, and He is stronger than the Master Devil. Therefore do you, most fair and sinful lady, leave us to live our lives, and may you repent in peace.”

“You have won him?” repeated Marianna, in a kind of wan agony, her lips blanched and drawn.

“Even so.” Ilsa looked at me. I nodded. The face of the Italian flushed crimson.

“Perdition! Am I not southern born? Can I stand here a smiling fool? You have won him? _Evviva!_ Then let the bridegroom lead home his bride. Ecco!--”

With the last word her hand flew to her belt, she drew a pistol and fired; but with the flash I smote aside the barrel with the shaft of my weapon. The ball found a victim, but not the one intended. With a direful scream the old abbess released her niece’s arm and fell a white heap upon the floor; across the smoke-filled room we stared at one another horribly. Marianna dropped the empty pistol and stood gazing for a moment in a stupor. Ilsa seemed unable to stir or speak. Andrea cast himself upon the fallen woman, but rose, shaking his head.

“The heart--_instantemente_,” was all he could articulate.

“Murderess,” I found power to cry, and was making to seize Marianna’s other weapons, when an echoing shout without the door told how our truce was at an end.

“There is murder within! Force open! Secure the mad man!”

“Down the trellis, Eccellenza, down the trellis, while I hold them back,” Andrea pleaded. As he spoke, however, a rush of men swept the door almost from its hinges.

“Impossible,” I retorted. “Can I leave _them_? This attack must be checked until these men will listen to reason. The only chance!”

A second blow smote the door inward, wrenched clear of all fastenings. Half a score of faces seemed crowding after it. Weapons were tossing. Curses flying. But the strength of fifty seemed in my arms that day. The great partisan danced over my head like a willow wand as I swung it.

“Back, swine,” I thundered, “or be I mad or sane, I will brain you all.”

Wherewith I drove the poleaxe on the shoulder of one hulking villain of the Forli crew and sent him down with a mortal yell. Andrea had snatched a chair and with a dexterous side blow felled a second less fatally. They gave back a moment, gathered for a second rush, then made it; with God’s help I met them.

Once an axe stroke missed my shoulder by a hair’s-breadth. Twice a boar-spear was thrust into my face, and twice I swept it aside. The mighty Jan was foremost in the attack; a great good fortune, for his bulk clouded the whole door and forbade other attackers. He had snatched a broadaxe somewhere and thrust forward recklessly. Once driven from the narrow opening I was lost, but my assailants fought with poor generalship. I held my own, and Andrea, whipping out a murderous dirk, added shrewd blows beside mine.

Then as we fought, and as the inn resounded with the horrid cry, in a dim way I knew that, though my eyes were ever to the front, there was a strange combat waging behind me. Only later did I learn it all; yet I could hear my assailants calling to one another as they peered past me, “Holy Christ! The women! The women! The nun and the Italian.”

For what befell was this. Even as the door fell from its casement Marianna had reached for her second pistol, but had never drawn it. Around her wrist had gripped the hand of Ilsa, a clutch like steel. Breast against breast, their hot breath smiting one another’s faces, they had fought. Struggling, tearing, panting, till Ilsa’s black serge flew in a myriad tatters; and still they waged their battle. Once for a desperate instant they had paused, and Ilsa, in a kind of irony, cried, “What will you?” To which Marianna shot across her teeth, “If I die I will be buried, if I live, you will be.” And with that resumed her battle.

Then at length, and I am glad I saw it not, though I glory in it all, Harzland strength and German love triumphed over Italian storm and hate. Marianna’s dagger sprang from the sheath, but it was Ilsa’s hand that grasped it. The weapon went deep to another sheath--the breast of Madonna di Forli. Again a cry, a shrill, long cry, agonized, inarticulate. I turned my head. Beside the slain abbess I saw lying the form of Marianna.

That lapse of mine was almost my undoing. I was carried backward by a new onslaught led by Jan. He bounded into the room. In an instant the rest would have followed; we would have been hewn in pieces before any could hearken to a word; but even as I swung my partisan and strove by one last effort to beat him down, Ilsa did one deed more. I saw her bend and take from the lifeless grasp of Marianna the second pistol, then straight over my shoulder she aimed it as coolly as when she levelled on a Harzland doe. The black serge of the sleeve swept against my cheek. Close to my ear went the rattle of the wheel-lock. The thunder flash! Through the cloud of smoke I saw the mighty Jan sinking to his knees. I ran to the door, my weapon flashing terribly, and the rest cowered back like sheep.

“Enough of folly!” I trumpeted, and at length they heard me. “I am not mad; but this Italian woman has murdered the Abbess of Quedlinburg and striven to murder this nun. We fought only in defence of our lives. I am a German nobleman, the free Graf von Regenstein, and can prove my name and sanity to any magistrate. Now you who love truth, justice, Germany, and Luther make ready swift horses and escort, for this French Vicomte di Barras, who is in truth the Cardinale di Forli, has ridden after Dr. Luther to seize him and burn him at Rome.”

They heard me readily enough now. The fall of Jan had robbed them of all stomach for fighting. The landlord of the inn came forward, pitifully distressed at recent happenings under his roof, and anxious at all costs to still the tumult. A grave Sir Councillor of the city appeared, a man who had read all of Dr. Luther’s books and who loved the Cause right well. My clothes hung about me in ribbons, my face was bloody, I had a shrewd wound on the thigh; but I could still put on dignity and talk as became the Lord of the Regenstein. In ten minutes I had convinced these worthies that my tale rang true. In ten minutes more they were ordering the fastest horses in Marburg under saddle to speed us to Giessen, to join our other friends, and ride as seldom men ride, to save the hero of Germany.

Only when all this was done could I turn back for words with Ilsa. She had not left the room of battle. They had taken away Jan, still alive, and with a passing chance to recover; but on the two beds lay the silent forms which an hour before had been the abbess and the Italian. Ilsa’s dress was tattered beyond telling. The black coif and white veil had vanished. Over her head the short nun’s hair was scattered in golden curls. As I came to her she cast herself into my arms. There for a good moment she sobbed, and we had joy together. At last she looked upon one of the beds.

“Was she indeed so evil?” she asked gently; “she was very beautiful.”

I could not but smile, though I fear not merrily.

“She was like all of us--all saving you,” I said; “full of evil, but of much good also. She was from the South, and lived after the manner of her people. Leave her judgment to God.”

“She loved you,” spoke Ilsa, in a whisper. “She truly loved you, though her love was not pure. I will ever judge her kindly.”

Then I led her from the room, to the one where I had been prisoner, that we might be away from fearful scenes.

“Ilsa,” I said, “I heard what you said to Marianna. Is it true? Will you marry me?”

“Whenever you say, Walter.”

“Ilsa, the Cause will triumph. We will save Dr. Luther. There is yet time. In days to come the convent doors will open. Many nuns will go forth to the new Christian liberty. They will be happy wives and mothers. Dare you be the first?”

“I dare.” Then with a toss of her head of elflocks, while her form shook with great sobs, she asked amid a dreadful laughter, “Ach! Wälterchen, do you not think I have been proved without vocation for a nun _to-day_?”

“I think,” answered I, “a greater than Leo of Rome has this day cancelled off your vow.” Then I continued, “Last night I seemed hopelessly trapped. They held me utterly. My confidence broke down. I reflected on how Luther was betrayed, the Cause doubtless ruined, you doomed to a life of clouds and grief, and all in the end because once I had welcomed the bad love of a sinful woman, and now even in the days of repentance could not cast off the consequences thereof. I felt almost as a new Judas, cursed on earth, and damned in hell. At length I prayed, ‘Oh! Lord take away my life, nay, blot out my very soul. Yet let me die as a man, not as a sheep; for the memory of the ill which I have wrought will drive me mad through all eternity.’ And now heaven has answered--this.” Whereat I kissed her.

After a little I drew her to the window, whence I had gazed as a chained captive only two brief hours past. Before our eyes rose the glorious mount of the castle, its slopes all clad in the young spring green.

“Now,” I repeated aloud, “let not death, nor life, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, separate me from Ilsa, my true wife, bestowed on me by the great love of God!”