CHAPTER XVII. On the evening of this most memorable day, the day on which Martin Luther entered Worms, the entire city was in the height of excitement; some of the population from chagrin, others from affectionate alarm, others from chivalrous sympathy, others from political disquietude. In the first place, every effort of chicanery, which the court of Rome had brought to bear in order to deter Luther from appearing at the diet, had proved useless. Glapion, the active agent of Pope Leo X., now found all his ostensibly friendly warnings to the great Reformer to have been powerless. The Papal emissaries did all they could, but they did all in vain, to induce Doctor Martin to return homewards, having, if they succeeded, the ulterior purpose of showing him up as a coward, a recreant, and conscious that he had no defence to make. The whole Papal party, therefore, were in terrible chagrin, when they found that, in spite of all their efforts, the remonstrant against their errors and their vices would have a hearing. "Never despair, however," exclaimed the Papal Nuncio, to his secretary. "His Holiness has written to the Emperor, desiring him not to observe the safeconduct to this devil's spawn. He shall burn yet!" "His Grace the Emperor has pledged his royal word far otherwise," the secretary insinuated. "And who is to keep faith with heretics?" demanded Aleander. Such was the scene, and such was the colloquy in the chambers of the Pope's grand functionary! "He'll be burnt, that to a surety," said Von Hirschfeldt to John Schott, as they walked away from the lodgings where these two great Protestant nobles had left their friend, their spiritual Father, Doctor Martin. "He'll be burnt!" "Then they shall make their pile out of our lances," murmured Von Schott. "Doth Almighty God require a man to thrust himself into the lion's mouth, or rather into the serpent's toils ?" asked Amsdorff of Melancthon. "Young lions even, dear Amsdorff," returned Melancthon. "seek their meat from God.' Fear not, our Father will not be devoured." Luther, good Spalatin, will be lost. Save him, how can I? Dare I-circumstanced as I am, the avowed friend of our young Emperor, and, sooth to say, the setter of the crown of Charlemagne upon his head VOL. II. dare I now aim to countermove in this sad game with Rome?" inquired Frederick the Wise, of his confidential secretary and servant. "Doctor Martin," returned Spalatin, in deep sorrow, "is in peril, peril uttermost. And all the world knows, continued the faithful friend of Luther-"all the world knows that your Highness sanctions him, if not more.' 66 Enough, enough, Spalatin," returned the Elector; "now proceed to business." And, meanwhile, in other not less important places, there were scenes of the same varied and ever-varying excitement. A troop of cavaliers might have been seen threading their way through narrow streets, flanked by tall, many-gabled houses, all of them so very grave and silent, so fixed in feature, so thoroughly armed and so obviously awake to immediate duty, that a bystander might have concluded that they were bent upon some secret and dangerous enterprise. This, however, was not the case. Indeed, had it been so, their visages would have shown just as much determination; but certainly not so much care. "Is this the Strasse, good Mellendorf?" asked a knight, who seemed to be the leader of the little company. "It is, my lord," replied the other; "and yon brick house, with the light in the third story, was where I saw Doctor Martin landed by Von Schott and Hirschfeldt." "Hist! hist! brother Arensberg," whispered a gallant youth, who was abreast the knight. "Hist! do you hear?" This was caused by the notes of a flute, now indulging in the softest cadences, and, anon, rising into loud, rapid, triumphant keys. Arensberg listened, and then looked towards the spot whence the music issued. There, from an open lattice, appeared the very man of whom they had come in quest. There, and upon the window-sill, leaned Martin Luther, his eyes directed to the starry heavens, and his flute pouring forth harmonies and bursts that seemed to aim at accord now with the gentle music of the spheres, and then again with the struggling clouds. "Halt, friends!" said Count Arensberg, in a low tone. "Let us wait and let us hearken." Soon the notes of Luther's flute died away, and then there followed a deep, musical voice, chanting forth— "And were the world all devils o'er, And watching to devour us, We know they can't o'erpower us. Look grim as e'er he will, For why? His doom is writ A word shall quickly slay him." The fact was-and deeply interesting it is, as showing forth the calm courage and the high faith of Luther -that, though he had just been left alone by friends who were alarmed-friends, whose prowess and daring none could gainsay; and though they had each and all implored him to fly, or a fiery death would be sure to meet him; and though he was waiting every moment for some summons from the Emperor to make his perilous confession, yet was his soul kept in such blessed equipoise that it could thus indulge itself. No sooner had he finished the above stanza of his hymn-a hymn, under the trumpet-notes of which the great German nobles, and the freedom-loving German people, warmed into enthusiasm, as did the Greeks of old under the songs of their Tyrtæus-than the troop of cavaliers, who had been listening, hastily tore their swords from their scabbards, and amid the clangor, as they crossed their weapons in friendly covenant, Luther heard them loudly, and perchance unmusically, shouting the stanza that followed: "God's word, for all their craft and force, One moment will not linger; But, spite of hell, shall have its course, Count Arensberg had done his utmost to repress this outburst, but in vain. He had done so, not so much because he failed in sympathy with the feelings it exhibited, as because he was intensely anxious to escape observation and remark, he being an officer so high in the councils of his immediate sovereign the Elector. |