There was great rejoicing in the Saxon land. The streets were thronged with people. Cannon thundered from the ramparts; bells rang; flags streamed from the church-towers; an eager enthusiasm spread from village to village, from town to town. The elector, outlawed by the Emperor, robbed of his sovereignty, had returned to his devoted subjects. Their love was his triumphal chariot, his sword and buckler, the banner under which he not only recovered his own inheritance, but conquered a goodly portion of his ambitious cousin's territory. John Frederick of Saxony, whose destruction had been planned, rose to a higher pinnacle of power than he had ever before occupied. The Emperor trembled with fear and anxiety, and the knowledge that his infamous transaction with Duke Moritz stood revealed before the eyes of all Germany, broke the last remnant of his courage.
He considered his cause well-nigh lost, and despair seized upon his mind. Already it was rumored, that the Bohemians had joined the Elector! If this were true, then all hope was at an end. Fortunately for him, however, and unfortunately for the Elector, the Bohemians maintained an inexplicable inactivity, allowing their advantages to slip from their grasp, and suffering the Imperial troops to escape from Bohemia, and to follow in the wake of the Elector, who, with an army of 9,000 men, was encamped at Mühlberg on the Elbe; fearing no evil, and deeming the burning of the Elbe bridge a sufficient security against surprises.
But the burning of bridges was of little use, when treachery guided the enemy to a ford, which made a bridge unnecessary. The name of the miller Strauch is for all time branded with infamy. Out of revenge for the loss of his horses, which the Saxon troopers had carried off, he betrayed his sovereign and his country.
It was a still, peaceful morning, on the Sunday Quasimodo geniti, April 24th, 1547. The good elector was sitting in church, devoutly listening to the preaching of the Gospel, when suddenly the noise of a wild tumult broke in upon his devotions. It was the enemy!
The soldiers ran hither and thither, in utter confusion. The officers' commands were unheeded; they all fled wildly toward the heath of Lochau. The elector succeeded in rallying a few of the panic-stricken cavalry regiments, to cover their retreat. But no valor was able to withstand the enemy's superior forces. The Saxon army was cut to pieces and scattered; and the Elector, heroically defending himself, was disabled by a sabre-cut in his face. A look of despair came into his eyes, as he surrendered.
Suddenly a loud thunder-clap was heard, startling all by its unseasonable and unexpected occurrence. But into the Elector's face there came a new light, and with a loud voice he exclaimed: "Yes, Thou mighty God, Thou makest Thyself to be heard. Thou still livest and doest all things well."
Dragged by the Hungarian horsemen into the Emperor's presence, he was received with a look of mingled joy, anger and contempt. The Elector John Frederick Saxony was a prisoner in the hands of the man who had threatened to destroy Protestantism, root and branch; and his electorate was irretrievably lost to him and his race.
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Wittenberg was in dire confusion. The Emperor was coming, preceded by the rumor that the city of the arch-heretic was to be made to feel the full weight of his displeasure; and was to disappear from the face of the earth, as unworthy of being shone upon by the sun.
The citizens, and among them the widow of the "arch-heretic," prepared to fly. In December of the past year she had been obliged to seek an asylum in Magdeburg, when Duke Moritz advanced upon Wittenberg, and besieged the citadel. But the Elector had hastened to the relief of the city, and recalled the fugitives. Now she must once more bid farewell to her home,—perhaps never to return, for between the Elector's captivity and the Emperor's threat, Wittenberg had small hope of escaping.