Their flight was attended with many hindrances and difficulties. In the general disorder, each one was concerned only for his own safety. After much persuasion, a teamster was found willing to give the widow and her children a place upon his cart.
He drove in mad haste over the rough roads, belaboring the poor animals with furious blows, and urging them forward, as though the enemy were already at his heels. For hours the wild chase lasted, and night was at hand. The road was uphill, rough and stony; and suddenly the exhausted horses refused to proceed. The teamster, beside himself with rage and fear, forced them on with more blows, when one of the horses, uttering a short, piteous cry, dropped dead. Then he fell to berating the poor beasts, the Emperor, and finally his passengers, whose weight, he asserted, had overtaxed the horses' strength.
Without a word, Katharine and her children climbed down from the cart, and the teamster went on his way.
The widow stood under the open sky; beside her a large chest, containing her most necessary possessions. Not a human being was to be seen near and far. The sky was hung with heavy clouds, and a soft rain was beginning to fall. It was impossible to spend the night in the open air.
For a moment Katharine hesitated; then she beckoned to her sons. They broke open the chest; she gave to each one as much as he could carry, and comforting the frightened children, she said: "Let us go in God's name! We are everywhere in His keeping; He will not forsake us!"
They walked rapidly, and half an hour later, a light shining through the darkness, showed them the way to the habitations of men. They soon reached a village, and the first door at which they knocked, was hospitably opened to receive them.
"Good Heavens, Mistress Luther, is it you?" exclaimed a voice from a corner of the dimly-lighted room, as they entered.
"Master Philip," cried Katharine and the children, equally surprised. It was Philip Melanchthon, her husband's dearest friend, whom a similar accident,—his wagon having been overturned in a ditch—had driven to seek shelter in the village.
The kind peasants, to whom these exclamations betrayed the identity of their guests, could not sufficiently express their reverent affection. The contents of the larder were produced for their refreshment. The beds of the family, in spite of all their protestations, were given up to the strangers, and on the following morning, before sunrise, the peasant was at the door, with his own cart, prepared to carry them to their journey's end.
"The Lord's chancery," said Melanchthon, as they entered Magdeburg, through the gloomy gate of the fortress. "Your dear husband often gave the city that name. Who would then have thought, that we should one day come hither, to seek safety from persecution. But I thank God, that in these troublous times, he has provided for us a place of refuge."