“We must obey God rather than man,” answered the monk. There was an embarrassed pause, and the prelate who had to communicate in the evening declined to drink any more. But this vexed the Prior, who felt the implied reproof.
“You are from the country, my friend,” he said to the monk, “and know not the time, nor the spirit of the time. You must have a licence for me—it must be paid for of course—and then the day is not dishonoured. Besides—panis es et esto. Here you have wine and bread—with butter on it. More wine, boy!”
The monk rose to go; the Prior seemed to wake to recollection.
“What is your name, monk?”
“My name is Martin, Master of Philosophy, from Wittenberg.”
“Yes, yes, thank you. But don’t go yet! Give me your letter.” The monk handed over the letter, which the Prior opened and glanced through.
“The Kurfürst of Saxony! Master Martin Luther, go if you wish to your chamber. Rest till the evening, then we will go together to the assembly at Chigi. There we shall meet elegant people like Cardinal John de Medici, great men like Raphael, and the Archangel Michael himself. Do you know Michael Angelo, who is building the new Church of St. Peter and painting the Sistine Chapel? No! then you will learn to know him. Vale, brother, and sleep well.”
Master Martin Luther went, sorely troubled, but resolved to see more of the state of affairs before judging too hastily.
Cards were now brought out, and the Prior shuffled them.
“That is an unpleasant fellow, whom the Kurfürst had sent to us. A hypocrite, who does not drink wine and crosses himself at the sight of a pheasant!”