He passes a sleepless night, and appears at the time appointed, haggard, yet firm, armed with documents.
He is ushered into the presence of the Cardinals. They receive him as an equal. A little speech is made, complimenting him on his good work, upon his uprightness, and ends with a gentle caution concerning the wisdom of making haste slowly.
Charges? There are no charges against the Pilgrim—why should there be? And moreover, what if there are? Good men are always maligned. He has been summoned to Rome that the Cardinals might have his advice.
The Pope will meet him tomorrow in order to bestow his personal blessing.
It is all over—the burden falls from his back. He gasps in relief and sinks into a chair.
The greatness of Rome and the kindness and courtesy he has received have subdued him.
Possibly there is a temporary, slight reduction of position—he is given another diocese or territory; but there is a promise of speedy promotion—there is no humiliation. The man goes home subdued, conquered by kindness, happy in the determination to work for the Church as never before.
Rome binds great men to her; she does not drive them away: her policy is wise—superbly, splendidly wise.
Luther was now beyond the pale—the Church had no further power to punish him, but agents of the Church, being a part of the Government, might proceed against him as an enemy of the State.