"I am but a poor pedlar, sir," I said; "but I think there is a long way between Pilate's delivering up the glorious King he knew was innocent—perhaps began to see might be divine, and St. Peter's denying the Master he loved. And the Lord who forgave Peter knows which is which; which the timid disciple, and which the cowardly friend of His foes. But the eye of man, it seems to me, may find it impossible to distinguish. I would rather be Luther at the Diet of Worms, and under anathema and ban, than either."
"Bold words!" he said, "to prefer an excommunicated heretic to the prince of the apostles!"
But a shade passed over his face, and courteously bidding me farewell, he rode on.
The conversation seemed to have thrown a shadow and chill over my heart.
After a time, however, the rider slackened his pace again, and beckoned to me to rejoin him.
"Have you friends in Basel?" he asked kindly.
"None," I replied; "but I have letters to the printer Frobenius, and I was recommended to seek out Erasmus."
"Who recommended you to do that?" he asked.
"The good knight Ulrich von Hutten," I replied.
"The prince of all turbulent spirits!" he murmured gravely. "Little indeed is there in common between Erasmus of Rotterdam and that firebrand."