"Ah," said one of them, "a country peasant does not use a handkerchief like this."
The game was up. Augusta stood revealed, and Schöneich, hearing the glorious news, came prancing up on his horse.
"My lord," said Augusta, "is this what you call faith?"
"Did you never hear," said Schöneich, "that promises made in the night are never binding? Did you never hear of a certain Jew with his red beard and yellow bag? Did you never hear of the mighty power of money? And where have you come from this morning? I hear you have plenty of money in your possession. Where is that money now?"
As they rode next day in a covered waggon on their way to the city of Prague, the Captain pestered Augusta with many questions.
"My dear Johannes," said the jovial wag, "where have you been? With whom? Where are your letters and your clothes? Whose is this cap? Where did you get it? Who lent it to you? What do they call him? Where does he live? Where is your horse? Where is your money? Where are your companions?"
"Why do you ask so many questions?" asked Augusta.
"Because," replied Schöneich, letting out the murder, "I want to be able to give information about you. I don't want to be called a donkey or a calf."
And now began for John Augusta a time of terrible testing. As the Captain rapped his questions out he was playing his part in a deadly game that involved the fate, not only of the Brethren's Church, but of all evangelicals in the land.
For months King Ferdinand had longed to capture Augusta. He regarded him as the author of the Smalkald League; he regarded him as the deadliest foe of the Catholic faith in Europe; he regarded the peaceful Brethren as rebels of the vilest kind; and now that he had Augusta in his power he determined to make him confess the plot, and then, with the proof he desired in his hands, he would stamp out the Brethren's Church for once and all.