The squire had business with one of the tenants in the library that evening, so his sister and her two nephews were alone in the drawing-room after dinner.
“Aunt,” said Walter, “look at my hands; do you know what this means?” His hands were crossed on his knees.
“I think I do,” she replied with a smile; “but do you tell me yourself.”
“Why, it means this,—I am going to bring forward for our general edification an example of moral courage to-night, and my hero is no less a person than Martin Luther; and there is my Martin Luther.” As he said this he placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and looked at him with a bright and affectionate smile. “Yes, he is my Martin Luther: only, instead of his being brought before a ‘Diet of Worms,’ a very substantial diet of fish, flesh, and fowl has just been brought before him; and instead of having to appear before the Emperor Charles the Fifth, he is now appearing before Queen Katharine the First of Flixworth Manor.”
Both his hearers laughed heartily and happily; then he added: “Now I am going to trot out my hero—nay, that word ‘trot’ won’t do; I’ve had too much of both trotting and galloping lately. But what I mean is, I want to show you what it is that I specially admire in my hero, and how this exactly fits in with my dear hero-brother Amos. Ah! I see he wants to stop me, but, dear Aunt Kate, you must use your royal authority and back me up; and when I have done, you can put in what notes and comments and addenda and corrigenda you like, and tell me if I have not just hit the right nail on the head.
“Very well; now I see you are all attention. Martin Luther—wasn’t he a grand fellow? Just look at him as he is travelling up to the Diet of Worms. As soon as the summons came to him, his mind was made up; he did not delay for a moment. People crowded about him and talked of danger, but Luther talked about duty. He set out in a waggon, with an imperial herald before him. His journey was like a triumphal procession. In every town through which he passed, young and old came out of their doors to wonder at him, and bless him, and tell him to be of good courage. At last he has got to Oppenheim, not far from Worms, and his friends do their very best to frighten him and keep him back; but he tells them that if he should have to encounter at Worms as many devils as there were tiles on the houses of that city, he would not be kept from his purpose. Ah! that was a grand answer. And then, when he got to his lodgings, what a sight it must have been! They were crowded inside and out with all classes and all kinds of persons,—soldiers, clergy, knights, peasants, nobles by the score, citizens by the thousand. And then came the grand day of all, the day after his arrival. He was sent for into the council-hall. What a sight that must have been for the poor monk! There was the young emperor himself, Charles the Fifth, in all his pomp and splendour, and two hundred of his princes and nobles. Why, it would have taken the breath out of a dozen such fellows as I am to have to stand up and speak up for what I knew to be right before such a company. But Luther did speak up; and there was no swagger about him either. They asked him to recant, and he begged time to consider of it. They met again next day, and then he refused to recant, with great gentleness. ‘Show me that I have done wrong,’ he said, ‘and I will submit: until I am better instructed I cannot recant; it is not wise, it is not safe for a man to do anything against his conscience. Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise. God help me. Amen.’ There, auntie, don’t you agree with me in giving the crown of moral courage to Martin Luther? It’s an old story, and I’ve learned it quite by heart, for I was always fond of it, but it is none the less true on that account.”
“Yes, Walter, clear boy,” replied his aunt, “I must heartily agree with you, and acknowledge that you have made a most excellent choice of a hero in Martin Luther. Not a doubt of it, he was a truly great and good man, a genuine moral hero. For a man who can be satisfied with nothing less than what is real and right; who is content to count all things loss for the attainment of a spiritual aim, and to fight for it against all enemies; who does his duty spite of all outward contradiction; and who reverences his conscience so greatly that he will face any difficulty and submit to any penalty rather than do violence to it, that is a truly great man, exhibiting a superb example of moral courage. And such a man, no doubt, was Martin Luther; and I believe I can see why you have chosen him just now, but you must tell me why yourself.”
“I will, Aunt Kate. You see we are in Worms now. This is the council-hall; before dinner to-day was the time of meeting; and my dear father was in his single person the august assembly. Amos, the best of brothers to the worst of brothers, is Martin Luther. He might have kept himself to himself, but he comes forward. It is the hardest thing possible for him to speak; if he had consulted his own feelings he would have spared himself a mighty struggle, and have left his scamp of a brother to get out of the scrape as best he could. But he stands up as brave as a lion and as gentle as a lamb, and looks as calm as if he were made of sponge-biscuits instead of flesh and blood. He ventures to address the august assembly—I mean my father—in a way he never did in all his life before, and never would have done if he had been speaking for himself; but it was duty that was prompting him, it was love that was nerving him, it was unselfishness that made him bold. And so he has shown himself the bravest of the brave; and I hope the brother for whom he has done and suffered all this, if he has any shame left in him, will learn to copy him, as he already learned to respect and admire him. There, Aunt Kate, I’ve been, and gone, and said it.”