KATHARINA VON BORA
From a Portrait by Lucas Kranich

KATHARINE VON BORA,

Dr. Martin Luther's Wife

A PICTURE FROM LIFE,

BY

ARMIN STEIN.

TRANSLATED BY E. A. ENDLICH.

PHILADELPHIA
THE UNITED LUTHERAN PUBLICATION HOUSE

COPYRIGHT, 1890.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

It has been my purpose in "Katharine von Bora," to picture in the peaceful quiet of his domestic happiness, the man whose influence so largely shaped the course of public events.

The undertaking has not been altogether an easy one; for, while history flows in a copious stream, regarding the Reformer himself, it gives but meager information as to the great man's wife,—the humble, modest woman, who never thrust herself forward, nor sought any personal advantage from her husband's greatness,—but remained contentedly in the background, glad to do him service, and to enrich her own heart from the abundance of his spiritual riches. Only occasional fragments give us glimpses of Katharine's life, and out of these I will endeavor to form a completer picture.

The fact that Luther is so absorbing a personality, gives rise to a further difficulty,—the biography of Katharine von Bora often insensibly becomes that of Luther himself; and the author pauses to ask himself: Am I writing of Katharine, or of Luther? I can only repeat, that it is my purpose, in this book, to paint Luther's domestic life, and therefore Dr. Martin, as the head of his household, may fitly play a leading part.

As has already been stated, the historical notices regarding Katharine von Bora are very scant. In addition to the laborious compilation by Walsh, published in refutation of popish calumnies, there are but two learned works upon the subject,—Hofman's "Katharine von Bora; or, Luther as Husband and Father," and a "Life of Katharine von Bora," by W. Beste; besides these, I would mention a concise and popular sketch, written by Meurer, the Luther-biographer.

It has been my endeavor, so to utilize the material here gathered, that our people may learn to know the wife of its greatest man,—not by name only, but as her husband's "helpmeet," in the truest sense of the word, as a pattern of domestic virtue, and as a pearl among women.

CONTENTS.

BOOK FIRST.—THE MAIDEN.

[CHAPTER I.]
A CONSPIRACY

[CHAPTER II.]
DISAPPOINTED HOPE

[CHAPTER III.]
DAWN

[CHAPTER IV.]
FREEDOM

[CHAPTER V.]
SHELTERED

[CHAPTER VI.]
A FLEETING FANCY

[CHAPTER VII.]
KATHARINE IN TROUBLE AND DR. MARTIN IN
STRIFE WITH HIS FRIENDS

[CHAPTER VIII.]
A SUDDEN RESOLVE

[CHAPTER IX.]
A DAY OF REJOICING

BOOK SECOND—THE WIFE.

[CHAPTER X.]
"AS SORROWING, YET ALWAYS REJOICING."

[CHAPTER XI.]
THE FAITHFUL ECKART

[CHAPTER XII.]
A NEW LIFE

[CHAPTER XIII.]
"AS DYING, AND, BEHOLD, WE LIVE"

[CHAPTER XIV.]
BEREAVED AND COMFORTED

[CHAPTER XV.]
ALONE

[CHAPTER XVI.]
GOD'S INN

[CHAPTER XVII.]
PEACE

[CHAPTER XVIII.]
THE MOTHER AND HER CHILDREN

[CHAPTER XIX.]
RISEN FROM THE DEAD

[CHAPTER XX.]
"LORD" KATE

[CHAPTER XXI.]
LUTHER'S LAST WILL

[CHAPTER XXII.]
LITTLE LENA

[CHAPTER XXIII.]
ONCE MORE IN ZULSDORF

[CHAPTER XXIV.]
PARTING

BOOK THIRD—THE WIDOW.

[CHAPTER XXV.]
ALONE

[CHAPTER XXVI.]
WAR

[CHAPTER XXVII.]
MORE TROUBLE

[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
GLIMPSES OF SUNSHINE

[CHAPTER XXIX.]
RELEASE

KATHARINE VON BORA;

THE MAIDEN.

CHAPTER I.
A CONSPIRACY.

It was the evening of a clear, warm March day. The sun, sinking behind the distant hills, sent its parting rays over the earth, tinting hills and valleys, forests and meadows, with golden light. The evening mist was rising, and covering with a filmy veil the tender spring flowers—the snow-drops and violets—from the chilly night air. The windows in the western wing of the convent of Nimptschen shone with a ruddy glow; and the face of the young nun, who stood by an open casement, seemed transfigured by the strange light, while the tears in her eyes quivered like drops of liquid gold. With longing sadness, her glance rested upon the landscape; upon the peasants, returning to their homes, after the day's work; and upon the children, playing their merry games on the village green. The young nun was of pleasing, graceful figure. Her features were too irregular to be strictly beautiful, and the pallor of her skin made her appear older than she was. But her face possessed the rare charm of sympathy. Clear, thoughtful eyes and delicately curved lips betrayed a deep, rich inner life, and a sensitive heart; while the firmly rounded chin bespoke self-respect and decision of character. An expression of gentle dignity lay upon the arched forehead. There was in her manner a certain highbred nobility, the stamp of true womanliness, and her movements were full of grace.

Her cell was narrow and gloomy; yet the skillful hands of its occupant had so disposed the scanty furniture, and the saints' pictures upon the walls, adding here and there little touches of color, that the room had lost its bare appearance. The abbess herself was fond of visiting this cell, and often said: "I cannot understand, Sister Katharine, why your cell is so home-like. One feels here, that it is far pleasanter to come, than to go."

As the nun stood by the window, her tearful eyes rested upon the calm beauty of the early Springtime, while her mind was lost in gloomy reveries. At her feet lay a piece of costly violet-colored velvet, which had dropped from her hands, and upon the window ledge were tangled masses of white and yellow silk. Rousing herself from her dreams, she hastily gathered up the velvet, sat down upon a stool, and resumed her embroidery. It was an altar-cloth for the convent-church. The design was, two palm branches crossed, and above, the legend "Ave Maria." The words were already finished; but the branches were merely outlined in coarse stitches. Her slender fingers moved wearily over the velvet, and her head bent low over her work, for the last scant rays of daylight were falling into the cell.

Suddenly, the heavy, iron-mounted door was opened, and a younger nun appeared. "What is this, Sister Katharine?" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Still at your work? Pray spare your eyes! But," she continued, coming nearer, "why are you so far behindhand? What will the abbess say? To-morrow, at High Mass, the altar was to wear its new draperies."

Katharine looked up with a dreary smile. "I am angry with my own heart, because it is so reluctant to obey the commands of our Superior. My needle moves slowly; and what was once a pleasure, has become a burden. O Sister Elizabeth, a change has come over my soul, since the voice of the Monk of Wittenberg penetrated these walls!"

Elizabeth glanced anxiously toward the door. "Speak softly, Sister Katharine, these walls have ears." She pushed the bolt, and drawing a stool beside Katharine, she sat down, saying gently: "Light the lamp, Sister, I will help you."

"How kind you are, dear Elizabeth," exclaimed Katharine, with a grateful smile. "But let us wait—it is time for vespers."

As she spoke, the little bell was heard, summoning the nuns to evening prayers. Then followed the meagre supper in the refectory.

Both nuns were of noble lineage, for the Cistercian Convent Marienthron at Nimptschen received no others. The younger one was Elizabeth von Kanitz, who had taken the veil but a year and a half ago. Her fresh, rose-tinted skin had not yet been blanched by the cellar-like atmosphere of the convent, nor her cheerful spirit crushed by the oppressive discipline of the order. Her ingenuous, childlike disposition had won the love of the Sisters, and even the venerable abbess had been seen to smile at her merry sallies, Her friend was a descendant of the distinguished family Von Bora, richer in noble ancestors than in worldly goods. She was an orphan, and knew but one member of her family to be living, her brother, Hans von Bora. She had reached her twenty-fourth year, and had been in the convent since her childhood, having taken the final vows at the age of fifteen. An hour later, we find them again in Katharine's cell. The copper lamp was lighted, and they sat down together, to finish the embroidery which was to be used at the celebration on the morrow.

"How swiftly your finger fly, dear Elizabeth," said Katharine, "and how contentedly your eyes rest upon your work. You happy child! Life is all a fair Mayday to you! Doubts and temptations are all unknown to you. You are satisfied within these gloomy walls, and to your childlike faith they seem to lead straight to heaven. I, too, was once happy and contented here, although I grieved sorely at leaving my father's house. Ah, it is hard, to part forever from all that is dear to us, and to hear the convent gates close behind us, like the lid of a coffin; to be dead to the outer world; never again to receive the kiss of love, or the greeting of friendship. But seeing that it must needs be,—for my parents, with their small means, could not provide a suitable refuge for their daughter, I overcame my sorrow, and with confident hope knocked at these doors, of which I was told that they were the doors of Heaven. And truly, it seemed as though a breath from Heaven greeted me, as I crossed the threshold. To be sheltered from the temptations of an evil world, and from the cares of this life; to be surrounded by the odor of incense, and the sound of holy music; to be guided at every step by spiritual counsel; to be able to labor unceasingly for the welfare of my soul, and fix my thoughts upon the life to come,—all this persuaded me that I had entered the courts of Heaven, and I remembered my parents daily, with hearty thanks for their kindness in bringing me hither. Now, I see it all in a different light. This gloomy house, which I regarded as the abode of true life, is a grave, in which I am buried alive. The monk of Wittenberg has opened my eyes, and I see that all my pious exercises are but an idle, fruitless endeavor. Luther's words have startled me out of my dreams. But he is right, it was but a dream, an imaginary sanctity. My heart bears me witness to the truth of his teaching; for God's peace, which I hoped to win through my devotions and good works,—that I have never found. I was taught that only in the convent, true piety had its abiding place. I have learned this to be false, and I am certain that those who live in the world can serve God and be saved, as well as we. Yes, if we who enter here, could leave behind us our sinful heart! But that goes with us, and prepares us trials, of which the world does not dream. It would seem as though here everything were calculated to lift the soul above earthly things, and to fill it with the strength of heavenly life, but in reality, the dreary monotony merely deadens the spirit. Beyond these walls, life shines in bright and happy colors, but here all is gray. There, men rejoice in the lovely Spring-time; they watch for the Summer, which causes the budding germs to flower; they greet the Autumn, with its ripening fruits; and again, when Winter comes, the weary body hails the rest it brings. Here, we scarcely know when the violets are blooming, or when the grapes are gathered, or when the snow is falling. All seasons, all days are alike in this dull life, if indeed it can be called a life. There, men go forth each morning to their day's work, and it is a pleasure to them, a blessing both to body and soul. Their food gives them strength, and their sleep refreshes them. But our souls and bodies are weakened by this pious idleness. If our convent were in a city, where we could nurse the sick, clothe the naked, comfort the sorrowing, that would fill the void in our life, and vary its monotony. Ah, Sister Elizabeth, I fear I cannot longer endure the conflict. My strength is failing me, and I feel the blood coursing more and more languidly through my veins."

She hid her face in her hands. A deep silence succeeded, which Elizabeth did not venture to break. Her tender heart was filled with pity at the sight of Katharine's misery. She had listened with deep interest, her glowing eyes fixed upon her friend's lips. Strange feelings were awakened within her. Now she rose in great agitation, and grasped Katharine's hand.

"Sister, has God bidden you speak thus to me? Your words have torn the veil from my eyes, and roused thoughts which hitherto slumbered in my soul. You think me happy, Katharine, and you are right, for God has given me a cheerful heart. But yet I am not the trusting child, that accepts with unquestioning confidence the ordinances of the Church, and the rules of our order. Do you suppose that Luther's words have failed to touch me? Since I read his book on 'Monastic Vows' and on the 'Babylonian Captivity,' a thorn has entered my conscience, which torments and terrifies me. My mind is not clear, like yours, to discern the needs of my soul; my trouble has been undefined. But you have put it into words. Now I know what I want, and I am indeed unhappy."

She threw herself upon Katharine's neck and wept aloud. Katharine loosened the clinging arms, and wringing her hands in distress, she exclaimed: "Woe is me! What have I done! Oh, that I had kept silence, and borne my sorrow alone!"

Elizabeth dried her tears, and said, with a gentle caress: "Do not grieve, dear Katharine. It is indeed painful to have one's eyes opened by force. But is it not better to know the truth, than to continue in error?"

After a long and scrutinizing look into her friend's face, Katharine suddenly leaned forward, so that her lips touched Elizabeth's ear. "Elizabeth, you do not know all my trouble."

The young nun's eyes anxiously questioned hers. She continued: "You will not betray me. Elizabeth? I have a secret,—I and seven others."

"Trust me," said Elizabeth.

Katharine drew still nearer and whispered: "Do you know what has happened at Grimma?"

Elizabeth nodded. "How should I not know? The Gospel has been preached there openly, since Luther proclaimed the truth from the pulpit of the town church."

"It is not that I mean," Katharine shook her head. "We have received tidings, that in the past week the monastery of the Holy Cross was deserted by its monks."

Elizabeth started. "What do you say? It is not possible!"

Katharine continued quietly: "These are wonderful times. All signs point to the beginning of a new life. Not at Grimma only, but elsewhere also, the cloisters have opened their gates, after Luther had uttered his Hephatha. Sister Elizabeth,—if our gates were opened,—would you go, or stay?"

A deep crimson dyed Elizabeth's face, and a shiver ran through her body. "Sister, I believe I should go. But," she added drearily, "who will open them? You know how bitterly the abbess hates Luther, and how she rails against him."

A shadow fell upon Katharine's face, and a heavy sigh rose from her breast. "That is my sorrow also. But perhaps the abbess may be forced to yield, whether she will or not."

"I do not understand you," said Elizabeth, in alarm.

Again Katharine leaned over and whispered:—"Eight of the Sisters have entered upon a secret compact. They have written letters to their parents and kinsfolk, imploring them, for God's sake, to pity their condition, and release them from their imprisonment. They say that since they have learned, monastic vows to be opposed to the teachings of Holy Scripture, they should imperil their souls, by continuing to strive after an imaginary sanctity."

Elizabeth's eyes were opened wide. She clutched Katharine's arm and asked eagerly: "Who are they,—these eight?"

Katharine answered: "They are Magdalene von Staupitz, Veronica and Margaret von Zeschau, Laneta von Gohlis, Eva von Gross, Eva and Margaret von Schoenfeld,—I am the eighth."

"Let me be the ninth," pleaded Elizabeth. "If you go, I cannot stay."

For a moment Katharine's eyes scanned the young nun's face, then she said earnestly: "Dear Elizabeth, we will gladly let you share our secret; but be careful, lest you arouse suspicion. Your tongue is quick, and your eyes tell tales."

A sudden flush overspread Elizabeth's face. "Do not fear, dear Katharine. You shall learn that I can keep silence."

Far into the night the nuns sat plying their needles and talking over their plans, until at midnight the little bell again called them to their devotions.

CHAPTER II.
DISAPPOINTED HOPES.

Again it was evening, some weeks later, when seven nuns sat together in the cell of Magdalene von Staupitz. They were very sad, for the hopes, which they had built on the kindness and mercy of their parents and kinspeople, had been miserably disappointed. Magdalene von Staupitz had indeed received from her brother, the Vicar-General of the Augustinian order, a warm and sympathizing letter; and Katharine had just read aloud another from her brother Hans, full of tender, brotherly love; but both urged their sisters not to leave the convent. Monks, they argued, might safely take such a step, being able to work with their hands for their bread. But how would they, poor, helpless nuns, fare in the world? Their second state would be worse than their first.

The other nuns were even more cast down. Their parents had replied with threats and reproaches, and they were so utterly crushed, that it was difficult to console them. Presently, Laneta von Gohlis joined their number, with drooping head and sorrowful eyes. Silently she sat down, and the eyes of all sought the face of Magdalene von Staupitz, who was older than the rest, and whose opinion was accepted with the utmost confidence. She had bidden the sisters to her cell, to take counsel with them as to their further course.

Magdalene rose. She was a tall, dignified woman, with a thoughtful face, and a calm manner.

"Our first hope has been put to naught, dear Sisters," she began, in her rich full voice, "and it is a bitter lot, to be forsaken by those whom nature has appointed to be our helpers. They bid us remain. But shall we obey men, rather than God, whose call has come to us through the word of His prophet? Our awakened conscience will not suffer us to continue in a place to which our heart has become a stranger; for all our obedience to the rules and exercises of the order is but hypocrisy."

Katharine von Bora replied, with quivering lips: "My spirit grieves at the thought of ending my days in this dreary place—dead, while yet I am living. But what can we do?"

"Listen to me, sisters—I will tell you my plan," she continued, "since it was Luther, who brought God's Word to us, he is the man to whom we must direct our cry for help—that he may lay it before the throne of God."

"Magdalene," cried Katharine, "how dare we? Should such as we burden the great man with our troubles? Has he not far greater and weightier cares resting upon him?"

Magdalene shook her head. "Do not oppose me, Katharine. Through my brother I have gained more accurate knowledge of the Monk of Wittenberg; and from what I have heard, we will not do amiss in turning to him. His giant spirit does not ask whether persons are of high or low degree; his ears and his heart are open to the needs of the least. Many of the monks, who left their monasteries, have been taken under his protection, and his energetic intercession has secured them a livelihood. Should he not take pity on us, defenceless nuns?"

Eva von Schoenfeld eagerly grasped Magdalene's hand.

"Sister, your advice is good, and new hope has entered my heart. I am sure that Luther will help us. I have absolute faith in him."

A breath of excitement seemed to stir these troubled women. Luther's name revived and strengthened their failing courage, and they crowded around Sister Magdalene, thanking her for her happy, saving thought.

"But how shall Luther hear from us?" asked Eva von Schoenfeld, when the sudden enthusiasm had given place to calm reflection.

"That is the least of our difficulties," replied Magdalene. "Klaus, the gardener, will do the errand for me with pleasure. He has long been waiting for an opportunity to show his gratitude for the help I gave him, when the poisonous insect stung his hand."

Then the door was hastily flung open, and pale as death, Elizabeth von Kanitz rushed into the room.

"All is lost!" she cried, wringing her hands. "My father has come, and in the presence of the abbess, with many reproaches, gave me his answer to my letter. Our secret is betrayed, and I, unhappy girl, have been the cause!"

Burying her face in her hands, she sank upon a stool. The others, speechless, and paralyzed with terror, surrounded her.

Magdaline von Staupitz was the first to recover herself.

"Sisters," she pleaded, "do not lose heart! They will make haste to separate and punish us! We will therefore use the few moments that are left us, and promise each other to abide by our purpose. Now, more than ever, Luther is our only hope. Leave it to me—I will send a messenger to him!"

The nuns had scarcely expressed their assent, when a shuffling step was heard approaching, and presently the abbess stood before the trembling Sisters.

The old woman's face, ordinarily of an ashen hue, had assumed a greenish tint, which was an indication of the deepest anger. Quivering with rage, she struggled to overcome her agitation sufficiently, to give utterance to her feelings. For some moments her lips were unable to frame the words, and in anxious silence the nuns, with hands crossed, and heads bowed, stood like criminals, awaiting their doom. Finally, broken sentences fell from the sanctified lips:

"Oh, that my old eyes should witness such shame! What have you done, you children of Satan? If you stood before me—as fallen Magdalens—as murderesses—from my heart I could pity you. But my soul revolts at your crime, and the sharpest scourge is too gentle for such as you. Only the day before yesterday, in proud joy, I reported to the General of the order—the convent of Marienthron is an undefiled sanctuary, and proof against heresy. Now—I am made a liar, my pride is humbled, my glory put to shame! Holy Mother of God, hide thy face from this iniquity, nor, because of the sin of these nine, do thou punish the whole of this consecrated house. Their crime shall be visited with heavy punishment, that the stain may be wiped away! But you—you—you—why do you stand? On your knees with you! Into the dust!"

The nuns fell upon their knees, and silently kissed the withered hand of the abbess, in gratitude for the promised punishment—for the convent discipline had taught them to receive punishment as a benefaction.

At the evening meal, and on the day following, there were nine vacant places in the refectory. The penitents were locked in their cells, on bread and water; and in the fervor of her holy zeal, the abbess undertook the task of listening at the doors, to make sure that the prisoners recited the prescribed number of prayers. On the fourth day the unhappy nuns were released, but only to be subjected to the deepest humiliation. During the celebration of the Mass, they sat apart from the others, upon the penitent's bench, and while the priest intoned the penitential litany, they were obliged to creep upon their knees to the steps of the altar, striking their breasts with their hands, until the cleansing virtue of holy water and the fumes of incense had dispelled the odor of heresy. The abbess, after they had kissed her feet, then pronounced the formula of absolution, by which they were again received into the fellowship of the children of God. But it was her lips only, that spoke the words—her eyes expressed unappeased hatred, which imparted itself to the other nuns, and made the convent more than ever a hell on earth to the unfortunate heretics. They were passed by without a glance or a word, and treated as though they had forfeited the right of dwelling in this sacred spot. They were outlawed, and the bitter need of their hearts, teaching them the insufficiency of prayers learned by rote, constrained them to cast themselves personally before the throne of grace, and like Jacob of old, to wrestle with the Lord in fervent prayer.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Where is Klaus?" asked the abbess of the lay brother, who was busy with his spade among the vegetable beds of the convent garden.

Slowly lifting his head, the brother answered: "He went away to buy seeds."

"Where?"

"He did not tell me—probably to Erfurt."

CHAPTER III.
DAWN.

In a corner house on the market place of Torgau, the merchant Leonhard Koppe, sat at the window of his comfortable room. He was a man past fifty, with a shrewd, kindly face. His head rested on his hand, and his eyes wandered vaguely in the distance. From time to time he moved uneasily in his chair, and passed his hand across his forehead. He seemed to be pondering some weighty matter. His wife, Susanna, had questioned him repeatedly as to his ill humor; but either he answered her curtly, or not at all; until she went away, highly displeased.

Suddenly the merchant rapped at the window, and beckoned eagerly to some one below. A few moments later, a thin, elderly man entered the room. It was the chandler, Master Wolfgang Tommitzsch, whom Leonhard cordially welcomed.

"It was a lucky moment for me, my good neighbor, when you passed my house. You are a man of wise counsel, of which I am sorely in need; therefore I beckoned you to come up to me."

"Say on," replied Master Wolfgang, without moving a muscle of his face.

Leonhard loosened his doublet, and prepared to tell his trouble. "Yesterday I returned from Wittenberg, whither I had gone on a matter of business. I also heard our dear Dr. Luther preach in the church of St. Mary's—his words still ring in my ears. Afterwards I met Luther, as he was returning from the church. He suddenly caught me by the sleeve, and said: 'Ah, is it you, my dear Koppe? My thoughts were with you this very moment—and here I see you actually before me, as though you had dropped from heaven. This, it seems to me, is of God's ordering, and is a sign to me, that you are the man to carry out the business which weighs upon my mind. You are acquainted in the convent of Nimptschen?' When I told him that I supplied the order with cloth and wax, he continued: 'Listen to me. In the convent are nine noble maidens who are weary of their nunnery, but do not know how to obtain their liberty. In their need, after they had in vain petitioned their kinsfolk, they turned to me for help—which I would gladly give, but that my arm is too short to reach from Wittenberg to Nimptschen. Neither could I go thither myself and liberate the poor captives, either secretly or by force. Therefore I have need of a man who will lend me his arm, and I ask you, Master Koppe, to do it, for the love of God. You know the road, and have a clear head to devise ways and means, and a good Christian heart that can pity the misery of others. Will you undertake this matter?' And I said yes,—for who can resist the magic of Luther's wonderful lightning eyes, and the pleading of his voice? I was proud indeed that he stood and talked with me thus publicly—the great man, who fears neither pope nor devil.

"But when he had gone, I felt hot and cold, for I perceived that I had built a tower without reckoning the cost. I pondered the matter on my homeward journey, and here I still sit and torment myself. The closer I look at it, the more ticklish it appears. How shall I disclose my plan to the nuns, without arousing the suspicions of the abbess? Notwithstanding her seventy years, she has the eyes of a lynx, and the scent of a fox. Even if I should succeed in approaching them unperceived, how will it be possible to get them away? If it were one, or even two, it might be done—but a whole wagon full! And when they are safely out of the convent, we must still pass through the territory of Duke George; and that is a dangerous journey, inasmuch as the Duke hates Luther more than he hates the Devil himself. Dear friend, what say you?"

Tommitzsch half closed his eyes and nodded reflectively. After a moment's thought, he looked up and said: "The distress of these nuns touches my heart. Only lately I witnessed the joy of my sister's child, who escaped from the convent at Wurzen. Such may be the joy of a person who rises from his grave; and methinks it is a good work, and well pleasing to God, to help a human being from death to life. I pity the nuns at Nimptschen, although they are strangers to me; and if Dr. Martin desires it, how can we hesitate? Therefore, neighbor, make the venture, and I will give you my help."

"For which you have my hearty thanks," cried the merchant, wringing his friend's hand. "If you devise the plan, it will surely succeed."

The chandler answered calmly: "It is a good work—and God will aid us. When do you carry the next load of goods to the convent?"

"The order may come at any hour, for Easter is near at hand," replied Master Leonhard. "What do you mean?"

Tommitzsch returned: "It must be an easy matter to deliver a letter secretly to one of the nuns."

The merchant listened attentively, and after a little more conversation, the chandler left the house.

On the following morning, a heavy, canvas-covered wagon rumbled along the road from Torgau to Grimma, and, on the evening of the same day, halted at the gates of the convent Marienthron at Nimptschen, about the time when the nuns were walking in the garden, after their evening meal.

Such an arrival from the busy world was an important event amid the monotony of convent life, especially when it was Master Leonhard Koppe from Torgau—the pleasant, talkative man, who brought an abundance of news, and related such merry tales. For strange to say, these brides of heaven greatly relished an earthly jest.

As usual, he was soon surrounded by the nuns, and amid much cheerful talk unpacked his wares. But his eyes seemed to be seeking some one; he was absent-minded, and failed to answer their questions. When at last Magdalene von Staupitz, coming in from the garden, approached the group, he grew taciturn, and gave them to understand he was not in the mood for conversation.

As Magdalene came nearer, a quick glance from the merchant's eyes met hers. She turned away, to hide the flush which rose to her face; and, returning to the garden, concealed herself behind an alder-bush near the entrance, from whence she could overlook the court.

After the nuns had dispersed, she again drew near, and sought to find in the merchant's face an explanation of his look. Hidden from the convent by his great wagon, he hastily gave her a letter, saying: "Read it. At the appointed time I shall be at hand."

He then climbed into the wagon, to prepare himself a resting place for the night, and the nun disappeared among the shadows.

* * * * * * * * * *

"What ails you, Sister Magdalene?" questioned the abbess, later in the evening. "Are you ill? Your face is pale, and the rosary trembles in your hands."

Magdalene cast down her eyes, and answered softly: "I feel as though a fever were shaking me. My prayers wearied me, and my head is dull and confused."

"Then see to it that some tea is made for you," said the abbess.

Obediently, the nun left the presence of the dreaded superior, hastily swallowed the nauseous drink, and sought her cell to escape the torture of further questioning. She found Katharine von Bora awaiting her.

"Tell me, sister," exclaimed Katharine, "what has happened? My heart beats with fear, but I dared not ask you in the presence of the others."

With a sigh of relief, Magdalene bolted her door, then sank trembling into Katharine's arms. "Katharine, dear Katharine, the day dawns,—the day of freedom! Luther—Luther—O thou prophet of the Most High, thou deliverer of the German people, thou wilt prove our good angel also!"

Katharine shivered within Magdalene's encircling arms.

"Do not speak in riddles, sister," she cried. "Relieve me from this suspense."

Magdalene drew a slip of paper from her bosom. "See here; the answer to our petition to Dr. Martin. Leonhard Koppe, the merchant, gave it to me secretly. It is difficult to decipher, for Master Koppe's hand is not skilled in writing. Listen to what he says: 'Dr. Martin greets the nine Sisters, and through me, Leonhard Koppe, the merchant of Torgau, will restore them to liberty. Therefore, hold yourselves in readiness. In the night before Easter, on the fourth of April, at the hour of ten, I will be under Katharine von Bora's window, from whence escape is easiest. Do what is needful to keep the secret, and may the Almighty have mercy on you!'"

Katharine would have cried out for joy, but Magdalene's hand sealed her lips. "Restrain yourself, sister. If God is preparing a path of escape for us, our own imprudence must not throw obstacles in the way. Consider,—our salvation or ruin lies in our own hands. Woe be to us, if we betray ourselves and our deliverers."

"What did you say?" interrupted Katharine, excitedly. "In the night before Easter? God pity us! Is not that, of all times, the most unsuitable?"

"You mean because of the vigil?" asked Magdalene, reflecting. Then after another glance at the letter, her eyes beamed afresh. "No,—that very night will be the most favorable to our plans. The vigil begins at midnight, and on that evening we retire earlier than usual to get a few hours of sleep. Here I read, that the merchant from Torgau will wait for us at the hour of ten. Is not that wisely planned? Oh, my spirit rises with new courage, kindled by hope, and my last doubts are silenced."

Overcome by her feelings, Magdalene fell upon her knees, and from the depths of her heart came her thanksgiving: "Thou Lord of my life, Thou God of my salvation, I thank Thee, that Thou hast guided a heart to accomplish our deliverance. I put my trust in Thee, Who wilt surely finish the work Thou hast begun, for Thy Name's sake. Amen."

CHAPTER IV.
FREEDOM.

It was Easter Eve in the year 1523. After the solemn hush of Good Friday, a bustling activity stirred the little community. The work was done in silence, it is true, for the day on which the body of our Lord lay in the sepulchre, demanded quiet and reverence; but all hands were busy with preparations worthy of the highest festival of the Christian Church. Groups of nuns were binding wreaths of moss and cedar-branches, with which to deck the images of the Saints and the life-size statue of the blessed Virgin, which occupied the most prominent place in the chapel. Others were engaged about the altar, which on Good Friday had been stripped of all ornament. They covered it with a cloth of white silk embroidered in gold, and supplied the candlesticks with fresh tapers, which Leonhard Koppe had lately provided. Others were building up in the altar recess a representation of the Resurrection,—the grave, surrounded by the prostrate watchers, and the Saviour issuing from its portal, bearing aloft the banner of victory.

The forenoon passed amid these preparations.

The mid-day meal was eaten in silence, for the strict fast permitted but scanty refreshment. During the afternoon the convent was silent as the grave. The nuns, weary in body and mind from the exertions of Holy Week, rested in their cells. Since Palm Sunday, they had spent but few hours in their beds, having been engaged day and night in praying, fasting, singing, confessing and hearing mass. Many may therefore have rejoiced in the blessed Easter day,—not only because our Lord was risen from the dead for the saving of the world, but also because the tired and enfeebled body might once more assert its rights, and the soul awaken from its spiritual weariness to a new life.

Slowly the twilight fell upon the earth. Once more the bell called to prayers, and the stewardess summoned the nuns to the thin, gray, Lenten soup. Then the last sound died away in the convent. The tired devotees stretched their aching limbs upon their beds, to find in slumber a little strength for the last effort,—the Easter vigil,—that night service, which with mysterious premonition leads the soul upward, step by step, to the supreme moment, when the first ray of the rising sun startles the soft murmurs into jubilant praise, and frow the full choir, accompanied by trumpets and cymbals, the Easter hymn bursts forth:

"Christ the Lord is risen
From His martyr prison,
Let us all rejoice in this,
Christ our joy and solace is.
Kyrie eleison."

* * * * * * * * * *

The night was damp and cold. A bitter wind drove the ragged clouds across the face of the moon, whose pale beams threw ghostly shadows upon the earth. In the forest the trees groaned and creaked, their branches tossed by the gale.

A great wagon, loaded with barrels, moved slowly along the road leading from Torgau. When the clouds did not hide the moon, three muffled figures, sitting immovable upon the wagon, became visible.

Near the convent they left the highway. One of the men sprang down and took the horses by the bridle.

"Do you know the road, neighbor?" came a whisper from within.

"Have no fear," was the answer. "I know every path. Follow me, until we reach the water. There we will leave the wagon among the alders. You, Caspar, stay with the horses and care for them."

Caspar was Leonhard's nephew. When they reached the pond they stopped. Caspar fed and watered the horses, while the others carefully groped their way through the bushes, Koppe taking his friend's hand, to help him because of his uncertain eyesight, and because the pale rays of the moon, which flickered through the trees, threw but scant light upon their path.

"Do you see yonder garden wall?" whispered Koppe. "I will creep on it to the spot, where it meets the building. There, where the light is shining, is Katharine von Bora's cell. I am glad to see that all the other windows are dark. My supposition was correct,—the nuns are sleeping until midnight. But it is not yet ten o'clock. Let us see if all is safe. The abbess is still awake," he grumbled, when they had reached the eastern front of the convent. "The venerable ghost has no peace, and often startles the nuns by her sudden appearances. She is a strange woman, and in her dealings with me, has given me much trouble by her suspicion and avarice. In her own eyes she is a saint, whose good works are so many that they reach up into Heaven, like the tower of Babel. Therefore she has much confidence and courage, and fears nothing, save the screech-owl, whose cry so grates upon her nerves, that in the Springtime she pays a golden florin for every owl's egg that is brought her."

Tommitzsch murmured something that sounded like a succession of maledictions. Suddenly he stopped, and seized his friend by the arm.

"I am not going any further with you."

"Why not?" asked Koppe, in dismay.

Tommitzsch replied in his imperturbable manner: "You can forego my help in your kidnapping business. I can imitate the cry of the screech-owl," he explained, "as well as that of the hawk and the cat. When the time has come, I will be the bird that turns her bravery into fear. In the meantime, you do your work."

"Truly, you are a wise counsellor," said Koppe, tapping his friend on the shoulder. "I am glad that I sought your assistance. It wants but a few minutes to ten."

The men grasped each other by the hand, each with hearty good wishes for the success of the other.

With redoubled caution, Koppe stole along the wall, until he reached a spot where a few crumbling stones gave him a foothold. Here he climbed up, and softly crept along the top. Suddenly, a sharp cry, piercing the silence, reached his ear. He started in alarm, but soon smiled at his fears.

"The screech-owl," he said to himself. The cry was repeated at intervals, and in the meantime, Koppe had reached the lighted window. He rose to his feet,—but alas! it was beyond the reach of his outstretched hand. He had been deceived in the height. How was he to make himself heard? Calling was out of the question. And how would they descend? He struck with his fist upon the wall, but the sound of his blows died away against the solid masonry. Then he bethought him of a key which he carried in his pocket. With this he tapped, and it rang clear against the stones.

Hark! They are moving overhead. The window is softly opened and a head is thrust out.

"Your rescuer is here!" he whispered, and the answer came back, "God be praised!"

The head was withdrawn, soon to re-appear, and Koppe heard the words: "Wait, until we fasten the rope to the casement."

The complaint he was about to utter, died upon his lips. Woman's wit had planned with better forethought, than manly wisdom. In less than a minute the end of the rope struck his head,—another minute, and the first nun stood beside him.

"Creep carefully forward," he directed the trembling girl, "I will receive the others."

Again the screech-owl shrieked. No other sound was heard, save the creaking of the branches in the wind. In wild haste the nuns slipped down, and crept along the wall. Koppe followed. When they came to the breach, he sprang down and assisted them to ascend. A suppressed cry of delight was heard, but Koppe angrily checked the guilty one.

"The time for rejoicing has not yet come! Make haste, and follow!"

The wagon was soon reached, and the merchant hid the nuns between the barrels, covering them with straw, until not a sign of them was visible. Then he hastened to relieve his companion from his post. They climbed into the wagon, and the horses were urged forward.

Dark and shadowy, like a gigantic sarcophagus, the convent lay behind them. Not a light gleamed from the windows, even that of the abbess being dark. The effect of the screech-owl's voice had not been miscalculated, and the old woman had doubtless sought refuge beneath her covers from the gruesome cries of the bird of death.

The nuns crouched motionless in their hiding place—afraid to utter a sound. Like a mill-stone the reaction from the past dangers, and the fear of new ones weighed upon their spirits. Thus they journeyed for more than an hour. Suddenly the wagon stopped, and a harsh voice called to the driver: "What have you here?"

"Herring barrels," was Koppe's short and decided answer. "Do not detain me unnecessarily, friend—my limbs are stiff with the cold."

The man climbed up at the side of the wagon, and gropingly examined its contents.

"Pass on!" he cried, and the horses hurried forward at a more rapid pace.

Suddenly there was a stirring and a whispering among the straw, Koppe and Tommitzsch now and then adding a word of caution. The nuns would fain have risen from their stifling shelter, and thanked the men who had dared so much for their deliverance, but they forbade it. After a few hours, when the sky grew rosy in the east, and the first fiery ray of the Easter sun broke upon the earth, new life stirred the nuns with irresistible force, and as with one voice, the exultant strain burst forth from their lips:

"Christ the Lord is risen
From His martyr prison,
Let us all rejoice in this,
Christ our joy and solace is,
Kyrie eleison."

Leonhard had lifted his hand with a warning gesture, but it sank at his side. His eyes filled with tears as he listened; the pure voices had a heavenly ring. Nor did he resist, when the nuns pressed around him, took his hands, and overwhelmed him and his companions with their gratitude.

In the holy fervor of her enthusiasm, Katharine von Bora stretched forth her hands and cried: "Easter! Easter! Thou name full of joy and of life! Hear our resurrection hymn, thou Saviour, who hast had mercy on us. We were dead, and behold, we live! The grave has yielded up its prey, and with the golden Easter sun, life sends us its greeting! Hallelujah! O thou world, from which I fled, receive me once more; for vanity and delusion is the sanctity of convent life. Receive me, O world, shone upon by God's sun, and peopled with living beings! In thee, more worthily than in the nun's habit will I serve my God! Lord of the world, Thy kingdom is wide, Thou wilt doubtless have in it a place for poor Katharine!"

CHAPTER V.
SHELTERED.

The month of May had come. In the Burgomaster's street, in Wittenberg, stood a high-gabled house, ornamented with two fierce dragon heads. There the syndic, Master Philip Reichenbach, and his wife were seated near a window enjoying the twilight—the sweetest hour of the twenty-four to the master of the house—when, after the labors of the day, he could enjoy the peaceful quiet of his home.

Master Reichenbach was a short, thick-set man, near fifty, and highly esteemed in Wittenberg for his calm judgment and honorable mind. His wife Elsa, a refined, energetic little woman, had doubtless been a great beauty in her youth; and even now it was a pleasure to look into her fresh, kindly face, to whose delicate features the inner beauty of the soul had given their final charm.

The arrangement of the house bore evidence of great wealth; but the spacious halls were silent; no merry, childish voices disturbed the stillness. So much the more were husband and wife drawn to each other.

"At last the Doctor has found a shelter for the remaining two of the escaped nuns," the syndic reported.

"The Zeschau sisters?" asked Frau Elsa, with lively interest. "I thank God, for the dear Doctor's sake. I have pitied him from my heart. It is a mystery to me, how he will carry through all the business that rests upon him. Another had broken down long ago under the burden. His convent is like a dove-cote, where there is a continual coming and going. Who can count the letters he writes? And must he not, as from a high watch-tower, overlook all things, like a king of the spiritual world, taking note of the smallest, as well as of the weightiest matters? I am vexed with the people who trouble him with their small affairs, and waste his precious time. I was angry with the nuns at Nimptschen, when I heard that they had petitioned Dr. Martin; and when, not content with having been released from their prison, they came hither to trouble him further. I am comforted, now that his unceasing efforts have procured a shelter for them all—not only comforted, but glad and thankful, inasmuch as by these means, our dear Kate has become a member of our household."

The syndic, well pleased with this turn of his wife's speech, contentedly rubbed his knees and said: "I am glad of it, dear Elsa. I was fearful, lest the guest, whom we received for Luther's sake, might prove burdensome to you, and disturb the quiet of our household. I feared also that you might be ill-suited to one another, for Katharine von Bora is of a different temper from you."

A happy smile played around Frau Elsa's lips. "All my care has been turned into pleasure. You are right,—Katharine's temper and inner disposition are different from mine. There is something so noble and great-hearted in her character, that I often feel myself small in comparison. At times, she seems proud and haughty, as even Dr. Luther lately remarked. But her pride is only maidenly dignity,—the expression of her high and noble mind. And withal, her eyes meet the world with a glance so clear and open, her words are so straightforward, and her judgment so true, that often I am fain to ask her counsel. She is like a child, in her innocent happiness; and often she falls upon my neck, kisses me, and exclaims: 'Ah, how happy I am; and I owe it all to you and to the great Doctor.' She always calls Luther the 'great Doctor,' and when we speak of him, she listens reverently with folded hands. As in former days she reverenced the saints of the Romish calendar, so she now venerates Dr. Martin, holding him to be greater and more glorious than many of those whom the Church has canonized.

"You should see her, dear Philip, when she is busied with household duties. I feared at first, that she would cause me much unwonted labor; but now, my hands often lie idle, because I find my work already done. She reads my wishes in my eyes, and her hand is skillful and quick in learning the unaccustomed duties. I often think, as I watch her: Happy is the man, whom this Martha will serve! and a feeling of envy creeps into my heart, for I would rather keep her with me always, and I dread the day when the wooers will appear."

"Are you thinking of Jerome Baumgaertner, the young patrician from Nuremberg?" asked her husband. "Methinks you are needlessly troubled. I saw indeed how his eyes followed Katharine, when on your Name day he sat at table with us, and I notice that since then his visits are unnecessarily frequent. But Katharine is timid in her intercourse with men. You know that, although she has been four weeks in our house, she can scarcely be persuaded to leave it, except to go to church."

Elsa shook her head, regarding her husband with a compassionate smile: "I understand a woman's heart better than you. Modesty and reserve are a maiden's loveliest adornments, and in a man's eyes they are an added charm, urging him to pluck the flowers that seem beyond his reach. The young man seems not to displease Katharine; and she dreads to leave the shelter of our house, not because of those who love her, but because of her enemies and detractors. She has heard the evil things that were said about the nuns of Nimptschen, although I tried to conceal them from her. She knows also that the merchant Leonhard Koppe, of Torgau, is in great danger from the anger of the Papists, and that Dr. Luther addressed to him a public letter of thanks for his brave deed. This is her reason for shunning intercourse with strangers. But it will not always be thus."

The rosy glow of the sunset shone through the round panes, and the pictures on the wall, painted by the hand of Master Lucas Kranach, were tinged with a golden light.

"How clear the sunset, and how fair the evening!" said the syndic. "Let us walk in the garden until supper is served. Have the peas been planted? It should have been done yesterday, but I found no time."

Frau Elsa did not know. They crossed the spacious hall and courtyard, and entered the garden, which covered a large piece of ground. To the right was planted an orchard of fruit-trees, and to the left were borders already prepared for vegetables and flowers.

A kneeling figure was busily engaged before one of the freshly dug beds.

"Is this Katharine?" exclaimed Reichenbach in surprise, as the figure hastily arose. "My dear Katharine, what are you doing here?" he asked.

With a smile, the girl replied: "The peas looked at me so questioningly, whether I would not prepare for them their little bed in the earth; and the leaves of the cabbage plants hung limp, so that it was high time to plant them."

The syndic's eyes rested for a moment upon her work. "But who has taught you this? And those slender fingers, that from childhood have been clasped in prayer, or telling beads, are they fit for such coarse work?"

Katharine glanced at him and said: "Love is a good teacher. One learns quickly, what one does willingly."

"But you should spare yourself, lest you overtax your strength," warned the syndic.

Katharine shook her head. "Did you spare yourself, when you permitted the strange, runaway nun, to disturb the quiet of your household? Ah, I wish I could do much more to requite your Christian charity! It is my daily prayer, that God may pay poor Katharine's debt."

An expression of deep gratitude animated her face, and made it almost beautiful. Frau Elsa silently clasped the girl in her arms, while her husband turned into another path to hide his emotion.

As he walked through the garden, he saw on all sides traces of a busy hand, that had cleared the paths, plucked up the weeds and tended the flowers. He did not need to ask, whose hand it was; and with hearty pleasure his eyes followed Katharine, who, her arm linked in that of his wife, was walking before him.

Soon Sybilla, the old servant, came to announce Dr. Luther, who presently appeared, clad in his dark-colored, monkish gown.

"God's greeting to you, my dear friend," he exclaimed. "How goes it with you? And how fares our poor little nun?"

The syndic reverently lifted his hat, and offered his hand in welcome to his guest. "Have no fear for her, Doctor, it goes well with her."

"But you, my friend,—will she not be burdensome to you? You are making a great sacrifice for my sake; and I am troubled when I think that you may be further inconvenienced. I wish some one would come and make a wife of the maiden,—that is more truly a woman's vocation."

With a serious face, the syndic answered: "Most reverend Doctor, you have done so much for us. Will you do one thing more? Do not allow this to trouble you. It is no sacrifice, to keep Katharine; but it would grieve us to part with her, for she has become dear to us as our own child."

Luther's worn face was lighted with a ray of pleasure. Clasping his friend's hand, he said: "A true friend is a precious treasure, and not to be bought with gold. Continue to be my friend always. As for me, I shall hold you dearer than ever, from this day forth." Meanwhile the women had approached. Katharine, when she saw the monk, sought timidly to draw Frau Elsa away, whispering: "The great Doctor!" But the little lady was not to be restrained from welcoming the beloved guest.

Luther's eyes rested with pleased surprise upon the graceful figure of the former nun, in whose pale cheeks the air of freedom had caused the first spring-roses to bloom. With a smile he noted the traces of her work still clinging to her dress.

"Ah, Mistress Katharine," he jested, "you have indeed become a child of the world. And how does it please you? I see that your mind turns to earthly things, and that you busy yourself with mean and lowly matters, which draw your thoughts to the dust, for soiled are both your dress and hand. Would you not rather return to the convent, where you would be far removed from an evil world, while your thoughts floated heavenward upon clouds of incense?"

Katharine's cheeks grew rosier still, as she answered softly, with downcast eyes: "Leave me in the world; it is beautiful here. Surely so long as I am not of the world, I can serve God acceptably, and dedicate my life to Him. From your own lips I have learned, that the dear Lord is served with small things, as well as with great."

The Doctor was about to answer, when Frau Elsa forestalled him, with the request that he would remain to supper.

Luther met her eyes with a merry glance. "How skillfully you have divined my thoughts. Had you not bidden me stay, I should have offered myself as your guest, otherwise I had gone supperless to bed; for my servant, Wolfgang, but an hour ago, came to my cell with a very long face, saying: 'Doctor, what will you eat this evening? There was a remnant of baked fish in the larder, which would have served for your supper; but a cat must have eaten it, for nothing is left but a few bones.'"

With deep sympathy, Katharine looked up to the man, who in such rich measure broke the bread of life to all the world, and yet lacked daily bread for his own need. Her admiration rose at the greatness of his mind, which could turn his poverty into a jest. She whispered her thoughts to Frau Elsa, who answered in the same tone: "He has barely enough for the necessities of life. His professor's salary is but twenty-two thalers and twelve groschen, and he forgets his own wants, to give to the many poor, who daily importune his generous heart."

"His life must be dreary enough," Katharine continued, "in his gloomy convent, where no woman's hand can minister to his comfort. Wolfgang may be faithful,—but he is no woman."

They entered the hall, where Sybilla had served the evening meal.

"Would you hear some news, my friends?" said Luther, when they were seated. "Leonhard Koppe, the robber of nuns, for whom the Papists would fain prepare a heretic's death, rather deserves a martyr's crown; for behold, the deed which he ventured in God's name, has been followed by great blessing. It was of no avail, to conceal what had happened at Nimptschen. The tidings penetrated into other convents, and our dear Kate has found many imitators. To-day I learned, that nine nuns, together with their abbess, escaped from the Benedictine convent at Zeitz, six nuns from the abbey at Sarmitz, eight from the Cistercian convent of Bentlitz, and sixteen from the Dominican house of Widerstedt. Mistress Katharine will doubtless rejoice to hear, that three more nuns left Nimptschen,—not secretly, but were taken away in orderly fashion by their kinspeople. I am heartily glad of it. But in order that the convent gates may be opened more freely still, I am writing the history of Florentina von Oberweimar, who fled from the nunnery of Neuhelfta, near Eisleben. This little book will be printed and spread abroad, that all the world may learn what is a nun's life; that the Devil's wiles may be exposed, and that poor Leonhard Koppe may hereafter be left in peace."

Frau Elsa passed a dish to the Doctor, and pressed him to eat. "These are good tiding, reverend sir, and our dear Kate seems well pleased. I will ask you to lend me the history of Florentina, as soon as it is printed. But do not forget that this is the time to eat. You need some nourishment, for the dark shadows under your eyes tell of sleepless nights and over-much study."

Luther mechanically put some of the food on his plate, and said: "For that the godless prophets of Zwickau are to blame, who, while I sat imprisoned as Squire George, laid waste the vineyard of the Lord; and it is more laborious to build up than to destroy. Many a morning, when I look at my untouched bed, I think of Karlstadt, and say: 'Behold, for this friendly service I have to thank thee!'"

"But tell me, Doctor," said Frau Elsa, "how do you accomplish all this work, which would tax the strength of ten men? You preach, lecture, write books, translate the Bible, receive and answer letters,—yet you never grow weary, and always have a cheerful heart. You find time to help Wolfgang at his lathe, to tend the flowers in your garden, and to hold converse with your friends."

Luther looked up with a pleasant smile. "Dear friend, for the accomplishment of such labors two things are needful,—order and prayer. Has not each hour sixty minutes? Much can be done in sixty minutes, if we do it in order, redeeming the time. And prayer is a fresh well, from whence body and soul draw ever new strength. This Psalter"—and he drew a little book from his breast-pocket,—"is my constant companion and comforter, from whom I learn and receive all that I need. I hold my prayers to be stronger by far than all the Devil's might and cunning; and if for one day I forget to pray, my faith would grow cold. Work and pray evermore, and God will help thee!"

Katharine listened with reverent attention. Then she bent her head and whispered: "The great Doctor! The wonderful man! Oh, to have him always before one's eyes, and to follow his example! If I might but be his servant." A warm glance from Frau Elsa, and a soft pressure of the hand was her answer.

Doctor Martin then entered into a conversation with the syndic, regarding the Knight Franz von Sickingen, whose tragic end had saddened many hearts. The strong man had been conquered by a stronger. The princes of Hesse, Palatinate and Treves, had besieged and overpowered his fortress of Landstuhl.

"I was almost vexed with you, Doctor," said the syndic, "when you refused Sickingen's proffered hand. His good sword, I trusted, would prove a strong defence, and hew a way for the Gospel, despite the Pope and the Emperor; for Sickengen's power was growing apace. Now it is clear to me, that in this matter also you were in the right."

Luther shook his head sadly. "I grieve for thee, my brother Sickingen! He meant it well with me. And yet he was a tempter, to whom I must needs say: Get thee behind me, who, with carnal weapons, wouldst further God's sacred cause! Such means are ill-pleasing to the Lord, and endanger the truth, which needs no earthly props or crutches, having within itself the power to conquer the world. It is the Word, which must achieve the victory, not the Sword! Had I entrusted the Gospel to Sickingen's hand, it would have perished with the dying hero. But it is time that I go, for Wolfgang and the nun Florentina are awaiting me at home. Will you not give me something for the poor fellow? He is so faithful, and would share his last morsel with me!"

Before Frau Elsa could rise, Katharine had wrapped a piece of smoked meat in a napkin, and given it to Doctor Martin. He thanked them, and wished them good-night.

CHAPTER VI.
A FLEETING FANCY.

It was in August of the same year, 1523, when Frau Elsa entered her husband's room one morning in great haste. Her cheeks glowed, her breath came fast, and for some moments she was unable to speak.

"I have discovered who it is, that every morning leaves a nosegay at the window. It is as I suspected."

The syndic rubbed his eyes and stared at his wife.

"You mean the youth from Nuremberg?"

"No other! He has been very bold of late. In church he places himself near her, and disturbs her devotions with his attentions—it is sinful! And Kate seems not disinclined to favor his suit. Only the other day, when we supped with Lucas Kranach, she had much conversation with young Baumgaertner, who was among the guests. On the way home, she asked me if it were far from here to Nuremberg, and whether all Suabians were as hearty in their speech, as this young Jerome?

"What reply did you make?"

"I told her the road was very long from here to Nuremberg, and that I was not aware that the speech of the Suabians was more hearty than that of the Saxons; but this I knew—a man's friendly words were no proof that his heart was true. She answered not a word, but gave me an embarrassed, questioning look."

"I trust she understood your meaning. It would grieve me to give her to Jerome. If we must needs part with her, I hope it may be to a worthy man, in whom we have confidence. This young gentleman seems to be of a light and frivolous disposition."

"I think the same," replied Elsa, with a lively gesture. "But I believe that Doctor Luther is fond of the youth. He has repeatedly praised him for his industry, and for the abundant knowledge he has acquired at the University. I fear that Jerome will find a warm advocate in Luther."

"Dearest Elsa," said the syndic, laying his hand on his wife's shoulder, "here our experience must needs come to the aid of youthful ignorance. Katharine is to us as our own child, and we would sin, did we not endeavor to save her from unhappiness and heart-ache. I can easily believe that her heart inclines to the youth—-he is of a handsome figure, has good manners, and is moreover the first man who has approached her with professions of love. If she knew more of men, she would be more cautious."

Frau Elsa ended the conversation, and urged her husband to be ready for morning prayers.

As Sybilla was bringing in the morning meal, three loud knocks were heard at the door, and presently a handsome, richly-dressed youth appeared. Bowing with courtly grace, he stood upon the threshold, awaiting the master's permission to enter.

"You honor us at an early hour, Master Baumgaertner," said the syndic, with some embarrassment, rising and offering his hand to the visitor, while Frau Elsa, in confused haste, busied herself about the table.

The young man replied: "Pardon me, if I disturb you, but because of my sudden departure, I found no more suitable time to bid you farewell."

Reichenbach looked up at the tall youth with surprise, and Frau Elsa drew nearer. "What do you say? You are going to leave Wittenberg?"

Nodding assent, the student explained: "It is hard for me to leave the place where I have experienced so much pleasure and benefit—yet I owe obedience to my father, who demands my speedy return."

With hypocritical warmth and ill-concealed pleasure Frau Elsa urged the young man to share the repast; inquired with much feeling as to the reasons of the paternal command, and was altogether so friendly and affable, that he was surprised to find himself thus suddenly received into favor by one who had always treated him with chilling reserve. His eyes often wandered toward the door, as though he expected some one, and the longer he waited, the more restless were his glances, and the more confused his answers.

At last he rose to go. It was evident that something weighed upon his mind, to which his tongue refused to give utterance, until with a heroic effort, he plucked up courage to ask after Katharine.

"I should like to bid her farewell, if I—"

His sentence was left unfinished; the embarrassment which it produced increasing his own diffidence.

After a painful silence, Frau Elsa stammered:—"Doubtless she has not slept well, or she would have appeared at morning prayers. If you have any message for her, I will gladly be the bearer of it."

A shadow fell upon the young man's handsome face. His lips parted, so that the white teeth became visible under his brown beard, and with anxious questioning his eyes rested upon the face of the lady, who grew hot and cold under his glance. Her husband's voice sounded almost like a reproof when he said:

"Go and see why Katharine delays so long." With inward reluctance Frau Elsa turned to obey, when the door was opened and Katharine appeared. At the sight of the young man, she started and blushed.

The syndic came to her relief. Taking her hand in a fatherly fashion, he said: "Come hither, Katharine, and greet Master Baumgaertner, who has come to take leave of us before he returns to his home."

Katharine's face grew pale, and her eyes timidly sought those of the young man, who approached, and would have taken her hand.

"I pray you, dear lady, remember me kindly, as I will also faithfully keep you in my memory, until God so orders it, that I may see your face again."

"You will then return to Wittenberg?" both women asked, in one breath—the one with glad surprise, the other in visible dismay.

With a burst of enthusiasm, the young man exclaimed: "How could I forget Wittenberg! Here my mind was nourished, and my heart awakened. Not long, I trust, will dutiful obedience detain me in Nuremburg; then I shall hasten to return hither. In the meantime I commit you to God's keeping."

He paused, to conceal the emotion which overpowered him, and after a very hasty leave-taking, hurried away.

On this and the following day, deep silence reigned in the syndic's house. Husband and wife had little to say to one another, and overhead, in her little chamber, sat Katharine, lonely and sorrowful. Her heart seemed empty. Now that Jerome had gone away, she became aware of the warmth of her feeling for him. She resolved to take comfort in the affection of her friends, but this seemed an insufficient substitute; and she had a strong foreboding that Jerome would not return. Yet, when the hot tears would have burst from her eyes, she struggled with all her strength against her sorrow, lest the syndic and his wife might perceive that her love was shared by another, whose suit they disapproved. She felt it as a sin, that her benefactors should yield to a stranger, because, forsooth, he had approached her with friendly words and glances. "Be still, foolish heart," she said, "and see to it, if with redoubled love thou canst expiate thy wrong against these kind friends."

Shortly after, Fran Elsa received her husband one evening with a lively welcome: "Philip, our Kate is a brave girl! She has conquered her own heart, and is once more wholly ours!"

CHAPTER VII.
KATHARINE IN TROUBLE, AND DR. MARTIN IN STRIFE
WITH HIS FRIENDS.

More than a year had passed. The Autumn of 1524 had come, busily destroying whatever the summer had wrought. In the streets the wind played his pranks with the first fallen leaves. On the housetops the swallows held noisy counsel together, as to their flight to the sunny Southern land, whither the storks had already preceded them.

It was Sunday morning. Crowds streamed from the town church at Wittenberg, where Luther had preached. In eager groups they stood about the market-place; and noticeable among these was the syndic, Philip Reichenbach, engaged in lively conversation with a courtly looking man in a rich dress, whose handsome, intelligent face was of a rare, artistic type. A long beard fell down upon his breast. This was the court-painter and Senator, Lucas Kranach.

"I scarcely trusted my eyes," exclaimed the syndic, eagerly gesticulating, "when I saw Brother Martin appear in the priest's frock, instead of his monkish habit. My heart rejoices, for the ugly cowl no longer suited him. After he has inwardly put away the monk's life, why should he continue to wear its outward sign? The old gown, worn and threadbare as it is, has earned its rest. But it pleases me little that he continues in the monastery, when all the monks, save the Prior Eberhard Brisger, have gone away. It were better he broke with all monkish habits."

"It is well known, dear friend," said Kranach, "that Dr. Martin has small regard for outward appearances. He may have good reasons for continuing in the convent. It is said that the Elector intends to make him a gift of it."

The syndic opened his eyes. "What! and would he receive such a gift?"

"Why not?" asked the other. "It is an evidence of favor on the Elector's part."

"Hm," said Reichenbach, "as you take it. There he sits, alone in the great, dreary, half-ruined house, with no woman's hand to minister to his wants. All that he teaches concerning the blessed Gospel is clear and plain to me; as he teaches, so he lives; and if anything in his words seemed difficult to understand, it is made clear by his life. But this passes my understanding—that, while he encourages priests and monks to enter the state of matrimony and commends it, as one that is holy and well-pleasing to God, yet he, for his own person, will have none of it. Even to Albert of Brandenburg, the Grand Master of the German Order, he gave the advice: 'Throw aside the habit of your order, take a wife, and put a Duke's crown upon your head,' which the great lord has followed, to the joy of all believers, and of Luther especially. It is known that he urged the Archbishop of Mayence, to follow the example of his cousin of Prussia. And does he not give his friends cause for doubting the earnestness of his teaching, or for fearing that he lacks courage, himself to enter the state which he commends to others?"

Lucas Kranach nodded assent. "I think with you, and I wish with all my heart, that Luther were of another mind in this matter, not only for the sake of his friends and the good cause, but for his own. Truly, if matters continue thus, we shall soon weep behind his bier; and then, the Lord only knows what will become of the world. He daily prepares himself for death, being of the opinion that the work will prosper without him, it being God's work, who is able to carve Himself a Dr. Martin out of a willow twig. But I regard it otherwise, namely, that God will not throw aside His chosen instruments until his purpose is accomplished, and the world cannot yet forego Luther's services. But that he may carry out what he has begun, he must not continue alone—without care or service. Even though his bones were of iron, and his nerves of steel, yet the giant's task, which rests upon his shoulders, will bear him down, without a faithful housewife at his side, who will care for the wants of his body. His spirit is oftentimes so lost in heavenly matters, as to forget that the body craves rest and nourishment. Only the other day I found him sitting in his chair, faint and pale, and at my questioning he confessed that over the translation of the Psalms, he had passed two days and two nights without food or drink. When at night, wearied with the day's work, he lies down upon his bed, it is a hard one, and no gentle hand has smoothed his pillow. Oh, that God would guide his heart to choose a wife who would be a helpmeet for him! He would soon recover his strength and be of good courage. But where indeed," continued Kranach with a sigh, "where is the woman worthy of such a man?" He paused, and his eyes wandered over the crowded square. "See," he exclaimed, "yonder goes your dear wife with Mistress Katharine! Is it true, as I have been told, that the Reverend Doctor Caspar Glatz has sued for her hand?"

Reichenbach's face was clouded with annoyance, as he answered: "You touch upon a matter which troubles me sorely. You doubtless heard that young Baumgaertner, who at one time pursued her with his loving glances, soon forgot our Kate, and took the wife his father had chosen for him! I am almost glad of it, for Kate now sees that I was in the right, and that the youth, by reason of his light mind and fickle heart, was unworthy of her. But I am distressed at this suit of Dr. Glatz, which Luther favors, thinking Katharine, as a former nun, most fitted to become the wife of a God-fearing priest. He is a good man, and if the sacrifice must needs be made, I would rather give her to him than to many another. But behold, since Master Nicholas von Amsdorf came at Luther's bidding, to press the Doctor's suit, she is wholly changed. She heard him in silence, then burst into tears and said: 'Reverend sir, love cannot be forced or commanded; it must be given by God. My heart is cold toward him you bid me marry, and I never could be to him what a Christian wife should be, according to God's word and command. Do not urge me, for I would rather continue in my present condition all my life, than give my hand to Dr. Glatz.' When Amsdorf represented to her that Luther would be ill-pleased at her refusal, her tears flowed afresh, and she begged that he might not be told; but that she herself would acquaint him with her decision. When on that same day Luther came to us, there was a scene which brought the tears to our eyes. Katharine fell at his feet, and spoke as I have never heard her speak. The Doctor dealt with her as a father with his child, comforted her with gentle, kindly words, and promised not to torment her any further, but to leave the matter in God's hands. After she had gone away, he sat with us for an hour longer, looking very serious, and spoke to us in such moving words, that it was easy to see how greatly he was disturbed by Katharine's trouble. After musing for some moments, he said: 'Now I understand, my friend, why you fear to lose Katharine. She is indeed a treasure, and a maiden after God's own heart. I am vexed with myself, that I have hitherto regarded her so little, when I am really her guardian and her spiritual father.' Since that day Katharine no longer stands timidly aloof from the Doctor, but is ready at all times to speak with him; and if he commends her housewifely virtues and maidenly reserve, her face beams with pleasure."

Lucas Kranach, who had listened with much attention, replied: "Yes, Katharine is of an excellent disposition, and grows ever dearer to me. I was heartily glad for her sake, when the exiled King of Denmark, during his recent visit in Wittenberg, gave her a golden ring, in acknowledgment of her womanly virtues. But God forbid, that such distinction should make her vain!"

"Do not fear," Reichenbach replied; "her mind is not set upon high things."

In the meantime they had reached the Augustinian monastery, where Luther lived. Two wayfarers, who had doubtless asked help of the Doctor, were coming out of the door; for no one in Wittenberg was so frequently sought out by the poor and needy, as was the Professor with his salary of 22 thalers and 12 groschen. He gave his last coin, and when that was spent, he did not spare the silver cup, which had been a gift from the Elector.

"Come, let us wish the Doctor a good day," said Kranach. "I desire to thank him for his sermon."

They crossed the court, and passing through a long, dark passage, reached Luther's cell. They found him sitting at his table—a large pile of letters before him. He received his friends with evident pleasure.

"Welcome, dear friends! See here—my Sunday-guests, who see to it that Doctor Martin shall have no rest even on this blessed day. They all seem to be wedding-guests. Yes, you may well stare—to-day all my friends would have me marry. Here is a letter from my good friend, Mistress Argula von Grumbach, who with many words urges me to establish by my own act my doctrine of priestly marriage, and by my own example to encourage others. Here is another from Pastor Link in Altenburg. He announces the birth of a daughter. Here again, my father resumes his old litany, and speaks with such moving words, that methinks I must reach out after the first maiden I can find. Now tell me, dear friends, are not these merry Sunday-guests?"

Lucas Kranach answered earnestly: "Perhaps they are God's messengers to you, Martin. Your friends are in danger of losing faith in your teachings, if you continue in your present course."

Luther shook his head, where the tonsure had almost disappeared under his curly hair.

"Do my friends so little understand me? See, dearest Lucas, by what I have said concerning the sanctity and the necessity of priestly marriage, I will abide forevermore. For according to God's Word, there is no condition on earth more blessed than that of marriage, which God Himself has instituted and sanctified for men of every degree, and in which state not only kings and princes and saints, but, although in a different manner, even the eternal Son of God, was born. Yet for myself, I have no thought of taking a wife. My enemies are busy enough; for to the slanders of the Papists are added the revilings of the 'heavenly prophets,' in whose name the ill-conditioned Thomas Munzer has published a pamphlet 'against the ungodly, soft-living flesh at Wittenberg.' Were I to marry, they would speedily cry out: 'Aha, now we see what his Gospel means—to serve the flesh and live in ease!' This fear makes even my friends to hesitate, and Dr. Schurf said but lately: 'If this monk took a wife, the devils would laugh, and the angels would weep;' and my dear Philip Melanchthon, who stood by, added: 'Yes, the Papists are watching for it; and if he did this thing, he would work his doctrine greater harm than the Pope's excommunication or the Emperor's interdict were able to do.' Moreover, who would think of marrying in these troublous times, when peasants have gone mad, when castles and convents are burning on all sides, and streams of innocent blood are flowing? Nor do I experience within myself the least inclination thereto. I am indeed in the Lord's hand, who can turn my heart and mind whenever it pleases Him. But as I am now disposed, I will not take a wife. Not that I am of wood or stone, but my mind is averse to marriage, and I daily anticipate a heretic's doom. Nor would I harden my heart, or reason with the Lord—but I trust that He will not suffer me to abide much longer in this world. Finally, when I advocated the marriage of priests, I did not thereby intend to impose a new sort of bondage, or to place a new yoke upon men's necks, like the unhappy Karlstadt, who would perforce compel every priest to marry. There shall be perfect liberty in this matter—either to do, or to leave undone."

Luther spoke in a tone of such very decided conviction, that Kranach did not venture to reply. He grasped the Doctor's hand, asking his friend's pardon with his eyes. Reichenbach also arose, and said gently: "God will provide!"

The two men took their leave, and Luther, being much wearied, called Wolfgang, and bade him read aloud to him the remaining letters.

CHAPTER VIII.
A SUDDEN RESOLVE.

New Year's Day of 1525 was a gloomy one, full of premonitions of coming evil. Even darker and heavier rose the storm-clouds, which had been gathering since October. In Thuringia, in Franconia and Suabia, disturbances had arisen among the oppressed peasantry—when Luther's "Sermon on Christian Liberty" fell like a spark among the explosive material, kindling a flame that startled the world. Luther, in whom the wretched peasants put their trust, had earnestly advocated their cause, and with a prophetic voice appealed to the consciences of the nobles; urging them to grant the just demands of the peasants, as set forth in their twelve articles. Peace would no doubt have speedily followed, had the knights consented to reason or mercy. But when they gave no heed to Luther's warning, and stubbornly persisted in their cruel exactions, the storm burst. Like an avalanche, gathering strength at every step, the rebellion, beginning in the Black Forest, spread over Suabia, Thuringia and Franconia. On all sides castles and convents stood in flames, and the blood of the murdered ones cried aloud to Heaven. Instigated by the "prophets" of Zwickau, the peasants were seized with a wild bestial frenzy, and a deadly terror paralyzed the hands of princes and nobles.

Luther was deeply grieved. With his fearless heroism, he twice ventured among the raging mob, endeavoring to recall them to their senses. But for once his voice was powerless. With a heavy heart he returned to Wittenberg, and with a heart still heavier, he wrote his pamphlet "against the plundering and murderous peasants," calling upon the princes to draw the sword in defence of their own. By degrees they collected their forces, and met the disorderly bands with experienced and disciplined troops. The insurgents succumbed; but, to his sorrow, Luther saw the victors wreaking unworthy vengeance upon all who wore the peasant's smock.

The church-bells throughout the land proclaimed the return of peace, and all hearts shared in the general thanksgiving. But Luther sat in his cell, and mourned. He bowed his head, refusing food and drink—for every man's hand was against him. The Papists showered curses and imprecations upon his head: "Thou art the man whose blasphemous words concerning Christian liberty, broke the fetters of the peasants, and caused this bloodshed." The peasants in their turn cried out: "Thou hast deceived our hopes, hast betrayed and forsaken us!" His friends scarcely ventured to show themselves. And the Gospel? Ah! it seemed as though all were at an end!

That the measure of his misery might be full, the crushing news came from Torgau, that the prince, whose wisdom and firmness had been a strong defence and support of the Gospel, had, on the 5th of May, departed from this evil world. Was night again to cover the earth, after the morning star of the Gospel had risen so brightly in the Heavens? Would God cast away his servant—his faithful servant, who, like a conquering hero, had begun his course so gloriously? In Wittenberg there was much anxious questioning. Where was Luther? His pulpit was silent. His chair at the University was empty. He was sitting alone in his cell, lost to outward affairs, and wholly absorbed in the inner world of thought and prayer. It was always thus on the eve of a great resolution. Thus he had sat and meditated, when he was wrestling with the resolve, in defiance of the pope and the whole world, to speak the truth, and to begin the struggle with the superstitions of Rome.