Eberhard, Albrecht, and Ulrich, wandering students, came into Hauptberg on a winter noon, and knowing the town, made straight for the Golden Eagle, an inn loved by all vagabond students, young and not so young, “new men,” “poets” as against schoolmen, lovers of the pagan knowledge, droppers of corrosives upon the existing order, prophets of a world behind this-world, the humanist left. The Golden Eagle stood in an angle of the town wall, high red-roofed, shining-windowed, kept by Hans Knapp and Bertha his wife. The December sun made vivid all the red roofs of Hauptberg, it turned the huge cathedral into something lighter than stone, it tossed nodding sheaves of light among the prosperous burghers’ houses, it overwrote the walls of a monastery of Augustinian Hermits, it added scroll and circle of its own to the ornamented storied front of the mighty guild hall; and garmented the winter trees in the university close. The bright and nipping air put ripe apple colour into the faces of the various street-farers. These moved quickly, with bodies slightly slanted, arms folded; if they were well-to-do, in woolen and furred mantles. The poor also moved quickly, with unmantled shoulders shrugged together. The town musicians were somewhere at practice. One heard a great drum and horns.

In a number of the street-farers showed a degree of excitement, an eagerness to exchange speech and views with acquaintances, or even with non-acquaintances. This itch was evident in many who encountered the incoming, wandering students. “From Wittenberg way? And what is the news?”

Eberhard moved, a sinewy, bronzed, square-faced, blue-eyed fellow, in a green jerkin and a brown cloak. Ulrich was solid and blond, to the eye a benevolent young burgher, and to better apprehension a ramping dare-devil. Albrecht, slight, dark, and quick as a lizard, was the “poet,” with emphasis. He carried upon his back Virgil and Terence and Ovid, Cicero, and Seneca and Juvenal bound in a pack with AverroËs, Avicenna, and Avicebron, and when he was not in earnest made good love songs and praised the vine. When he was in earnest he treated with vitriol the garden of Holy Church, much overgrown with weeds.

The three were in wild spirits. They had news and they gave it. Some who received were terribly angered thereby, and some took with more or less evident pleasure, with a kind of half-frightened exultation. One or two said that wandering students were bred by the father of lies. A student from the university saying this more loudly than was prudent, Ulrich, moving amiably forward, took him by his girdle, swung him overhead, and set him—plank!—in the gutter skimmed with ice. A brawl threatened, Ulrich ready enough to stay for it. But Albrecht cried out that he was in ecstasy, that he had a vision of the Golden Eagle, that Hans Knapp was putting a log on the fire, Frau Knapp drawing the ale, and Gretchen Knapp setting a pasty on the table! So they swung from the drenched student and his somewhat timid backers. They had made miles that morning, and hungered and thirsted, and they loved the Golden Eagle. That is Albrecht and Ulrich loved it; Eberhard was a stranger in Hauptberg.

Here was the steep red roof, and the swinging, creaking Eagle sign, and the benches in the sun beneath the eaves, and the open door, and out of the door coming a ruddy light, a good smell, and a sound of singing.

“That,” said Albrecht, “is the voice of Conrad Devilson!”

“Where Conrad is, is Walther von Langen.”

“Good meeting with them both!”

Conrad Devilson beat with his tankard upon the table of the Golden Eagle.

He had a voice that boomed and reverberated. In came the three wandering students. “Why, here are others of the time’s darlings!” cried Walther von Langen.

Conrad Devilson put down his tankard and got to his feet. “Eberhard, Eberhard! Welcome to Hauptberg!”

He left the table to put his arm around Eberhard. “This is the man who saved me from wolves in the Black Forest!—Then sat we down in the snow and re-ordered the round world!”

“I remember,” said Eberhard, “that your world turned from east to west!—Have you heard the Wittenberg news?”

Hans Knapp had a huge, great fire. His ale was famous, and so were Frau Knapp’s pasties, one of which Gretchen now set upon the table. Gretchen had a warm, sidelong glance, and cheeks and lips like roses. She was not so young as once she had been, and she knew how to like all wandering students and to keep all at arms’ length. Now she went about the inn room like a large and cheerful rose. The fire roared in the chimney—entered other patrons of the Golden Eagle. And all were men of the new times—of the times that were growing newer and newer, the old passing faster and faster into the new. A great part of the old resisted, held fiercely back with cries and objurgations. But those who came about the Golden Eagle were of the new, with its virtues and its faults. Hans Knapp, grey-bearded, huge-paunched, merry-eyed, had himself always stepped out with the new. The fire roared in the chimney, the Wittenberg news flew around the room, danced in the corners and in the middle. Arose loud discussion, the friendliness of substantial agreement, the spice of accidental difference. Speculation, jubilation, mounted high and mounted higher—men’s arms were over one another’s shoulders, eager faces craned, eyes sparkled. The Golden Eagle knew again the roaring blast of hope, excitement, the good, salt taste, the rapid motion of mental adventure. Happy were the five wandering students....

Said Conrad Devilson, “Let us go tell Gabriel Mayr and Thekla!”

The short afternoon was now at mid-stroke. Gabriel Mayr lived in a small, red and brown house set between a woodcarver’s and a goldsmith’s. Around the house went a ribbon of garden, with currant bushes and cherry trees. Under a cherry tree in summer, in the chimney corner in winter, sat Gabriel Mayr, about him all the books he could buy or borrow. He was poor, but since his fifteenth year he had first purchased knowledge and then purchased bodily food. Now he was eighty.

The Golden Eagle had been growing too heated. The crisp, clean cold without refreshed, cleared heads. Conrad Devilson, Walther von Langen, Eberhard, Albrecht, and Ulrich danced as they moved up the narrow street. Eberhard made-believe to play, viol-wise, upon his staff. They came to the small red and brown house.

“Is this the place?” asked Eberhard. “I used to dream, in Erfurt, of Gabriel Mayr! So much work has he done, in his time, for the new, splendid world!”

Conrad Devilson knocked, “Hola! Hola! Wandering students!”

The door opened. Thekla Mayr said, “Enter, wandering students!”

She stood, slender, between fair and brown, in a red gown of her own weaving and fashioning. “Welcome, Conrad Devilson! Welcome, Walther von Langen! Welcome to Hauptberg, Albrecht and Ulrich! Welcome—”

“Thekla, this is Eberhard Gerson who made and engraved the pictures for ‘The Silver Bridge.’ With Ulrich and Albrecht he left Wittenberg yesterday.”

“Welcome, Eberhard Gerson!”

She went before them into a room where a fire burned, and in a great chair, in its light, sat Gabriel Mayr. “Father, here are wandering students! Here are Conrad Devilson and Walther von Langen, and Albrecht and Ulrich and Eberhard Gerson who made the pictures for ‘The Silver Bridge!’ And they have news from Wittenberg.”

Gabriel Mayr roused himself. “Wait, young men.... I am old.... It takes time to get back into the blowing wind and the moving water.” He pressed his hands against his brows, shook himself in the cloak that was wrapped about him. He gathered energy as one blows coals with his breath. The coals glowed, his eyes brightened, he straightened in his chair, back in good measure came the old potency. “Wittenberg! Who comes from Wittenberg! What is Martin Luther doing now?”

“He has taken the Pope’s bull in his hands and burned it outside the town gate!”

“Ha-ah! Did he that?” Gabriel Mayr brought his hands together. “Thekla, Thekla! Do you hear a world gate clanging?”

He sat in his great chair, about him the young men, the wandering students. He wore a black cap, and from underneath his white hair streamed and mingled with the long white hair of his beard. His features were bloodless, his eyes sunken, but very bright. He looked a prophet, such an one as, down in Italy, Michael Angelo was painting. His daughter stood with her arm resting upon the back of his chair.

Mayr spoke on: “I knew that the vehemence of his ongoing would become to that young man an urgent dÆmon! Now he cannot stop. He is Samson! He will carry away the gates upon his shoulders and the young and strong will pour in upon a decrepit city.... It is well! It is written! The city has become drunken and witless. Yet will some flowers be trodden underfoot and works of art perish.... And he is Samson, he is not Socrates.... Yet, Thekla, Thekla! We must rejoice! We make a half-step toward freedom!”

Two of the wandering students cried out upon that. “A half-step! Do you not call it more than that, Master Gabriel?”

Mayr raised and regarded his finely shaped, thin, corded, sensitive hands. “Eighty years have I lived. I remember years when it seemed that the snail and the world raced toward freedom, and the snail appeared to win. And I remember years when it seemed that the world began to say, ‘We shall not get there unless we move faster!’ And now I remember years when the snail seems left behind. And for a long while now we have seemed to move faster and faster.... The ice is breaking and thawing in the springtime.... Well, I worship before the springtime! But Freedom is a great word and holds all other words. Pour into it all that you know or guess of freedom, and yet it is not full.”

Eberhard spoke. “This is a cool and brimming pailful, Master Gabriel! Every pailful makes more of the desert bloom.”

As he spoke he was looking at Thekla. She was looking at him. Their eyes were talking—pure and sincere words of fellowship.

“You are right in that, Eberhard Gerson,” said the old man. “Every pailful makes more of the desert bloom!”

Thekla spoke. “It has been believed that God was not to be come at save through officers and courtiers.... What is here is that it is seen that no other human being stands between a human being and God.”

“So,” said Gabriel, and “So,” echoed the wandering students.

“Each growing straight to God, without running to any man’s door for permission.... Much is wrapped up,” said Thekla, “in that bundle!”

“Aye, truly!”

Thekla stood beside Gabriel’s chair. Her hands were young where his were old. The blue veins did not rise, her hands were not worn thin nor corded like his. But they were made like Gabriel’s, sensitive and most expressive like Gabriel’s. They commanded the eye as did his, they had their own intelligence. Now they were in motion. “All equal,” said Thekla ... “A republic.”

“In religion, the schools, art and knowledge!”

“The blowing wind will not bend the Black Forest and leave the Hartz Forest unbowed. Spring will not come to the Hartz Wood and leave the Black Wood bare. Without Pope ... without Emperor!”

“Come back, Thekla, from far away!”

“Every slave freed—”

“Come back! Come back!”

“Dawn for women—dawn for women!”

Above her moving hands Thekla’s face flushed like a rose. “As the Church to all, so have been men to women!... The Church might have become just from within, but does not, and the folk break down the gates of the city and take their own! But now, surely, the freeing folk will free on and on! And surely men will become just from within!” She raised her hands. “I shall go about the world as I will, and I shall build my ships and sail therein!... And my sister Elsa will come from her nunnery!”

Gabriel Mayr nodded his head. But he sat in his great chair with sinews grown sunken and unbraced. His eyes had lost point, they seemed the eyes of one who contemplates a dream, recurrent but unsubstantial. Yet he nodded his head....

But Walther von Langen said roughly: “I am fond of Thekla, save when she speaks without knowledge!”

“No harvest ripens for man,” said Albrecht, “but woman may gather a good windfall in her apron!”

Quoth Ulrich: “When the house is afire the house-father brings out the house-mother no less than himself!—But that does not mean that she then goes about to set up for herself!”

“Women are women, but Thekla has lived beside a thinker of long and bold thoughts. Thekla cannot help herself!” Conrad Devilson lifted one of her long, brown tresses. “Remain fair, Thekla, and all women! Pick up in your apron the windfalls, and welcome! But we own and shake the tree.”

Ulrich and Albrecht, Conrad Devilson and Walther von Langen struck hand on hand or feet against the ground. “So it is!” they cried. “So it is!”

Thekla drew the tress of hair from Conrad Devilson’s hand. She stood with eyelids drooped, her lips curved in a slight smile.

The old man who seemed to make the clasp of the ring shook his head and sighed. “This matter of Owning is a long story, and events are yet to come.... I should like to see Albrecht DÜrer try his hand on that.... Thekla, give me wine.”

Thekla left his side, then returned with a wheaten wafer and a cup of wine. The old man ate and drank. She mended the fire for him, took away the cup and plate, and, returning, seated herself upon a cushion on the floor by his side. “Martin Luther has burned the Pope’s bull. Now will the Pope bid the Emperor to put him under ban. Maybe he will be slain as a heretic, and all persecuted who look to freedom. Maybe he will find friends in high places, and the Emperor will check the Pope. Maybe, with naught to aid but stronger light, he must fight both Emperor and Pope. Maybe, aroused, the people will go with him. Maybe all will see light—all—all!”

Eberhard, who had been silent before now, spoke. “If but many see, then will the wheel go toward the light.... I do not think it is more than twilight.... And, maiden, I believe not that man owns the tree, nor at any time has been wholly the shaker thereof!”

Thekla turned and looked at him. “I sinned and you sinned, and yet will we sin.... But now we know what either wishes, and lo, it is one wish, and wished by one Self!”

Said Conrad Devilson, “What do you two speak about, there by yourselves?”

He and Albrecht and Ulrich and Walther von Langen had risen from settle and stool. “We must fare back to the Golden Eagle! Heinrich and Karl and Johann come in to Hauptberg to-night.... Ah ho! Martin Luther has burned the Pope’s bull!”

Without the small red and brown house, across the ribbon of brown garden, in the narrow street red-flushed from the red west, three fell to singing,—

They sang with enthusiasm, but their ardour had youth and geniality. They were wandering students, humanists, not reforming monks.

Eberhard and Conrad Devilson did not sing, but talked. They dropped a little behind the big, fronting voices. Whatever was the one, Eberhard was something more than wandering student—a man beginning to work with a mind-moved hand. He walked now with a lit face. “They live there alone together—the old man and his daughter?”

“Aye. He taught Thekla all he knew, as though she were a boy. It is a mistake to say that women are not teachable! But they must keep knowledge at home when they have got it.... He is past earning now. She embroiders arms for the noble upon velvet, silk, and linen, and so earns for both. He has another daughter—Elsa—in a convent twenty miles from here.”

The wandering students were singing,—

Now they were before the Golden Eagle, and out of door and window floated voices of Heinrich, Karl, and Johann.

That was December. In February Charles the Fifth made to be drawn an edict against Luther. The Diet sitting at Worms refused assent. April, and Luther, at Worms, stood in his own defence, spoke with a great, plain eloquence. Eloquence never saved a man against whom set the main current of his time. The main current of his time going with him, Martin Luther rode in a seaworthy boat. Storms there were, thunder and lightning, tempest and a lashed ocean—but the boat rode. May, and Pope and Emperor threatened that revolt and all who had share therein with fire in this world and in the world hereafter. The revolt made itself a stronger current.

In May, Eberhard Gerson came again to Hauptberg. He slept at the Golden Eagle, and in the bright, exquisite morning sought out the house where dwelled Gabriel Mayr and Thekla. The cherry trees were at late bloom, and the morning breeze shook down the white petals. The house seemed to stand among fountains.

Three times since that first December afternoon had Eberhard opened the gate, come in between the cherry trees.

Gabriel sat in his armchair under the largest tree, beneath his feet a cushion, about his shrunken frame, for all the May weather, a furred cloak, gift of old pupils. His eyes were closed, he was sleeping in the sun. Thekla sat beside him, embroidering upon a scarf arms of the greatest Hauptberg family. When she saw Eberhard she put her finger to her lips. He stood beneath the blooming trees; they gazed each upon the other for a moment, then she rose, put aside the embroidery frame, and, stepping lightly, moved from the sleeping old man. At some distance, among the currant bushes, stood a wooden bench. She moved to this, and Eberhard followed. Here they might mark the sleeper through an opening, but for the rest the green bushes closed them round. The air was full of a subdued, murmurous noise, bees, twittering birds, sounds from the woodcarver’s house of the woodcarver’s trade.

“Came one yesterday,” she said, “who told us that now they are preaching against monastic vows. He said that what is preached is printed, and that it steals from overhead like the wind into cloisters, that monks and nuns read.... Oh, that it might unbar the door for Elsa!”

“You love Elsa so.”

“She is younger than me. She is unhappy—Elsa, my sister!”

“How was it, Thekla, that your sister went there?”

Thekla gazed at the tree heads against the blue sky. “Ah, cannot you remember a day when it seemed wisest and fairest to worship so—from a cell? She dreamed that, and being young, she went. Then her inner need travelled its own path, and it was hardly that path. But her body is held there, though her mind has gone forth. All the customs of the place clutch and bind too closely the growing being.... She would forth if she could.”

“Who may know where all this deep rebellion will stop? Thekla, I see a wider circle.”

“Oh, and I!... There is no stopping.”

Behind the small red and brown house a cock crew. The two listened. “The crowing of a cock.... When I hear it from far away,” said Eberhard, “it pleases me so! It seems the oldest, oldest sound....”

“He is a beautiful cock. His name is Welcome.”

“Welcome...?”

“Yes.... It is an old, old sound.”

The currant bushes almost closed them round. Above the currants showed the snowy cherry trees, and above the cherry trees the high, steep, red roofs of neighbouring houses. Thekla and Eberhard sat very still. “It seems to me,” said Eberhard, “that we have known each other the longest time—”

“The longest time.... I think that we live always, and only fail to remember.”

“Known and loved.... What are we going to do now, Thekla?”

She looked at the sky above the trees. “We are going to free ourselves.”

“Free ourselves.”

“Yes. Free you—free me.”

“I am only beginning to earn. I have nothing but what I earn. I have letters telling me of good work to be had at the next Court. I may paint there the Prince’s portrait and those of his children. Moreover, he would have drawings of Christ’s Parables that in woodcuts may be scattered like seed over the land.... But it is far from Hauptberg.... I know not when I shall see you again.”

She looked at him. In her eyes shone tears, but in her countenance something smiled. “Have we not to learn that everywhere we see each other?”

Gabriel Mayr called her from under the cherry tree.

That year Eberhard the artist did good and true work. He painted the portraits of the Prince and his children, he saw put forth in woodcuts, far and wide, ten great drawings of Christ’s Parables.

A year and more, and he came again to the red and brown house between the woodcarver’s and the goldsmith’s. This time the cherries were ripe, the birds were pecking them. This time Gabriel lay abed, within the house. He spoke to Eberhard standing beside him. “My ship is tugging at her binding ropes.... Thekla has something to say to you. It is about Elsa. I approve. I cannot talk any more to-day.”

Thekla gave him water and wine. A girl of twelve, an orphan for whom they made a home, took her place beside the bed. Thekla and Eberhard, moving to the outer room, talked beside the window. “Through the land, here and there and everywhere, monks are coming from their cells. Here and there a nun, stronger than the rest, comes forth.... I went to hear Martin Luther speaking in the market-place. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Come forth, monk, who seest now that, seeking God, thou mistookest for him an earthly giant! And come forth, nun, and stand side by side with thy brother the monk! Look within, and see the one God, who wills that both be free!’”

“Yes,” said Eberhard, “I have heard him preach that.”

“I have been to the convent. I have seen Elsa. She would leave her cell and come freely home, to live and work hereafter as need will have it. But she is not where she can say, ‘I mistook myself: Let me go at will as I came at will!’”

“No.”

“No. And my father is an old, dying man. And we have not strong friends, as strength goes. The changing time is yet so young, and the old time a giant—”

“Wait a little while—”

“So I think.... We will be patient, wreathed and twined with patience.... When will the all say to the all, ‘Freedom!’”

The summer passed, the autumn went, the white-clad winter drove by in her sledge, the days grew longer, the sun more strong, the frogs were heard in their marshes, the willows greened, the birds returned. In that year matters in the world had moved so fast that it seemed that many years must have been bound in the one sheaf.

On a day in May, Eberhard again approached the red and brown house among the cherry trees. Within the gate he saw the snow petals drift down and the bright butterflies and the humming bees. Upon the doorstep sat Thekla. “He is asleep. The ship is almost out of harbour.”

Eberhard sat beside her. “I could not sleep, and I rose while it was still grey. I had pencils and my drawing-block, and I fell to a drawing of old Babylon for the Prophets series.... Thekla, do you think that we ever lived in old Babylon?”

“Yes, we lived there....”

“So I must think.... I drew with the skill I have to-day, but I drew your face in a temple room.”

“Where have we not lived? We are all life.”

They sat still in the sunshine. The bees hummed, the butterflies glanced, the breeze shook down the cherry snow. A bird arose on glancing wings and flew into the blue. Thekla spoke. “Elsa—”

“Here am I to help you,” said Eberhard.

On such and such a day walked Thekla from Hauptberg. The day was passing sweet, the land at mental war, but not at that gross war which made a country road no better for a woman than any hungry jungle. There was no reason why one who was strong and who toiled for a living should not fare afoot from town to outlying hamlet or country house. So Thekla went on, through the bright spring air, and with a hopeful spring in her heart. “Elsa! Elsa! Elsa!” said her heart. Back in the red and brown house lay the old man her father, watched over by the orphan girl and by Gretchen Knapp. He lay peacefully, his ship a noble ship, waiting in a great calm for the loosening that should send him forth upon the ocean. She was at peace with and about him.... The time-spirit was busied with a great rearrangement of particles. She felt that; she believed that the new arranging held great promise; she loved the world and was happy with a vision of an inner new garment, beautiful, desirable as this outer loveliness of spring garments! She had the great happiness of believing that spring was coming to the whole world. “Elsa!” beat her heart. And, “Eberhard—Eberhard—Eberhard!” beat her heart. And “Women—women—women!” beat her heart. And, “All the world—all the world!” beat her heart.

A few miles out of Hauptberg, Eberhard, driving a strong grey farmhorse in a farmcart, turned from a wood track into the highway. No one was near, only distant folk and beasts might be seen upon the road. Thekla climbed to his side, and the steady grey horse drew them on. To those who knew them not they might seem a prospering peasant and his wife.

They drove many miles through the soft, bloomy weather. Here was their present goal—a farmhouse known to Thekla, the place where she stayed when at long, long intervals she came to see Elsa in the Convent of the Vale. From the hill behind the house might be seen the roofs of Elsa’s prison.... To Elsa it had not always been prison; to many therein it did not now seem prison; to very many in the near past and the far past it had stood as true refuge and haven of safety; to a few its meaning had been high opportunity, fair self-fulfilment. It had had part, and no ignoble part, in the movement of all things. But now to the inner need of many an one, it was grown a manacle for the spirit’s wrists, a bandage for the eyes, an unwholesome draught for the lips, a shell and casing straight and deadening. It stifled the life that once it had served.

The farmhouse where now the two alighted from the cart was one in which Thekla and Elsa had played as children. The grey-headed man who met them in the yard was a kinsman of their mother’s, the middle-aged man who would not return till evening from the fields, the middle-aged woman who stood in the door, were of those who presently would be called “Lutheran.” Thekla was at home here; they took Eberhard simply, as her helper in a piece of business of which they had knowledge. The grey-headed man showed him where to put the grey horse and the cart; he came presently into a bare, clean room where the women were placing upon a deal table bread and meat and ale. He and Thekla sat down and ate and drank, and in at the open window came all the songs and scents of spring.

The shadows grew long, the sun went down, a full moon rose behind the hills. The frog choir was in the meadows, a nightbird cried from the wood. Thekla and Eberhard were walking through a forest, following a stream that flowed by convent lands. Huge boughs stretched above their heads, the moon came through the forest windows, the clear stream sang. Then they came to a bare hill and mounted it. On the top they paused, and, looking down, saw the Convent of the Vale.

It became deep night.... With hearts that trembled, that stood still, that drew courage and met the emergency, two nuns of the Vale stole from cells, through corridors, by many doors, by blank walls. They reached a door seldom used, in a part of the vast building from which the life of the place had withdrawn. There were bars across; these they withdrew softly, softly. Here was the heavy lock. Elsa had the key, obtained after long, patient planning, obtained with a still daring. She kneeled, inserted the key,—it turned with groaning sound. The two waited, so breathless and unmoving that they seemed figures of wax resting there against wall and door. But the convent slept, or, waking, did not hear. Elsa drew open the door. They went out, they closed it behind them; they made way through the convent garden.

Here was the wall, high, but with huge ivy twists covering it to the top. They found the stoutest of these;—helping each the other, they mounted, they crept across the broad coping, where the ivy was not let to come. They looked over, down into darkness, they made courage their servant, they gripped the edge with both hands, they lowered themselves, they dropped upon the earth beneath. Mother Earth was kind, they took no hurt.... There were yet to pass neighbouring low houses of peasants, bound to the soil and convent service. But the night was at its depth and all life seemed charmed to keep its place.

A clear stream slipped through the vale. Upon one side lay the convent land, upon the other the world beyond its dominion. A narrow bridge gave crossing. Elsa and her fellow crossed the stream and were immediately under huge trees. Thekla spoke from where she stood beneath an oak. “Elsa....”

Thekla, Eberhard, Elsa and Clara hastened through the night. The old wood stood still about them, they had glimpses of stars like hanging fruit, balm drew its mantle around. They went fast and went far, and ere the cock crew were at that farmhouse. Here was food prepared, and peasant dresses for Elsa and Clara. In a room in which the dawn was coming, Elsa, this dress upon her, took up the nun’s garb, fallen at her feet. She looked at Thekla over it, Thekla looked at her. They were both moved, they had a great tenderness in their faces. “Now we will put it in the fire,” said Elsa. “It has meant some terrible things, and it has meant some lovely things, and it will go away in lovely flame, and when I remember the terrible I will also remember the lovely, as is just.”

“Yes,” said Thekla. “Here is the fire kindled.”

Elsa and Clara came out of the house, like peasant women. Behind them Margaret, Hans’s wife, made haste to make the house as though none but the usual dwellers had stepped therein, or yesterday or to-day. Without, in the pink dawn light, waited the horse and cart and Eberhard in the carter’s seat. And here were Hans and old Fritz and Michael, son of Fritz, with their own cart and cart-horse ready to overtread and confuse within and without the farmyard the marks of the Hauptberg travellers. Thekla, Elsa, and Clara climbed into the cart. Thekla sat beside Eberhard, Elsa and Clara sat upon straw, among baskets, wide peasant hats shading their faces. The light was not yet clear; they were forth upon the highroad, going toward Hauptberg before the growing travel took note of them. And then the travel saw only prosperous peasant-folk going to town to market. And so at last they came to Hauptberg.

Gabriel lay as he had lain when Thekla and Eberhard left him. Gretel the orphan and Gretchen Knapp had cared for him well. The cherry blossoms nodded over the little red and brown house, the bees hummed around it. Elsa stood as in a trance, tasting home.... They made Clara welcome, would hold her until her kin that were of the following of Luther could send for her from their own town.

Presently Hauptberg knew that two nuns had left the Convent of the Vale, and that Gabriel Mayr’s daughter Elsa was within the town walls, in the red and brown house with the old dying scholar, with her sister Thekla. Great talk arose in which opinion stood divided. Some cried huge scandal and sacrilege, some held their breath, some cried, Well done! All Germany now was divided into two parties, those two divided into others. The old party, the old Church thundered and threatened, but the new party gathered and came on with the shout of the springtime flood. The Prince in whose rule stood the town of Hauptberg was friendly to the new. If at first it was doubtful, it was soon seen that, so long as the new withstood and grew upon the old, Elsa who had been nun was safe in Hauptberg, and safe those who had helped her escape.

Martin Luther heard of that happening, and preaching in Wittenberg, cried, “See how, God with them, those two came forth! Be of their company, monk and nun, throughout the land! O ye self-immured, do ye not see that ye cannot wall in God? Man cannot wall God in, and woman cannot wall God in! God—yea, in your bodies!—will walk free!”

Others were breaking monastery and convent—this very year came from the Convent at Eisenach Catherine von Bora and her five sister nuns....

In Hauptberg, in the red and brown house behind the cherry trees, Thekla and Elsa kneeled beside their dying father. Gabriel Mayr was conscious, he had a peaceful and clear going forth. He put his hands upon his daughters’ hands, the hands of the three held together. “Thekla and Elsa.... Wider and deeper being for us all—” His hands unclosed, life went out of his body. Thekla and Elsa rose and looked upon the shell beside the ocean.

Summer passed—autumn came, rich and ripe with wheat sheaves and hanging grapes. Thekla and Elsa lived on in the red and brown house and earned for themselves. Then Elsa went to the nearest great city to visit Clara who lived there. Thekla and the young orphan girl kept the house. Eberhard painted a great picture for a guild hall in a town fifty miles away.

Came winter with its grey cloak and its white cloak and on keen, clear nights the tremendous stars. Came again Eberhard. “Thekla, now must we live and work together——”

“Live and work together.”

They gathered neighbours and friends, and before these took each the other’s hands. “We two love, and we will to live and work together——”

So Eberhard came to the red and brown house....

And all this while the mind of the age moved in revolt, and, like the needle of the compass, customs and institutions trembled toward following the mind. It was the new time, and the new time was yet fluid, and might go between these banks or between those. The flood might contract—the flood might expand. Many fields would be watered, or more or less. Those who cared for certain fields looked anxiously that they be helped. Hearts beat high and hearts sank—there were dreams—there were pangs of hope and of disappointment. Some could say, “The water comes to my fields, the water turns my mill wheel!” and some, “It goes aside, my fields are left unhelped, my wheel stands still!” and some, “For me a little rill, a broken light, a wheel that is turned a little way!”

At Christmas-tide came again to the Golden Eagle Albrecht and Ulrich, Conrad Devilson and Walther von Langen, older all by four years than in that December when they had brought news of the burning of the Pope’s bull. As of yore the Golden Eagle creaked and swung. Within the clean inn room Hans Knapp fed the fire, and the flame leaped up the chimney. Frau Knapp had lost no skill of cookery, and Gretchen Knapp, a little larger, a little rosier, moved about the room and set the pasty on the table and drew the ale. Only two of the incoming four might justly now be named wandering students. One had settled into burgherdom and was in Hauptberg on merchant business. One taught in an university and now had a holiday. The four had met much by accident. But fine and pleasant it was to be together again, at this Golden Eagle! They recalled the last time they had been so together in this town. “We went to Gabriel Mayr’s. Eberhard Gerson was with us.”—“Now it is Eberhard’s small red and brown house—Eberhard’s cherry trees and currant bushes!”—“Let us go see Eberhard and Thekla!”

They went somewhat merrily up the narrow street, but they did not sing as they had done. That was because they were older, and two were grown respectable. Moreover, some sweetness and wild flavour—the taste of the first flood—undeniably was gone out of the times.

Here was the red and brown house between the woodcarver’s and the goldsmith’s. They struck against the door. It opened and Thekla stood before them. “Welcome, and enter, wandering students!”

In the room, ruddy with firelight, Elsa sat and span, open beside her a book of old poetry. Gretel, the young orphan girl, knitted and played with the cat upon the hearth. Eberhard was gone to look at a book at the University. He would presently be home. Thekla showed the work he was doing—the series of drawings, The Road to the City of God. The wandering students admired, commented, admired again. “The verse in each—the verse that is shown?”

“I write the verse. He makes the picture.”

“They fit,” said Conrad Devilson, “like two halves of an apple!”

Eberhard opened the door and came in. There was welcoming—good talk of work and of old times and wanderings. Gathered around the fire, they talked of private and public matters. It was a time when the public business is clearly seen to be each soul’s business. So they talked of the general storm and stress. Eberhard had news. Martin Luther was coming to Hauptberg and on three successive days would deliver three discourses. And all would go....

Outside the house the wind rattled the boughs, the wind sang in the chimney. Thekla sat in her red gown, in the old chair of Gabriel Mayr. She sat in the middle of the half ring, in front of the bright, leaping fire.

“Fire is a chariot in which rides the past!” said Thekla. “Who first kindled fire and laid it on a hearth?”

“Some hunter,” said Conrad Devilson. “He would find a cave and bring lightning from a stricken tree, and build himself a hearth, and lay fire and cook his game and be at home! The early man.”

“Ah, much we owe the early man!” said Walther von Langen.

“He is at the base,” said Albrecht.

The wind whistled, the bare cherry boughs tapped upon the wall. Thekla left the great chair and the fire and going to the smaller room brought back a dish of red apples and a jug of ale.

A week and Martin Luther came to Hauptberg. All that great moiety of the town that would presently be named “Protestant” flocked and crowded to hear him, who was the most famous man in Germany. On a windy, wintry day, to a great throng, preached Martin Luther. Two hours he preached and touched on many things. Great was his power in preaching, great his power to make and guide opinion, wide the magnetic field in which he moved.

That was the first day. Came the second, and came again the flocking and the thronging. He preached the revolt of thought, and he drew Martin Luther’s lines around that revolt, and within the line was blessing and without the line was cursing. One thought of revolt infected another thought with revolt, one question led to other questions.... Martin Luther knew not how to help that, but he could preach against the thought with which he did not travel, the question which did not come to him to be asked.... He could preach with a great, plain heat and power. He could knock down and render without seeming life a thought or question. If, after a time, it revived, got again to its feet, that doubtless was a trick learned of Satan....

He travelled with religious revolt, but by no means with political, economic, and social revolt—save only as all society, through religious revolt, somewhat changed its hue. He allowed that; where society had been dark of hue it was to become light and bright of hue. He thought that his definition of religion was the whole definition. He carried a great lantern and it sent a bright ray into many a dark corner. But it was a great lantern and not a sun.

He preached against the seething discontent among the peasants and the artisans. He preached against economic revolt. It was a wide subject, and there were other revolts also that to-day he lacked time thoroughly to destroy. Between two and three hours he preached. He left economic and class revolt breathless, hurt with many a wound, seemingly done to death. And there was yet to-morrow in which to finish these and other serpents who raised their heads from the dust in the tumult of the times....

On the morrow he preached the third time. Hauptberg that would hear Luther thronged together under a grey sky, came through fast-falling snowflakes. They fell so thick, they fell so fast, they were so large and white that the world seemed moving in a veil. Martin Luther preached again upon the revolts outside the line that he drew, and he shook anathemas upon them, and he laid hands upon the Bible before him and he interpreted its words according to his own inner and strong feeling. “Slaves, obey your masters!” he preached. “Render unto CÆsar that which is CÆsar’s and unto God that which is God’s!” he preached. “The poor ye have always with you!” he preached. He preached of men and women. “Are you made for abstinence? No! You are made, as God says, to increase and multiply! But in marriage, not without. Therefore, let a man early find work and take to wedlock in God’s name! A boy at the latest at twenty, a girl at fifteen or eighteen.... Let God take care how they and their children are to be supported. God creates children and will certainly support them.... If a woman becomes weary and at last dead from bearing, that mattereth not! Let her only die from bearing, she is there to do it!”

He preached the subjection of woman. “The woman’s will, as saith God, shall be subject to the man and he shall be master; which is to say, the woman shall not live according to her free will, as it would have been had Eve not sinned, for then she had ruled equally with Adam, the man, as his colleague! Now, however, that she has sinned and seduced the man, she has lost the governance, and must neither begin nor complete anything without the man! Where he is there must she be, and bend before him as before her master, whom she shall fear, and to whom she shall be subject and obedient!”

He swung his great lantern, and now there was light, and now its light was darkened. But he had huge influence to determine minds that were not self-determined. The sermon was over.... Dr. Martin Luther went away with University men; the crowd broke, hung lingering, discoursing upon the discourse, most unevenly divided into yeas and nays.... Then home it went, in units, twos, and groups, through the falling snow.

Elsa was again with Clara, in her home in the next city. Thekla and Eberhard came between the bare fruit trees to their door, opened it, and entering heard the orphan girl singing at her work. They put away cap and mantle, hood and mantle; they came to the fire, and, raking up the embers, laid on fresh wood, and brought into the room the brightness of leaping flame. The air grew warm. For all the falling snow without, flowers might have bloomed in here and the greenwood waved. Eberhard’s drawing-table stood by the window. The two, moving there, gazed out upon the snow, then, turning, looked each upon the other. They laughed.

Eberhard bent over the board. “Picture after picture upon the Road to the City of God!”

“Ten thousand, thousand, pictures!”

Bending, they looked at the drawing together, read together the verses lying beside it. “Good is the poem!” said Eberhard.

“And good is the picture!”

“What was it Conrad Devilson said the other day?”

“‘They fit like two halves of an apple.’... To talk in terms of halves—how strange that must seem in a world where one says, ‘Lo, an apple!’”

They laughed again, but then they sighed, looking from the window upon Hauptberg and the falling snow.