Part 3

“Again, one day,” the sweet voice continued, “when Elizabeth was ministering to her poor at Eisenach, she found a little child cast out by the rest because he was a leper, and for this reason none would touch him or even come into his presence. She, moved with pity, took the loathsome little body in her arms, carried him up the steep hill to the castle, and laid him on her bed. All who were in the apartment hurried away, and reproaches were heaped upon her. Ludwig was absent at the time; but soon his horn was heard outside these gates, and hastening to him, his mother, the Princess Sophia, told him what Elizabeth had done. The husband, impatient on hearing that his wife had taken in her bed a little, leprous child, rushed into the room and snatched away the coverlid. ‘But behold, instead of the leper there lay a radiant infant with the features of the new-born Babe in Bethlehem; and while they stood amazed, the vision smiled and vanished from their sight.’

“This miracle,” the soft, harplike voice went on to say, “is one of the most beautiful of the many legends of Saint Elizabeth, and recalls those sacred words: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”

With the breath of roses all about her, and the velvet petals so near that she could touch them, the child had listened eagerly to these stories of Saint Elizabeth. Then when the Rose fell silent there came to Katrina’s mind those words which the lady had spoken but a little while before. She recalled how, holding up a blossom, her friend had said that it was beautiful because deep down in its own inner nature there was a beauty which the flower but obeyed. And now, as this thought wove itself like a thread of gold through those stories of Elizabeth and her life of love, Katrina began to understand what her friend had meant.

IX.

Although Conrad Albrecht’s hands had been painfully and even seriously burned, they had at first given promise of healing; but as the days, then the weeks, went by, the doctor began to look very grave. Another physician was called in consultation, and he too was serious; it was a case of blood poison, they said.

When his father had to remain in bed, Fritz would not leave the room. He was always ready to attend his father’s slightest wish. Neighbours came in every day and offered to help the boy; he did not lack friendly sympathy or service. Rudolf, Frieda, and Katrina came down from the castle daily, and on every visit Katrina brought a bunch of her crimson roses. For hours at a time the sick man’s eyes would rest tenderly upon the blossoms, and they were always placed near enough for him to enjoy their fragrance. It came about, as the days went by, that he began to look eagerly for Katrina and her roses; this was the one bright spot amid dark, suffering hours.

At other times his eyes would wander wistfully to the adjoining room--his workshop. Here, hanging upon the walls, and scattered upon his work-bench, were unfinished toys, waiting for the hands which had begun to fashion them with such loving care. For Conrad Albrecht was one to whom his work was a constant source of happiness; he rejoiced in the creations of his hands. The machine had not come in to rob him of his own individual skill and take away his joy in working. His imagination, too, had had full play. While his hands were busily employed, sometimes with a girl’s dainty doll, sometimes with a boy’s small steam-engine, perfect in every detail, he would picture the homes and the lives of the children who would one day have the toys in their possession, often tracing their lives to womanhood and manhood. So Conrad Albrecht’s days had passed happily enough, and he had been enriched by the blessing of contentment.

One morning as he lay on his bed of pain, Fritz’s father had turned his eyes from Katrina’s roses, and for a long while they had rested sadly on his work-bench with the half-finished toys lying on it. As he lay there looking into that other room, he was thinking how much comfort it would give him if Fritz would one day finish those uncompleted toys; he had come to realize that the task had been taken out of his own hands for ever. Fritz, sitting at the bedside, noticed the look in his father’s eyes, and half-guessed its meaning; but before either could speak, there came a rap on the outer door.

Fritz went at once to answer it, and, to his surprise, he saw the tall, imposing figure of Count von Scholtz standing on the threshold. The boy’s amazement made him speechless for a moment. Only a month or so before he had seen the nobleman, badly injured, borne upon a stretcher.

“Are you the son of Conrad Albrecht?” the visitor asked on seeing Fritz.

“Yes, your Honour, Fritz Albrecht is my name.”

“I am glad to know you, my boy, glad to know Conrad Albrecht’s son. Is it possible for me to see your father? I have something of importance that I wish to say to him.”

“My father is very ill, your Honour, and suffering great pain.”

“I know that, my lad, and it grieves me deeply; but,” he continued, as he laid his hand on Fritz’s shoulder, “I want especially to see him. This is my first appearance outside the house, and my doctors objected to my coming. I told them, though, that I would make this visit to Conrad Albrecht, cost me what it might.”

By this time they had reached the door of the sick-room, and Fritz went in first to prepare his father for the unexpected visitor.

“Ah, Albrecht, I am distressed to see you like this; they tell me you have suffered horribly.” And as he spoke, the nobleman seated himself in a chair which Fritz placed for him beside the bed.

“Yes, your Honour, I’ve had much pain. At first I thought all would be right with me in time; but now I realize that the end is near; for the doctors can give me little hope.”

“Too bad, too bad;” the count shook his head sadly, and Fritz saw that his eyes were full of tears. “I would give anything I possess, Albrecht, if it could only save you; and to think that I was the cause of this!”

Fritz, who had been a silent witness of the scene, was dismayed. How could Count von Scholtz have caused his father’s accident? At that moment, as though reading the question in Fritz’s mind, the count turned and said:

“My lad, do you know that your father saved my life?”

“No, your Honour,” Fritz replied; “my father didn’t tell me.”

“Well, then, I will tell you. In the wreck, the compartment I was occupying had taken fire, and when I found myself wedged in between some burning timbers, and escape seemed a thing impossible, I resigned myself to die. Then it was that your father, himself badly shaken by the accident, saw me pinned under the pile of débris; and, without one thought for his own safety, tore away the heavy timbers already in a blaze. By this time others, seeing the situation, came to our relief; but it was not until your father’s hands had been badly burned.”

“I was glad, your Honour, to be able to assist you,” said Conrad Albrecht, feebly.

“Yes, my friend, but to save my life you gave your own; that is heaven’s own great gift. But, Albrecht, I wish to do the best I can to prove my gratitude. I have no son, and have come here to ask if you will let me take your place to Fritz when you are gone. I couldn’t be to him what you have been, but grant me this wish, and I will try and fill a father’s place. By adoption he shall be my son. Can you, will you, say yes to this, Albrecht?”

The look which had come into the face of the stricken man reflected the conflict in his heart. Two paths were open for his boy, and he, the father, must decide upon the one for him to take. Here, at the work-bench, where he had spent many contented years, he saw the quiet, shaded path of that more tranquil life. Out there was the glare, the white light of the world,--would his boy be happy in it? Would it bring him peace, such peace as he, himself, had known and loved? Yet, here was a great, even a wonderful, opportunity; one day his Fritz’s name might be known throughout all the Fatherland!

This thought brought a radiant look to the father’s eyes, and with all the strength at his command he said:

“Yes, your Honour, Fritz shall be your son.”

X.

“Turn the key, Gesta, and let the workshop stay just as my father left it.”

The old woman wiped her eyes on a corner of her apron.

“And so it’s sure, then, Master Fritz, that you’re going to leave here; what will the house seem like when you are gone?”

With this the faithful creature broke into a sob.

“But,” said the boy, soothingly, “I’ll come back every little while and see that you want for nothing. Because I’m going to live in a great house and have lots of money given to me doesn’t mean that I am going to forget you. I am my mother’s son, Gesta; you carried my mother in your arms when she was a little baby. She loved you, and so do I.”

“You’ve always been good to me, Master Fritz. Even when you were a very little boy you never gave me any trouble; and that makes it all the harder to see you go. Is it to-morrow, Master Fritz, that Count von Scholtz is going to send for you?”

“No, the count said he knew I would want to see my friends, and make some preparations, so it’s not till Thursday that I leave for Grünwald. But it isn’t so far away, you know, Gesta, that I can’t come back from time to time to see you and the dear old home. For even if they do say I’ll walk on velvet carpets, and have beautiful paintings and marble statuary to look at everywhere I turn my eyes, more books than I can read, and music whenever I wish, I’ll never love it as I love this home. They may change my name, too, but I’ll always be the son of Conrad Albrecht, the toymaker. The count may be ever so good to me, but he can never take my father’s place!”

Yet, even as he spoke, Fritz was conscious of a strange sensation. He had felt it only once before, and that was the evening he had remained outside the castle, after Katrina had gone in, and listened to the Ivy.

Now there came to him the desire to hear that voice again, and, as twilight was just setting in, he would go alone, and beg the Ivy to tell him other stories of the castle. So after urging the watchful Gesta not to be uneasy if he should return a little late, Fritz started off in the direction of the Wartburg.

It was not very long before he reached the courtyard, where all was still, and, stealing within the shadow of the wall, Fritz seated himself upon the same bench on which he had sat that other evening when the voice had spoken to him of the “greatest treasure.”

One might suppose that the Ivy had been waiting for him, so soon did it begin to speak to Fritz in those same rich, majestic tones. And now it told him many things about the men and women who lived in the castle long ago--about the early landgraves; but more particularly did it dwell upon the good Herman and his time. Among other stories it told how Elizabeth had, by accident, found on her husband the crusader’s cross, and at sight of it had fainted, since it meant that he would leave her.

“But,” the Ivy said, “when Ludwig explained to her the purpose of the crusades, Elizabeth not only consented to his going, but went with him a part way on his journey. However, Ludwig never reached the Holy Land, but died of a fever just as he was to set sail from Italy.”

This was the only allusion which the Ivy made to Saint Elizabeth; but it told Fritz of much that happened during the times in which she lived. It mentioned, for instance, how a knowledge of the arts and crafts had been brought by the crusaders from the East.

“There were no glass windows in the Wartburg,” the Ivy said, “until the time of the Landgrave Herman. He had glass panes put into the windows of the banquet-hall; but in the other windows the panes were all of mica; for glass, the art of making which was brought by the crusaders from the Orient, was very rare and costly.

“Now, while speaking of the East,” the Ivy went on to say, “I must tell you something about a certain great room in the Wartburg called the Armory. There you will find some rare specimens of old plate armour and suits of mail--these latter dating as far back as the crusades. One who gives it any thought can trace from these a gradual unfoldment in the history of armour. For instance, that of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries was crude and very simple. The fifteenth century brought an increase in the use of plates; but it was in the sixteenth century, by a well-devised fitting together, that the highest development in armour was attained.”

Fritz found himself listening with keen interest to all that the Ivy told him; and, after a pause, it went on speaking of the armour and its history.

“Persons usually have a wrong conception of the armour worn in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries,” the voice continued. “They picture the knight as going forth in a glittering mail shirt woven out of steel; while in reality his coat and hose, as well as his head-covering, were of leather with iron rings sewn on. Only in the East did they then understand the art of weaving the steel mail shirt out of rings. But as every separate ring had to be made by hand, such equipment was very costly; for wire drawing was not discovered until the fourteenth century.

“I wonder,” said the Ivy, after a moment’s silence, and so suddenly that Fritz was startled, “I wonder if you can tell me why the use of armour began to decline in the seventeenth century?”

“I am sorry to say that I haven’t the slightest idea,” was Fritz’s answer.

“It was because in that century firearms came into general use, gunpowder having been invented; so there was no longer any need for armour.”

But, interested as he was in hearing all of this, it was not what Fritz had come to the castle for that evening. He had come to put to the Ivy one single question which for weeks had been revolving in his mind.

“I am going away from here next Thursday,” as he spoke Fritz drew nearer to the Ivy, “and I want to ask one question before I go. It is that you will tell me what you meant when you said to me one evening that you possess the greatest of all treasures.”

Several moments passed before the Ivy answered; but at last it said:

“I know your desire is a sincere one, and I intend to grant it. But first promise me that you will search far and wide, until you, too, come into possession of this mighty treasure--the greatest in all the world.”

“I promise you,” said Fritz.

“Well, then,” and the Ivy spoke in tones more melodious than any Fritz had ever heard before, but so low that he alone could hear the name.

The boy caught his breath with eagerness, and clenched his hands until the flesh showed the imprint of his nails.

“Yes,” he declared, his face all aglow with determination, “I’ll go to the very ends of the earth to find it!”

Then all at once Fritz seemed to see, as though it were a picture stretching out before him, that new life he was about to enter with its promise of riches, the opportunity to gratify all ambition--while the name of what the Ivy declared to be the greatest treasure kept ringing like music in his ears.

XI.

The following morning Fritz went early to the Wartburg. This, his last day, he would spend with his little playmate. Some time before he reached the castle, as he was walking up the hill, he caught sight of Katrina standing in the courtyard.

She made a lovely picture dressed in white, with her pigeons all about her; while in the background was the old, ivy-covered wall. Back and forth her pets were swarming; some ate the grain she had just scattered on the ground, while others preened themselves upon the brink of the now dilapidated fountain.

But as Fritz drew near, and his footsteps sounded on the gravel, there was a scurry and a rustle of wings; while very soon the birds were lost to sight in their lofty retreat in the tower. Katrina, however, the moment she spied Fritz coming, gave a little cry of pleasure, and ran to the gates to meet him.

“I was sure that thou wouldst come,” she said, “and dost thou know, Fritz, I could declare I heard thee walking here last evening, I know thy step so well. But,” the little girl added, as she took her playmate by the hand, “_mütterchen_ said it was only fancy, that of course you wouldn’t be here at the castle without coming in to see us. I knew that too, Fritz; so though I thought I heard thee passing the window twice, I laughed at the very thought of thy going by just as if thou wert a ghost.”

To this Fritz said not a word. For some reason he felt that he wished to keep as a secret that which the Ivy told him; so, in consequence, would say nothing about his twilight visit to the Wartburg.

“Fritz, Fritz!” Katrina suddenly exclaimed, and it seemed as though a cloud had passed suddenly across the sun, so quick was the change in Katrina’s face. “Is it true that thou art really going to leave to-morrow?”

“Yes, Katrina, the count has written that he will send for me Thursday morning. Thou knowest the promise my father made him. But at first the count was too ill to send for me; in fact it was only the other day he was told of my father’s death.”

There were tears in Katrina’s eyes.

“What am I going to do, Fritz? I sha’n’t have any one at all to play with. Dost thou really want to go away and leave me?”

“No, no, little sister; but sometimes it falls to our lot to do things that we don’t quite wish to do. Thou knowest what duty is, Katrina?”

“Yes,” replied the little girl, “_mütterchen_ has told me that I must always do my duty, no matter how disagreeable the task may be.”

As she spoke, there came into the sweet childish face the promise of a nobility that would know so well how to translate duty into happiness; while, as for Fritz, he was one day to learn that ambition sometimes appears at our gates disguised as duty, and in our blindness we bid him enter.

“Is thy father here, Katrina?” Fritz asked a moment later. “Ah, yes,” he added before Katrina had time to answer, “there he is, over near the belfry; he and Hans are talking.”

“So thou hast come, Fritz, to claim the promise I made thee yesterday in Eisenach;” and, as he spoke, Rudolf came over to where the children stood. “I told thee, I remember, that as thou art going away so soon, I would give thee and the _mädchen_ here a glimpse into the castle.”

Both Fritz and Katrina were delighted, and the latter, catching one of her father’s hands, kissed it rapturously.

“It will have to be only a little visit, though, as I’ll be very busy later in the morning, so where shall we begin?”

“This is to be your treat, Herr Rudolf,” Fritz replied; “so we’ll leave the choice to you.”

“Well, then, suppose we begin out here with the rooms where Martin Luther stayed when he was a prisoner at the Wartburg.”

“Yes, yes, show us Luther’s rooms!” and the two children took Rudolf by either hand.

He led them across the courtyard, past the old stables now converted into a brewery; on beyond the barbican, the south tower, and the belfry, until they reached the Knight’s House, sacred with its memories and traditions of Martin Luther.

XII.

“It was here,” Rudolf explained, when they had reached the entrance to the Knight’s House, “that the great Reformer was kept in captivity for a year.”

“Yes,” Katrina interposed, “_mütterchen_ told me this, and so did the lady with the silver cross; but they didn’t tell me why he was made a prisoner.”

“That was because he opposed certain teachings of his time, and,” her father added, forcefully, “had the courage to be steadfast to what he believed to be the truth.”

“It would be good, Herr Rudolf,” suggested Fritz, “if you would tell Katrina and me the story of Martin Luther before we go inside the castle. Then when we do go in, we’d understand and enjoy it all the more.”

“Yes, Fritz, thou art right; some knowledge of him would make thee have a more intelligent appreciation of what thou art about to see. So, suppose we sit out here while I tell thee both about a few of the incidents in Luther’s life.”

Whereupon, Rudolf and the two children seated themselves on a stone bench close by the door of entrance. Now just above this same door was a device cut in stone, that was not only quaint and curious, but was also strangely suggestive of the giant power of the man who had once been a prisoner there. It represented Samson in the act of quelling the lion. And had not he, Martin Luther, slain mankind’s deadly foe,--blind superstition?

“Well, to begin with,” said Rudolf, when the children had settled themselves to listen, and sat watching him with expectant eyes, “Martin Luther’s father, whose name was Hans Luther, was a miner at Möra, a small town which now belongs to the Duchy of Saxe-Meiningen. Not very long after his marriage, however, Hans and his wife, Margaret, went to live at Eisleben, and it was here, on the 10th of November, 1483, that a son was born to them. This day being the anniversary of Martin, Bishop of Tours, they gave the name ‘Martin’ to their boy in memory of the saint.

“It was soon after this that Luther’s parents removed to Mansfield, and Hans, the father, became a member of the council. Their great desire was that Martin should follow one of the learned professions, and from the first his education was very strict. He attended the school of the Franciscan monks at Magdeburg; but when about fifteen years old, he came to Eisenach and earned money as a Current-Schuler by singing from door to door.”

“Yes, yes, dear father,” Katrina interrupted, “we know how the good Frau Cotta, hearing him sing in the streets, took him in and gave him a home.”

“Did he like being a Current-Schuler?” asked Fritz, to whose spirit of adventure the idea made a strong appeal.

“It is said,” responded Rudolf, “that the practice of singing for charity was at first very distasteful to him, but that in time he came to like it, so great was his love for music. Thou, my little Katrina, art familiar with some of Martin Luther’s hymns. He wrote a number of hymns after he grew to manhood; and thou, Fritz, hast sung with us many an evening that grand old anthem of his, ‘Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott.’”[2]

[2] “A Mighty Stronghold Is Our God.”

“I wonder, Herr Rudolf,” Fritz exclaimed, as the light of the sudden thought flashed into his face, “I wonder if Luther wrote that hymn here at the Wartburg! Don’t you think he must have done so?”

For a moment Rudolf was silent. This was a question which had not presented itself to his mind before.

“I really do not know it to be a certainty,” he answered after thinking deeply; “but it does seem to me, Fritz, that he must have had his inspiration here within these walls which sheltered him in a time when his life was being threatened. But now,” Rudolf continued, “let us turn back to the youthful Luther and follow him as he progresses in his school life. In the year 1501 he entered the University of Erfurt, where he studied Logic, Physics, and Ethics; but it was in Philosophy and the ancient classics that he afterward found his greatest satisfaction. In the year 1503 Luther received his degree of B. A., and it was then that he complied with his father’s wish and began to study the law. This, however, as he soon found, was not to his taste, and in time it became a burden to him. In these days of doubt he felt strongly drawn toward a monastic life, and finally, in spite of the opposition of his family and friends, he determined to take the vows and become a monk.

“But even after this step had been taken, he found that his conscience was not wholly at ease. His zealous mind seemed to be ever searching for the truth. And, my children,” Rudolf continued, “it was in the year 1517 that Martin Luther first wrote his name indelibly on the pages of history.”

XIII.