She raised the painting and unlocked the secret door.

“Farewell, Cartaphilus.”

“Since it must be—farewell, Salome.”

We embraced. She opened the door. Was it the setting sun or the magnificence of Salome’s hair which cast the golden reflection upon the water?

We stepped into the boat. Salome made the sign of the cross over us. “God speed.”

The Tiber beat lazily against our boat. The hills opposite were masses of clouds nailed against the sky.

LXVI: DARLINGS OF THE GODS—STIRRING THE ASHES—BIRDS ON THE WING

“KOTIKOKURA, we are indeed the darlings of the gods. I do not know whether we are shielded from torture because of the love they bear us, or more likely—for some sinister ulterior purpose.”

Kotikokura’s eyes glowed with green fire, like an animal’s in the dark.

“Maybe the high gods reward me because I defended my Enemy before his own vicar. I must insist upon his existence, for if he does not exist, I am not even a wraith!”

I remained silent. My last sentence reverberated in my brain and rolled upon my tongue.

“Kotikokura, how strange that I never considered this! If he does not exist, I do not exist either…and you are but the shadow of my dream…”

Kotikokura knitted his brow, not understanding.

“He must exist!”

Kotikokura nodded, unconvinced.

“We are, perhaps, two sides of the same medal,” I remarked, musingly, “and perhaps, for this very reason, we never see eye to eye…but must remain forever incomprehensible to each other.”

Kotikokura rubbed his nose, perplexed. He had never quite grasped my relationship to Jesus. “Some day, perhaps, the metal will melt in the alembic of love or disaster. Some day the two may be one…”

Kotikokura’s eyes darted to and fro.

“But this is mere poetry, no doubt, my friend, induced by my happiness of having escaped from the clutches of the amiable Vicar of Christ. I shall never tempt the Devil—or a Pope—again!”

Kotikokura grinned.

“I yearn to be once more a tranquil water, running securely between its two banks. Let us go beyond the Danube, Kotikokura.

Let us see what the Barbarians have accomplished. Do you remember Ulrica, Kotikokura?”

He nodded.

“What a delightful creature she was! Where is she today? Less than a pinchful of the dust we tread upon; less than the foam that dots the sharp point of a wave in mid-sea; less than the echo of one word uttered between two hills; less than the wind stirred by a butterfly’s wing…”

Kotikokura’s eyes were covered with a thin film.

“The Pope was right: the soul is the daughter of fear. Man disappears utterly like a bird in flight…”

Kotikokura nodded.

“We, too, are transitory, Kotikokura. However long we endure, we shall seem to Eternity only as birds on the wing, lingering awhile over the tops of trees or describing a few wide circles over the surface of a lake, the tips of our wings barely scratching the water…”

Kotikokura wiped his eyes.

LXVII: THE JOY OF LIVING—THE FRIAR OF WITTENBERG TALKS ABOUT LOVE—CHRIST AND ANTI-CHRIST—KOTIKOKURA’S ADVENTURE—A FINE NOSE FOR SULPHUR—I RAISE A STORM

TWO gentlemen, traveling unostentatiously at random, wherever a boat might sail or a coach drive, squandering months and years with the prodigality of early youth. Ah, the joy of locomotion! The delight of being unrooted!

“Once I bewailed the fact that I had neither a country nor a speech nor a name. Once I mourned the length of my days. Man should live a man’s span of years, I argued—then sink into eternal sleep. Ah, the joy of living on and on!”

Kotikokura grinned.

“I am happy, Kotikokura! I am happy that I have neither country nor name. I am happy to be alive…” Kotikokura began to dance. “Dance, my friend, dance upon the tombs of a million generations! We are Life—all else is Death!”

Kotikokura took my hand and whirled me about.

Out of breath, we seated ourselves upon a rock.

“Listen, Kotikokura! Listen to the tinkling of the sheep’s bells! Listen to the shepherds’ call! We are in Arcady, Kotikokura!”

He slapped his thighs.

A man, carrying a long cane, stopped before us.

“Do the gentlemen require a guide to climb the Jungfrau this morning?”

I shook my head.

“Every traveler likes to make the ascent…”

“Has he whose shoes I saw this morning in your museum climbed to the top?”

He seemed not to understand for a while, then grinned, raising his upper lip.

“The Wandering Jew? They say. he came from the other side of the mountain.”

“Does he really have such enormous feet? Why, they seem to be three times as large as mine.”

“Why not, sir? Think of his travels!”

His seriousness unarmed me.

“Have you seen him?” I cried.

“My grandfather heard his voice one night. He howled like a wolf whose leg has been caught in a trap: ‘I am the Cursed One! I am the Cursed One!’ In the morning they found his shoes in front of the Church door. They seemed nailed to the ground. The Lord would not permit him to desecrate His House.”

“Did he continue his journey barefooted?”

“The Devil must have given him another pair of shoes. The Devil always takes care of his own.”

I was about to ask whether God did likewise with His own, but I desisted.

We reached a little inn, set snugly between the rocks. The inn-keeper invited us into the garden. At a table opposite ours a young Augustine monk, his arm about the waist of the waitress, sang, waving his cup in tune.

Upon seeing us, the girl blushed, and rushed into the house. The friar raised his cup and addressed us.

“To your health, gentlemen!”

We raised ours. “To yours, frater!”

I begged him to sit at our table. He brought his cup. I filled it. We drank to each other’s health once more.

“They have splendid beer here,” I said in Latin.

“And a waitress who would delight Gambrinus himself,” he remarked.

“For a friar,” I said, “your frankness is most engaging.”

“Jesus nowhere forbids love,” the monk insisted.

“He did not. That is so. Nor did he prohibit drink, I can assure you of that.”

He looked at me, a little uncertain. His eyes were blue and candid as a child’s.

“You speak a perfect Latin. Are you a cleric?”

I smiled. “No, I am a retired gentleman with a hankering for scholarship.”

“Many a nobleman nowadays takes to learning. The new invention of Gutenberg– —”

“Gutenberg?” I queried.

“The printing press, sir, the printing press. It makes it possible to obtain a hundred copies of a book at a small cost. It enables everybody to judge for himself the works of the masters.”

“Are you referring to the movable type?”

“Exactly. I was certain you knew…”

“Why, in China, hundreds of years ago, I saw a machine of this nature.”

“My dear sir—not hundreds of years ago!”

“Yes, yes.”

He laughed heartily. “You saw—hundreds of years ago—in China—?”

“Did I say ‘I saw?’ ”

He nodded.

I laughed in my turn. “I meant that I saw the drawing of a printing press invented hundreds of years ago in China. I am by no means certain that to spread knowledge indiscriminately is a benefit to mankind.”

He wiped his finely curved lips with the back of his palm and looked at me, his brow knit.

“Am I speaking to an enemy or to a spy?”

“I have not even had the pleasure of knowing your name, frater.”

“I am Martin Luther. In Germany, the mention of my name causes a storm.”

“Your scholarly attainments, I am certain, deserve– —”

“No! Martin Luther is the enemy of the Pope!”

“Ah?”

“Do you know who I am now?”

“A man of great courage and of great mind,” I answered quietly. “You need not fear me.”

He remained silent.