“It is not a simple matter, however, to fight the Vatican, frater.”

“David slew Goliath.”

I nodded, unconvinced.

“I will translate the Bible into German. Every Christian shall read the words of Jesus. The words of Jesus will blast Anti-Christ in the Vatican…”

“To the Pope the Church is an empire—not a religion.”

Luther waved his fist many times. “If it is that, then we have the right to dethrone the monarch. We have the right to secede from the empire. Germany for the Germans!”

‘Mohammed’ rang in my ears. ‘If Martin Luther finds his Abu Bekr,’ I thought, ‘no Pope can withstand him.’

“If Germany disclaims the Vatican, will she build a Vatican of her own?” I asked.

“The Pope needs Christ, but Christ needs no Pope.”

I was not thrilled. Why did I not offer my gold and my services? This German monk could be a powerful weapon in my immemorial battle with Jesus. What could destroy the Nazarene more effectively than a schism? A house divided against itself must crumble. I could awaken Mohammedanism from its lethargy. I could remind it of Allah and his Prophet. I could stir up racial memories in Mecca and in Medina.

Alas! The salt of victory had lost its savor. The sword was placed into my hand, but I had not the desire to wield it. Vainly I endeavored to discover clearly the origin of my quarrel with Jesus. Vainly I tried to revive the ancient anger of my heart. My memory was a heap of ashes. Of the great conflagration that once surged within me, a few sparks only dim and cold, rose wearily out of the ashes…

Was Jesus my enemy? Had He ever been my enemy? Was the Armenian Bishop right, perhaps, that his apparent vindictiveness was love in disguise…?

But even as a man who, weary from much walking, finds it difficult to sit at once, so the ancient impetus, the ancient gesture persisted. ‘Even’ I said to myself, ‘if my quarrel with Christ no longer envenoms my life, let Christianity perish. Encourage the fist that strikes against its walls!’

I rose and raised my cup. “To Germany and to freedom from the bondage of Anti-Christ!”

Luther rose in his turn, and clinked my cup.

Several peasants, men and women, entered, laughing and singing. They shouted into the shop: “Beer! Beer!”

The Inn keeper and the waitress ran in and began counting the people.

“A barrel! A barrel!” they demanded.

The Proprietor rolled in a barrel.

A tall middle-aged man approached our table.

“We are celebrating my son’s return from the army. Will the gentlemen join us?”

The merrymaking lasted until dawn. Luther danced and sang and discoursed on the beauty of women. Whenever the waitress appeared, he pinched her cheeks and congratulated her on her manifold delectable parts.

“Frater, is concupiscence a sin?” I asked.

He laughed, and immediately after grew angry. “Having made sex a sin, the Church created the orgy. Concupiscence is no sin, my friend. Sex is God’s blessing. Jesus forgave Magdalene but he drove the money-lenders from His Father’s House.”

Mary Magdalen—Mary, my great, my beautiful love! It was so long since I had pronounced her name. It rang in my ear, more mellow than the sheep’s bells I had heard in the morning.

declaimed Luther robustly. Everybody laughed, repeating the verses again and again, and promising to tell them to every one.

I became aware suddenly that Kotikokura had disappeared with the buxom waitress. I had noticed that Kotikokura and she had eyed each other. I rose and walked quietly into the rear of the garden. Suddenly, I heard a stifled cry. I waited motionless.

“My bear! My lion!”

‘Doña Cristina,’ I thought, and could not refrain from laughing.

There was a quick scurrying of feet. The waitress ran into the house, somewhat disarranged. Kotikokura walked directly into me.

“Whither, my lion? My bear? Why the hurry?”

His eyes glittered like a beast’s of the forest and as he grinned, his teeth looked ominous. But walking back to our table, he assumed a crestfallen appearance.

“Why so sheepish, my bear?” I asked.

“Woman!” he grumbled, as he drank several cups of beer in succession.

“Post coitum omne animal triste,” I said.

Luther did not hear me. Still declaiming the virtues of the daughters of Eve, he hiccoughed:

Kotikokura snored majestically as a lion should. I went into the garden. Luther was writing at a table. I walked on tiptoes anxious not to disturb him. Suddenly, he raised his head and glared at me, shouting: “Apage satanas!” I was too startled to stir.

“Get thee behind me, Satan!” he shouted again, his blue eyes glittering. Raising the wooden inkstand, the shape of a soup bowl, he hurled it at me. I bent quickly, escaping with a scratch upon my cheek.

“Frater,” I asked, “why this violence?”

He squinted and rose with a jerk.

“Forgive me, I beg of you, my friend. I thought… I saw Satan.” He crossed himself. “He often comes to tempt me.”

‘Mohammed,’ I mused, ‘heard angels and Luther sees devils.’

Luther was crestfallen.

“Did I harm you, sir?” He looked at my cheek. “The Lord be praised! Only a tiny scratch! Will you forgive me?”

I extended my hand which he shook several times.

“It is terrible, sir. He pursues me everywhere.”

“Who?”

“The Evil One! Sometimes, he comes in the shape of a cleric. Once, even, he appeared as the Pope, wearing upon his tonsured head the triple crown of Alexander the Sixth. When it suits his whim, he approaches in the shape of a large black cat or dog. One night he stood over my bed as a vampire with long sharp teeth, and a blue beard, dipped in blood; at dawn he comes to me as a young witch, with tempting lips and inviting thighs.”

“And this time…?”

“I thought I saw him in persona–two large horns like a goat’s, a long tail that twirled about his legs, and flames dashing out of his nostrils. Forgive me—it must have been the beer I consumed last night…and the waitress.”

“The waitress?”

“Yes. The whole night through she tantalized me in my sleep, singing the couplet I recited last evening.”

“If you had yielded to the temptation, master, she would not have tortured you in your sleep!”

He laughed, and bade me sit at his table. I made a gesture, indicating that I did not desire to disturb him. He insisted. “I have just finished an essay. You are a much traveled man whose opinion I value.”

He sprinkled a fistful of sand over the paper and shook it. “Do incubi, succubi and devils really visit human beings?” I asked.

He looked at me in childish wonderment. “Is it possible that you doubt it?”

“I have never seen any.”

“It is because you have not recognized them. They are the subtlest of creatures. I can smell sulphur a mile away…”

“Really?”

“It is only on rare occasions, such as today, that I err.”

“Perhaps not even today, frater,” I smiled.

He laughed. “The Devil is not quite so subtle.” Nevertheless, he threw a rapid glance at my feet.

“Not cloven,” I remarked.

He laughed heartily, rubbing his forehead with vigor.

“This essay,” he said, “is a sort of summary of what I intend to write in the near future. May I read it to you?”

“I am much honored.”

He declaimed the vices, the cruelties, the injustices, the sins of the Pope. I had never listened to a more vivid invective.

“He who dares proclaim this,” I said, “is a man of history.”

“I dare proclaim it and I shall make history!” he exclaimed, raising his right arm. “The Lord Jesus is on my side against the Enemy. Hier stehe ich. Gott helfe mir. Ich kann nicht anders.”