drawn in a sort of triumph, for five marks without any trinkgeld,
right up to the castle. And we were taken through the museum and
saw the fire-backs, the old glass, the old swords and the antique
contraptions. And we went up winding corkscrew staircases and
through the Rittersaal, the great painted hall where the Reformer
and his friends met for the first time under the protection of the
gentleman that had three wives at once and formed an alliance
with the gentleman that had six wives, one after the other (I'm not
really interested in these facts but they have a bearing on my
story). And we went through chapels, and music rooms, right up
immensely high in the air to a large old chamber, full of presses,
with heavily-shuttered windows all round. And Florence became
positively electric. She told the tired, bored custodian what
shutters to open; so that the bright sunlight streamed in palpable
shafts into the dim old chamber. She explained that this was
Luther's bedroom and that just where the sunlight fell had stood his
bed. As a matter of fact, I believe that she was wrong and that
Luther only stopped, as it were, for lunch, in order to evade
pursuit. But, no doubt, it would have been his bedroom if he could
have been persuaded to stop the night. And then, in spite of the
protest of the custodian, she threw open another shutter and came
tripping back to a large glass case.

"And there," she exclaimed with an accent of gaiety, of triumph,
and of audacity. She was pointing at a piece of paper, like the
half-sheet of a letter with some faint pencil scrawls that might
have been a jotting of the amounts we were spending during the
day. And I was extremely happy at her gaiety, in her triumph, in
her audacity. Captain Ashburnham had his hands upon the glass
case. "There it is--the Protest." And then, as we all properly