and I will show you."

"Who are you," said Felix.

"When you come to Ziegelhausen, ask for Werner the miller of the
Kreuzgrund, and you will be shown the way. You are a Romanist?"

"I am."

"And your brother is still one at heart?"

"Who says so?"

"When you see him greet him from Werner the Baptist, and if he only
knew what a treacherous thing speech is, would he not let the mouth
overflow with things, of which the heart is not full. He will however
not do so much longer, says the Baptist, because no man can deny the
truth without danger to his own soul. If he only wishes to eat well as
he has done up to the present, let him remain where he is, but if he
wants to sleep as he formerly used to, then let him come to Werner the
Baptist, who will procure for him that stone on which the Lord has
written his name, which no one knoweth but he who giveth it, and he who
receiveth it." The old man had drawn himself up, and his eyes flashed.
The strange mocking peasant was no longer there, a prophet in the
coarse dress of the country stood before the young Italian. "Fare you
well," he added drily.

"Thank you, Father."

"No cause for thanks. Here is your path. Do not however pass through
the big gate, but along the wall, the door leading to the chaplain's
apartment, is in the corner tower. He is not allowed to live near the
ladies, and it would be better if he did not live here at all. Fire and
brimstone should not be brought so close together. Everything in your
communion is wrong, as if the Devil himself was your Superintendent."
Saying so the old man hastened on his way.

Felix looked after him for some time. "Things are much worse here than
I thought. I left Venice willingly, because the severity of the holy
Inquisition cut me to the quick. I cannot drive from me this scene:
poor men torn at the rack, led down to the Lido and forced unto a board
spread between two gondolas. Then thus carried out to the Laguna, when
one boatman rowed to the right, the other to the left, the board
falling and the two poor fellows sinking in the troubled waters. It was
a horrible sight. But come what may, my beautiful Italy must never be
allowed to attain to such a condition as exists here. What have I not
lived to see! The holiest chapels profaned, irrecoverable treasures of
art destroyed by coarse hands, the churches as bare as stalls, altars
and fonts shattered, organs broken to pieces. No mass of Palestrina's,
no Miserere addresse