hands of enemies. More and more worried, more and more excited, the poor professor heard every sound with anxiety and evil foreboding. At length the front door opened, his heart ached with hope and fear. There was a heavy step in the hall below, and he almost shouted for joy; but the heavy step passed away, and nothing was heard but the tempest again.

Another half-hour of fear and vague thought passed slowly on, and in the private passage that led from his chamber to that of his host, whom he knew to be out, Philip heard footfalls and smothered voices; - one was the voice of a woman. The first thought was, that his master's dwellingplace had been made known, and that they now sought him. Never possessed of much presence of mind, Philip at the instant placed his shoulder against the door, and stood prepared to resist when resistance was called for. A few whispers were heard, a step or two, and a hand was laid upon the latch without. "Come not here," cried Melancthon, "for I am armed, and ready to resist stoutly. On your life, beware, and go hence, whoever you be."

"Go hence!" answered a laughing voice, at the first sound of which Melancthon fell back, as if struck by a strong hand.

"Go hence!" cried Luther, as, dripping and smiling, he strode through the unresisting door. "Why, how now, bully Philip, what freak is this? Ready to resist stoutly! By my cowl, brother, I thought I was the Saint Peter, and you the peaceful John, of the good work; but I think you'll cut off more ears than I, after all, with that big staff of yours. Here have I stumbled through your dark mansion for a halfhour, and at last called poor Kate from her bower, I think, for she has come out of some labyrinth, looking as foolish as you ever did, Philip, and all to have that great stick flourished at me, as though my Doctor of Wittenberg were a country clown, hot for a bout at quarterstaff. Of a truth,

I must send thee to Rome to knock the Pope over the knuckles, when he aims another bull at my head."

But Melancthon was too glad to see his friend safe home to care for his gibes, and their converse soon turned to Luther's hopes, and plans, and displeasures.

"I am grieved and vexed," said the Reformer sternly, “to see the little spirit there is among you. Will not my written words do, but I must be here to scold and play schoolmas ter? Work as I will in my captivity, it is vain, if your freemen second me not. Even you, Philip, have given too much to the baser spirits; you are too tolerant, man, by half."

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Nay," said Melancthon, " but I even fear lest I be my. self in error."

"And know you not, boy," answered Luther, "that that fear is the prompting of Satan? We are right, I know we are right. I too have had fears, but I know they came from hell, and as such I battled with and drove them out, even as I drove out the Father of Lies himself, when he mocked me at midnight."

"Where? how? when?" eagerly inquired his compan

ion.

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"And no wonder you mocked," continued Luther, his mind filled with the memory of that night, and his flashing fixed on vacancy, eyes no wonder you mocked, for has not my whole life been given to the beating down of your power and glory? But mock and mouth as you will,” — and he shook his clenched fist at the imagined demon," by the help of God and his Christ, I will drive you and your servant of Rome from this broad earth, let the lion-whelp of England howl, and the asses of the Sorbonne bray as they will." "But of this visit?" said Melancthon again.

"It was at the Wartburg. I had been poring over an obscure text of Paul's all night, till I saw darkness in my lamp and balls of fire in the darkness. Puzzled and wearied, and

provoked, I threw down the holy book, and looking up, behold the foe. It was a fearful moment, Philip, for me and for the cause; had I faltered then, it might have been that the truth had fallen. But God gave me strength. Looking the demon full in his blood-red eye, I lifted my large stone inkstand and hurled it at his head. He fled, howling, not from the blow, but from the spirit; and, by God's grace, I will with equal ease rout him and his hosts, come when and where they will.”

As he ceased speaking, the storm lulled for a moment, and a low, hollow laugh just behind them brought both to their feet.

"I have heard it before," said Melancthon; "it bodes no good."

His comrade made no reply, but, taking the lamp, walked to the door which Philip had before closed, and which again stood ajar. They entered a long and mouldering corridor, from the ceiling of which the spiders' webs hung thickly, while from the floor the dust rose in clouds. They searched the room. It was empty. A window at the end stood open; this they closed, and again returned to the fireside.

"They may perchance seek my life," said Luther, " and it behooves me to have care. Should we hear any thing further, I will enter the hall barefooted and without a light; and should any pass this way, Philip, use thy staff, or hold fast till I come."

A few moments went by, and the door creaked upon its hinges again, and, as it pushed the chair before it, once more they heard human voices. Taking off his foot-gear, Luther stole into the hall. For a moment Philip doubted, and then the thought of the danger which hung over his master led him to follow. Within it was darkness, and the sounds of the storm drowned all other sounds. Following carefully the wall, Melancthon had nearly reached the window, when he

laid his hand upon a human arm. The person strove to escape, but he held fast.

"Ha! have you the enemy?" said the low, deep tones of Luther from the distance.

He would have answered "Yes," but at that instant his prize turned upon him, the arms of a woman were thrown about his neck, and her soft lips pressed to his. With a scream of horror, amazement, and alarm, he struggled to be free. He was so, and so was his captive; and when Luther's lamp made things visible, there was no one in the wide chamber but Philip, who, with open eyes and quivering limbs, was giving silent thanks for his deliverance from the Evil One. But alas for his tale of Satan's device to ensnare him! Luther picked from the floor a scarf, bearing the name of "Catherine Amsdorff."

"By my cowl," said Luther laughing, "but the girl chose a sure way to fright your professorship into an ague-fit, and make her freedom certain. She had a keen eye for the weak point of that sheep's head of thine. But thou shouldst have held fast, Philip. Devil, damsel, or armed man, it matters not, give not up thy grasp, boy; and the kiss of a pretty maiden will harm thee at least as little as the blow of a brawny arm, or the horn of the Evil One."

But though he knew the advice to be good, Philip never heeded it, and to his last hour held not fast, as Luther wished him, nor ever thought of that night or of that kiss without a chill.

LORD OSSORY.

THE unwavering loyalty and stern honor of James Butler, Duke of Ormond, is almost proverbial. Through the civil wars, his fidelity to the king was never for a moment shaken, though fame, fortune, and power were a necessary sacrifice to his devotion; and when the king did "enjoy his own again," and enjoy it in a manner that disgraced him for ever, Ormond and his family remained unpolluted in that festering court, uncorrupted in the midst of venality. He did indeed stand alone. The degeneracy of the times did not reach him, and such was the power of his strong virtue over even the sensualist Charles, that, when the king frowned upon him, he did it with so poor a grace that Buckingham inquired "whether the Duke were out of his Majesty's favor, or his Majesty out of the Duke's?" But, noble as was the character of Ormond, it did not surpass, and scarcely equalled, that of his wife; and their combined virtues lived again in the Lord Ossory, their son.

To this young nobleman we may look as to a model of all that is noble in character and in person. Tall, strong, active, and with an open, handsome countenance, his outer man was a true exponent of the being that ruled within. As a son, a husband, and a patriot, he was never surpassed in kindness, truth, and courage. The friend of the destitute, the steward of the needy, he was yet the embodied spirit of chivalry, the soul of honor, the lion of England,