lenstein was able to dictate his terms, and to make himself secure
against a second dismissal. His army was his own. He meant to obey
while obedience suited his purpose, and to act for himself when it did
not. Unlike Tilly, the aims of his life were political, not
ecclesiastical. With so many reasons for distrust on one side and
resentment on the other, a catastrophe could hardly be averted. With
Saxony and the Saxon general Arnim, who had been one of his colonels,
he kept up an understanding; and they evacuated Bohemia, which they
had occupied after Breitenfeld.

Wallenstein's new battalions came into line, and he took up a strong
fortified position near Nuremberg, with 60,000 men; while Gustavus
stood at the foot of the Alps, and his adherents wondered whether he
meant to cross them, and to attack Catholicism in its centre. When
the king knew that the imperial army had risen again, and threatened
his communications on the road through Franconia, he hurried to
measure swords with Wallenstein. He was heavily repulsed, and moved
once more towards the Danube, expecting to be followed. He was still
the dominating force in Germany, supported, if not trusted, by
Lutheran and Calvinist alike. At that moment Gustavus committed a
fatal mistake. If, as Oxenstiern advised, he had descended the valley
of the Danube into the hereditary provinces, the Imperialists must
have pursued him at a disadvantage, and could not have reached Vienna
before him. But Gustavus turned westward, towards Suabia, and
Wallenstein disregarded his movements. Gathering his forces, he threw
them upon Saxony, which had refused to give up the Swedish alliance.
The King of Sweden hastened to the rescue, while the Saxon army
stood apart, waiting the event. Pappenheim had been detached, and
the Swedes, in superior force, found a great opportunity before
them. But Wallenstein sent an order in good time to his famous
Lieutenant-divisionnaire, telling him to give up everything and
join at once. That paper, which saved the empire, one of the most
memorable autographs in the world, can still be seen, darkened with
Pappenheim's blood, in the Museum of the Austrian army. He rode into
battle at Lutzen with eight regiments of horse, seeking Gustavus.
They never met, for they were both killed, and as the king's charger
flew in terror along the line, the empty saddle told his soldiers of
their loss. It was an indecisive day, leaving the balance of forces