from other sinners in a glazed gallery. Herder is buried in the church,
and when you ask where, the sacristan lifts a wooden trap-door in the
pavement, and you think you are going down into the crypt, but you are
only to see Herder's monumental stone, which is kept covered so to save
it from passing feet. Here also is the greatest picture of that great
soul Luke Kranach, who had sincerity enough in his paining to atone for
all the swelling German sculptures in the world. It is a crucifixion,
and the cross is of a white birch log, such as might have been cut out
of the Weimar woods, shaved smooth on the sides, with the bark showing
at the edges. Kranach has put himself among the spectators, and a stream
of blood from the side of the Savior falls in baptism upon the painter's
head. He is in the company of John the Baptist and Martin Luther; Luther
stands with his Bible open, and his finger on the line, "The blood of
Jesus cleanseth us."

Partly because he felt guilty at doing all these things without his
wife, and partly because he was now very hungry, March turned from them
and got back to his hotel, where she was looking out for him from their
open window. She had the air of being long domesticated there, as she
laughed down at seeing him come; and the continued brilliancy of the
weather added to the illusion of home.

It was like a day of late spring in Italy or America; the sun in that
gardened hollow before the museum was already hot enough to make him
glad of the shelter of the hotel. The summer seemed to have come back
to oblige them, and when they learned that they were to see Weimar in a
festive mood because this was Sedan Day, their curiosity, if not their
sympathy, accepted the chance gratefully. But they were almost moved
to wish that the war had gone otherwise when they learned that all the
public carriages were engaged, and they must have one from a stable if
they wished to drive after breakfast. Still it was offered them for
such a modest number of marks, and their driver proved so friendly and
conversable, that they assented to the course of history, and were more
and more reconciled as they bowled along through the grand-ducal park
beside the waters of the classic Ilm.

The waters of the classic Ilm are sluggish and slimy in places, and in
places clear and brooklike, but always a dull dark green in color. They
flow in the shadow of pensive trees, and by the brinks of sunny meadows,
where the after-mat