in America; moreover many of them are Germans by birth, and
have heard stories of the Wartburg, that beautiful old castle, which
from the summit of a hill, surrounded by woods, overlooks the town of
Eisenach.

The Wartburg is quaintly built with dear little turrets and gables, and
high towers, a long curving wall with dark beams like the peasant
cottages, and windows looking out into the forest. It belongs at present
to the Grand duke of Sachsen-Weimar-Eisenach.

Every stone and corner of the Wartburg is connected with some old story
or legend.

For instance there is the hall with the raised dais at one end and
beautiful pillars supporting the roof where minnesingers of old times
used to hold their great "musical festivals" as we should say nowadays.
There was keen competition for the prizes that were offered in reward
for the best music and songs.

In the castle are also the rooms of St Elizabeth, that sweet saint who
was so good to the poor, and who suffered so terribly herself in parting
from her husband and children.

Then there is the lion on the roof who could tell a fine tale if he
chose; the great banqueting hall and the little chapel.

On the top of the tower is a beautiful cross that is lit up at night by
electric light and can be seen from a great distance in the country
round. This is of course a modern addition.

But the most interesting room in the castle is that where Dr Martin
Luther spent his time translating the Bible. A reward had been offered
to anyone who should kill this arch-heretic; so his friends brought him
disguised as a knight to the Wartburg, and very few people knew of his
whereabouts.

As you look through the latticed windows of that little room, the
exquisite blue and purple hills of the Thueringen-Wald stretch away in
the distance, and no human habitation is to be seen. There too you may
see the famous spot on the wall where Luther threw the inkpot at the
devil. To be correct you can see the hole where the ink-stain used to
be; for visitors have cut away every trace of the ink, and even portions
of the old wooden bedstead. There is the writing-desk with the
translation of the Bible, and the remarkable footstool that consisted of
the bone of a mammoth.

Those were the days in which a man risked his life for his faith; but
they were the days also, we must remember, of witchcraft and magic.

One other story of the Wartburg I must narrate in order to give you some
idea of the i