"The cowardly hounds!" he exclaimed, his anger blazing forth when he saw what had been done. "God do so to me, and more also——"
But Tyndale checked him.
"Say it not, friend. God can best requite what has been done to me. But can we not go away, since, as you said, the moments are very precious? I should feel the stroke of my misfortune in double measure if you met with trouble in your desire to help me."
The forester looked carefully at Tyndale, at his hands and feet, and then, to his confusion, saw that there was a chain about his body which fastened the prisoner to the wall, so that at the farthest he could not get more than a yard or two across the floor.
"Herman, hold this lamp!" he cried. Then, passing closer to the wall, his lips shut tightly in his frenzy of determination, he gripped the chain with his strong hands and strove to wrench away the iron ring at the wall.
It was a task beyond his power, and Herman, understanding his purpose, set the lamp down on the floor and went to his side, to grip the chain as well. Then, with their strength combined, they tugged and tugged at what seemed a hopeless task. They pulled and strained, planting their feet against the wall, until the veins in their fore-heads seemed to stand out like whipcord.
"It's coming!" said Engel exultantly. "See! The iron is moving in the wall. Again! with all your might, Herman! We won't be done!"
The pull was the supreme effort of their strength, and the iron ring broke open, and the chain was set free, so suddenly that the two men fell backwards heavily on the floor among the pools.
Scrambling to their feet, scarcely waiting to rub their bruises, they went forward to where Tyndale sat in his weakness.
"Take up the lamp, Herman," said the forester, "and show the way. Tell me where the risky places are, so that I take no false step at all."