Herman asked no questions, and Engel, bending low, took Tyndale up in his strong arms as a woman might take a child. Making light of his burden, he followed at the younger man's heels, and, although the steps were treacherous with slime, he almost pressed Herman forward. For the younger man was going cautiously, not knowing what danger might suddenly confront them.
The castle seemed to be silent, and no sound was heard save that of their own hurried footsteps in the passage and the faint and occasional clinking of Tyndale's fetters.
"Make for the secret passage," Engel whispered, panting a little with his burden after having climbed the treacherous steps so quickly. "Go ahead, and see whether the way is clear. Put the lantern down, anywhere, for if anyone saw a moving light it would awaken suspicion, and we don't want to run the risk of being challenged. If you hear any sound, stand by and see if it means danger."
Herman blew out the light, and, setting the lantern on the floor in a dark place, he went forward at a run, on his toes, alert and urgent; but no one crossed his path. When he peeped into the banqueting-hall it was empty. For any sound or sight in that dangerous venture the great castle might have been deserted by everything living except himself and his companions. It was so wherever he went, and at last he came to the door in the wall.
Roye had drawn it after him, just as closely as he found it, to prevent suspicion in the mind of a possible passer-by and Herman stood by, without opening it, waiting for Otto Engel to come up with his burden. He turned the corner sooner than Herman expected, but in the dim light it was easy to see that the load he carried was growing heavy, as much almost with nervous strain as with the actual weight; for this daring enterprise was so beset with danger that the forester had lived what seemed to be hours of anxious thought in those brief minutes which passed between the dungeon and the secret door.
He knew that if they were seen by any of the castle soldiers or servitors, and caught red-handed, as it were, and with a helpless man in chains, he and Herman would have a desperate fight to wage against overwhelming odds. What, he asked himself, as he carried William Tyndale, worn down with weakness and privation, and feeling him growing heavier with every yard he covered—what if one of the page-boys or some of the women should be moving about and, seeing them, run away, screaming out an alarm! Only God could tell the consequences, and it might well end in death for each of the three.
The forester was within three or four yards of the place where Herman was awaiting him, when he caught the gleam of steel in the younger man's hand, and saw by the light of one of the lamps on the wall that he was bending forward and gazing along the passage. He went even more softly than before, and with his intensely quickened hearing he heard the sound of someone singing—a boyish voice shouting out the robber's song.
Although he had been feeling overborne with his burden, and the sweatdrops were on his brow, the forester hurried forward. He might have had no burden in his arms at all, so swiftly did he bound over those last few yards.
"Open the door!" he exclaimed, reckless now; for if he could pass through the doorway with his burden and the door could be pulled into its place again, he thought their safety was assured.
It was not necessary to say so much, for Herman dug his finger nails into what little edge there was, and pulled the door open, so that he looked into the dark, forbidding gap. Dark though it was, the forester did not hesitate, but hurried in.