CHAPTER XX
THE FLIGHT FROM THE HOLY HOUSE
For the whole of that long day which followed Margaret's next awaking, no one came to see her. They who kept the prison thought that the jar of water and the loaf would keep her from starvation, and it was evidently no part of their plan to make her comfortable. But the bird who had been before came to her, peeped into the cell between the window-bars, twisted his little head inquiringly, and waited almost expectantly.
Margaret watched him, and wondered whether he had been fed by the prisoner who last lodged in this dismal place. Breaking off some of the soft part of her loaf, and having crumbled it in her hands, she approached the window. The bird was cautious, and drew back to the other side of the bars, where he was free to fly away if Margaret meditated any treachery. There he watched warily, twisting his head all ways, while she spread the crumbs on the stone sill.
She hoped he would come while she stood near, but he contented himself with peering and chirping impatiently, as if to ask her to drop back, and she understood. She stepped away to the middle of the cell, and when she did so he came forward to peck at the food until the last crumb had gone. By way of thanks he sang a song to the lonely prisoner, and flew away.
The loneliness that followed was unutterable. The hours dragged on, intolerable in their slowness. They must have been leaden-footed—the slowest hours that Time ever dealt out!
Night came again, and still there was no visit from the men who were so silent and forbidding when they were with her. There was no fresh supply of food because of their absence, but the loaf was not gone, nor was the water-jar quite empty. But these facts did not go far to lessen her anxiety about the future, for the question came to her as to whether this was the only food she was to have. The stories afloat in the city were that that was often the practice with the Inquisitors; they brought food at the start, just once, and no more, and then the victims were left to slow starvation, or so weakened by hunger and thirst that, when torture came, they collapsed.
But why was she here? Who could have suspected her of heresy by anything she had ever said or done outside her own pretty room at home? These Familiars were like bloodhounds. They could scent out heresy as surely as the hounds could smell a hunted man; and possibly they had discovered that she had befriended William Tyndale—had even been one of the two to bring him into the city.
She sat and wept at the thought. She wept as well to think that when her wedding day came she would not be at her father's house as bride. Her heart went out in yearning for Herman, whom she so dearly loved. She thought of his consternation and his grief when he found that she had not returned. It was more for him than for herself, and her misery at being lodged in this dreary place with no prospect but death.
Morning came with her silver light again, and the crucifix came slowly into view; and the face of the Saviour was full of sorrow. It matched her own unhappiness. The light of the dawn showed her how small her supply of food was. She was intensely thirsty, but she felt she must husband both bread and water. She was afraid to do more than moisten her lips and swallow a mouthful to take the dryness from her parched throat. The bread had woefully dwindled, for the rats had been at it, and one or two scrambled across the floor when she flung out her hands to drive them away. The bird came for his meal, and she could not deny him; and in payment for it he sang a song which brought the tears; for it set her thinking of freedom, and made her yearn for it more than words could ever tell.