The loneliness, with nothing to do but think and pray, was intolerable. She was realising that it is never good for one to feel the sense of being absolutely alone, for one would grow morbid, and distort the realities, and become fearful or bitter, as she feared she would do.
Perhaps that was a part of her torture. It was possible that the Inquisitors knew from their experience with other prisoners that loneliness was as much of pain in its way as the use of the thumbscrew or the hot pincers. Whether they did so or not, she felt that to the lonely one, robbed of liberty and companionship, the choicest and most entrancing spot on earth, "the valley of flowers and the hills of glory," becomes a desert which in time is peopled with horror and a deadly fear. How much more this dungeon in which she was lying!
When evening drew on, the shadows grew deeper in the cell. The crucifix was presently barely visible, and Margaret shuddered; for it seemed to her that the noisome creatures of the place were coming out of their hiding now that the light was going. Her heart leapt at a sound she heard, but she knew not whether to hope or fear. There was the noise of a key in the lock as she had heard it before, followed by the dropping of the bars and chains and the drawing of bolts. Then, with a slowness that was trying to her nerves, the door began to open.
Two Familiars entered, one blocking up the doorway, in case the prisoner should try to rush through in the wild hope of finding liberty.
The other approached the straw on which Margaret sat, looking up at the cowled creature wistfully, with her hands folded, the once rosy cheeks no longer coloured, but white and wan. If this man who came disguised in that ugly cowl had known that to-morrow was her bridal day, he must have thought that there was nothing here suggestive of a happy bride as she crouched at his feet. His black robe rustled on the straw, sweeping across it when he bent to set another loaf and a jar of water on the floor.
Not one word passed. Of what avail was it to ask these men why she was here? They would not deign an answer, of that she was sure.
When this one who brought the food was once more at the door, he turned to speak.
"To-morrow you are to appear in the Audience Chamber to answer certain questions concerning that Englishman, William Tyndale. If you do not answer satisfactorily, so I am told to say, you will be put to the torture."
"To the torture?" she cried.
She shivered at the word, and buried her face in her hands, while the Familiars passed away, taking no notice of her cry.