Herman sat and gazed at him with hungry eyes. His soul was in a tumult. He wanted to ask what this meant, but he dared not, while this storm of grief was shaking Byrckmann. But bit by bit, in a little while the story came, so meagre since Margaret's father knew so little. Margaret had never returned home. He had gone to Herman's home, and neither had he come, and his mother could tell the printer nothing. She could only express the wonder whether the girl had sought to find her way through the cavern, while Herman had gone forward with Tyndale to see him out of danger, and she had lost herself in that great, wandering place, which had once lodged the larger part of an army.
Herman's mother and Byrckmann had gone down to the cavern, and had searched it through and through, not once, but twice, and even thrice, thinking that some corner had been left unexplored. Strange to say, they found a passage Herman's mother knew nothing of, but it seemed to end in a cul-de-sac. They found a lantern on the floor, broken and smoked, and a bit of lace. The lantern belonged to Herman, and the lace was Margaret's; but that was all.
The printer had gone everywhere he could think of in the city to look for his daughter, and John Gropper had gone as well. He was out now, looking for her. So, too, had the workmen left the printing-presses, which now stood idle, to search, in their love for her, even down to the boys who served the men; but it would be the same as before—the same story of failure.
Herman sat, stupefied. This was calamity. It might mean so much! It could scarcely mean less than death.
While he walked slowly home he was reeling as a drunken man, and people, in the darkest part of the gloaming, looked at him askance. But they understood when they saw who it was, since it had become widely known that the beautiful girl whose marriage was fixed for to-morrow had disappeared. Some had whispered the dread words—"The Inquisition!" Byrckmann had it in mind, but did not say the words. Nor had the wardens at the gate spoken of it, although they knew that Margaret was missing, and feared for the possible explanation—the Familiars!
"Mother, she's gone!" he cried, as he entered his home, and, staggering along the passage, stood, white-faced and shaken, in the doorway, where she sat, trying to do her usual work.
"I know, my son!" she exclaimed, coming to throw her arms about him to comfort him. But how could she do that when the uncertainty was beginning to vanish, and the thought was crystallising in her mind that her boy's bride was somewhere in the Familiars' power? It had once been said that over the gate of Hell the inscription was cut deep in the imperishable granite:
"All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
Was the haunt of the Inquisition a place where Hope could come any more than in that Hell of which the poet wrote? And what was it to them that Margaret was tender and beautiful and young? That was no shield to ward off their torture strokes.
Herman's mother felt that it was useless to whisper any words of comfort, for she was borne down by anxiety, and fearful of the worst.