"Look, Herman," she whispered. She did not point with her finger, but he saw in what direction Margaret was gazing. On the other side of the street were two men, both looking at her father's house, and Margaret gasped when the lantern, swinging in the night breeze, cast a light on their faces. One was Cochlaeus, but Herman did not know him, nor had he ever seen the other; but the girl knew him for the man she had seen at the table while she and John Gropper listened on the stairs.
"The man on the right," she whispered, shuddering, "is Cochlaeus. The other is the man he was talking to in Gropper's house. Why should they be watching our home?"
The answer seemed to come in natural sequence with the question, for her memory recalled what Cochlaeus had said concerning the fate of the printer who should be so daring as to print Tyndale's translation of the Bible.
Surely, oh, surely, her father had nothing to do with that work?
The men passed on. It was a relief to see them going; a greater relief still when they had gone out of sight. And Margaret put up her lips for Herman's kiss. But even while her lips met his she gasped.
"Herman," she said, keeping her lips near his, "they have come back."
The young man looked up and saw them. The men were at the corner of the street, just visible in the lantern light, and it seemed to him and Margaret, as they watched, that they were gazing at the house once more.
But what could he do?
He was asking that question when the men again passed out of sight.
"Good-night, beloved," said Margaret, throwing her arms around her lover's neck, as he gathered her closer to himself. A fear had come that something tragic and terrible might happen before they met again—if ever they did meet. That presentiment of coming trouble made her kiss Herman as, in spite of her whole-hearted love, she had never done before.