It was nearly evening when they halted outside a charcoal-burner's hut, and when they entered the humble home they saw William Tyndale seated at a table with a Lutheran Testament on one knee and two other books open before him. Opposite to him sat William Roye, a pile of papers on either hand, writing, while in low and thoughtful, and sometimes hesitating tones, weighing in his mind the value of one word against another, his master dictated to him.
They were so absorbed in their work that neither of the men had heard the tramp of horses, nor the voices of the riders. Not until Margaret had spoken, as she stood in the open doorway of the room, did they look up; and then Tyndale, laying down his book, came to her with outstretched hands.
* * * * * * *
Tyndale spent the whole of the night in preparation for his journey to the town which he looked upon as "a desired haven." He anticipated that when he got there he would often be in Martin Luther's company, and have his advice on many a point which perplexed him, scholar though he was.
Those who lay in the charcoal-burner's hut, or in his stable, wherever room could be found for so many, could hear him moving about in the tiny inner room, going lovingly over the sheets in the pile of manuscript which he had dictated to Roye. Sometimes he came to a line on which his forefinger rested, and his face betrayed his anxiety as to whether it was the best phrase possible. Time was precious to him, since the journey was to begin at dawn, and he would have but little space for sleep; but he sat down presently, and, taking up his pen, scored out a word and put another in its place.
He sat on thus, forgetful of everything until Herman, who came in from the stream which ran dancing in the morning sun, fresh after bathing his head and face in its cool waters, saw him sitting at the table, lost in thought.
"Master Tyndale!" he cried. "Have you forgotten? It is dawn, and we start at once. The horses are saddled and at the door."
Tyndale looked up, as one forgetful of everything. It was only slowly that he realised the meaning of the young man's words, and he sprang to his feet, his face displaying his concern.
"I quite forgot, Herman!" he exclaimed. "That passage in Romans had been on my mind ever since you left me in the marsh, and when I came across it in the manuscript, it occurred to me how it ought to run, so I sat to put it right. Fasten these in the wallet while I get ready, my son. I will break my fast while we ride through the forest."
When Herman had packed the wallet, and had carried it out to bestow it in the saddle, Tyndale shut the door softly and dropped on his knees at the table. The birds were in full song outside, and the horses snorted and moved about restlessly, but Tyndale neither heard them nor thought of the glories of the newborn day. The all-absorbing thought was the well-doing of his work. He was working as "under the Great Taskmaster's eye"; and now that he was kneeling, he asked for a safe journey for the work's sake, for strength and quietness until the task was ended. And then—ah! then the ending could come in what form it would.