"The others must do as they can," she said, going back to them. "There is that little inner room, but this room will do to sleep in if you will let me send a man up with some clean straw. I am sorry I can't do more. Will it do?"
"Excellently well," said Byrckmann, glad like the others that for that night they would sleep under a roof, whereas they had expected to lie down beneath the stars.
Before long the mistress of the inn had brought them up a meal which was appetising to hungry travellers. She bade them eat and be at ease, and left them; but Herman and the forester saw with much disquiet how she looked at Margaret and then at Tyndale.
"What did that mean, think you?" Engel asked in little more than a whisper when they presently stood at the window, looking out on the long, white road which lost itself in the growing darkness of the evening.
"And yet it was not an unkind look," said Herman. "It seemed to me that she was concerned—that there was some kind solicitude, and when she glanced away from Tyndale to Margaret it was as though she felt a womanly tenderness for her."
"I pray God you may be right," the forester answered.
When it was dark and the blind was drawn, and the little company—all save Margaret's mother, who had gone to bed—drew round the fire to talk awhile before they separated for the night, the door opened softly and the mistress of the inn appeared. Every eye was turned her way, and each heart beat quickly when they saw the anxiety on the woman's face.
"What is your will, mistress?" Engel asked, in little more than a whisper when he marked her stealth and seriousness, and saw how she closed the door softly behind her and came towards them before she said a word.
What she said was barely audible, and she glanced at the door in a way which betrayed her fears.
"If this be Master William Tyndale," she exclaimed, pointing to him with her forefinger, "and this sweet young lady Mistress Margaret Byrckmann, I have news for you that is disturbing."