* * * * * * *
Two days went by, and none but Engel ventured out of the mill. The others stayed within doors, always ready to go into hiding if the warning came. They were content, because they realised the absolute safety they enjoyed in the great cap of the mill, into which, when they entered it, they could draw the ladder, and shut down the heavy trap-door, leaving the place unsuspected. From a small window here and there they could see the country for miles. In the far distance was the city that had been their home. In the other direction lay the city they were eager to reach so soon as it was safe to venture; and between rolled the winding, stately river, with its rich forest beauty, and hiding among the trees lay castles that won for themselves a doubtful reputation.
William Tyndale was absorbed in his work, but the others often watched what was going on outside.
"Did you hear the sound of firing?" Margaret asked, one fine evening, before she would say "Good-night," and go to bed. She was gazing out of the window while she spoke.
"Yes, I heard it!" Herman exclaimed, coming to her side, and taking his place at the tiny window. "There it is again. And again. 'Tis like the discharge of cannon."
The cannonading lasted for some time, and they listened in wonder, but thought of those soldiers and the cannon that had passed them in the forest.
"Does it mean war, Herman?" Margaret asked.
"I can't think it does," he answered.
At last the sounds were gone, and the night silence settled over the country which was now in darkness. They were about to kiss each other and say "Good-night," when Margaret pointed to a distant spot towards her old home. A dense cloud of smoke was rising, and flames were leaping up amongst it, like forked and fiery tongues, and lighting up the broken clouds.
"'Tis a fire!" she exclaimed, and the others came to look through another of the windows from which the little wooden shutter had been flung back. "But what place can it be?"