"Then came the task of searching every corner, from roof to dungeon. Three or four men of note had lately been carried there, and were to be found, if they yet lived. In some of the horrible cells, like that into which they had thrust Master Tyndale, the Emperor's soldiers found some prisoners—poor creatures who had refused or could not pay the preposterous ransom, some of them nearly dead, and more than one demented with the horror and the loneliness. Such as could walk came out tottering, but others had to be carried, and were set down in the banqueting-hall, where they were fed and tended by the soldiers.
"But, strangest thing of all," exclaimed the forester, and those who listened wondered at the look on his face—"I would that Master Tyndale were with us in this room to hear what next I have to say," Engel said, breaking off in his story; "but the good man is buried in that holy task of his, and I must tell him of it later on."
"Nay, friend Engel, he is here, and has heard the whole story!" someone exclaimed, and, looking round, those who were gathered about the forester saw William Tyndale standing in the doorway. "Go on, friend," he added, coming in and sitting on a stool. "You were saying, 'But, strangest thing of all.'"
"I was, Master Tyndale, and it was the strangest thing—the most unexpected. The soldiers were searching the castle to rifle it of its contents, thinking to carry its treasures away, and the booty the robber lord had taken from many an unfortunate ship, when they came across a body, lying in that room where you and I, Herman, had seen and heard Cochlaeus bargaining with the lord of the castle for Master Tyndale's ransom. He was lying face downwards on one of the costly rugs, and when they turned him over, marvelling to find a Churchman of high rank in such a place, they saw that he was none other than the Deacon of the Church of the Blessed Virgin."
"What!" cried Tyndale, startled at the words, and rising to his feet. "Do you mean to say that it was Cochlaeus?"
"I do, Master Tyndale. How he came to the castle, and why, I cannot say. Whether he thought that after all Schouts had cheated him into believing that Master Tyndale had escaped, and that in reality he was in the castle after all, there is no telling. No one is left to tell the story. Some hard words must have been spoken on both sides, and Schouts, filled with mad anger at what the Churchman said, must have struck at him, for he lay there, dead, and a jewelled dagger was driven into his heart.
"When the castle had been thoroughly rifled, and all its valuables lay in great heaps on the grass outside, booty waiting to be divided among the Emperor's soldiery, the officer commanding fired the place. When the fire had nearly burnt itself out, and the soldiers were about to move round to see that the destruction was complete, there was an awful explosion. The fire had reached the powder magazine down in the dungeons. Another explosion followed; then a third; and after that, when the smoke had cleared away, there was nothing but a heap of ruins.
"And there was the last of Schouts, the robber lord, and the last of your tormentors, Master Tyndale," said Engel quietly, turning towards him. "The man who was so eager to carry you to the tormentors, and bring your work to naught, is dead."
There was silence. Everyone realised the meaning of that tragedy at the castle by the river. It meant much for law and order, since a brutal-minded, godless, and tyrannical nobleman had come to the end of his infamous career. It meant that Master Tyndale was no longer a hunted fugitive. The man who had set himself to bring about his ruin was gone, and the simple-souled and lowly-minded scholar was free to go where he listed—to stay in the mill, or move on to Worms—and Cochlaeus would no more dog his steps.
"This is the Lord's doing," said Tyndale solemnly, and breaking the silence. "Let us kneel and thank Him for saving us in this eleventh hour."