"Kiss me, my sweet!" he exclaimed; but her courage served her, and, losing sight of the Guard, she drew up her hands and rained her blows on his face. She hammered at him with her small fists, beating at his eyes until he was fain to let her go to save himself.
"The vicious little minx!" he cried, staggering, and tumbling into the gutter, as she darted away.
She was soon close up to the Guard, but was careful to keep well out of sight, walking as near to the doors of the houses as the projecting steps would allow. Not far away was Herman's home. She saw it, and wondered what would happen, whether the soldiers would halt there.
Her heart almost stood still, and she sank on a doorstep near by, for the Guard had halted opposite Herman's door. The thought of the inevitable discovery, now, was overwhelming. There was no hiding-place there, for Herman had never spoken of one. And William Tyndale was in that house!
Her eyes were riveted on the men whose halting spelt ruin to her own hopes, to her lover's destiny, and to William Tyndale's splendid endeavours to set the Truth before the world. Ruin! Yes, nothing less than that!
She saw the men turn half-way round so that they formed a double line in the middle of the road, the ends of their halberds resting on the ground, and the steel end of each gleaming in the lantern rays.
The Captain of the Guard went to the door which she prayed he might pass by—to Herman's! He mounted the steps—one, two, three! There could be no mistake. It was Herman's home, for, as she knew, and he had often boasted, no other house in that street had that number of steps. There were houses with four, with two, with one, with none, but only Herman's had three.
The soldier struck on the door with his sword handle, and the sounding blows reached her ears, loud, even in the swishing rain.
No answer came, and the summons was repeated.
The heavy shutter opened at one of the windows, and a head appeared, but it was too dark to see whose it was.