Margaret drew the soddened letter from her bosom.
"My father sent me with this, Master Tyndale."
Tyndale took it from her, and sitting at the table, he broke the covering and smoothed out the damp sheet, laying it flat on the table. The others watched him while he read, and saw how, when he came to the "end, his fingers closed over the written sheet convulsively.
"God's will be done," he exclaimed, with his head bowed low. The anguish of the tone betrayed the intensity of his suffering. He looked up presently, and saw the faces of his companions, and read in them how they anticipated the worst, if deliverance did not come soon.
"It will all come right in time, my friends," he said quietly, and his eyes and face glowed with confidence. "Are we not in the hands of God? We are always safe under His guidance. I wronged the Heavenly Father when I said that all things were against me. There is surely some blessing in our reverses."
He read the letter through again with greater deliberation; then, laying it on the table, he sat back in his chair, with his head bowed down and his thin hands folded.
"Your father bids me leave the city to-night," he exclaimed presently, looking at Margaret.
"To-night?" she cried. Her eyes were fixed on him as on one who was set an impossible task. "Where would you go?"
She came to his side, and her hand rested on his shoulder.
"I will go to the city where Martin Luther is, and where he played his part so nobly four years ago."