As she walked across the meadow, carrying a basket in one hand, and swinging a a dainty blue hood in the other, Margaret Byrckmann made a picture that was pleasing to behold. She looked up as she moved along, but her eyes went down again before the dazzling sun which was setting in a blaze of red splendour, silhouetting the battlemented walls of the city.

She gave this evening beauty scanty attention, for her dark eyes were watching the meadow. Then a cry of pleasure broke from her lips, and she hastened forward; but before she had gone far her face filled with disappointment, and she stopped abruptly.

"I thought it was Herman!" she exclaimed, almost petulantly.

She watched a man who was walking wearily. He looked dusty and wayworn, and the movement on the beaten path seemed to be toilsome and painful. She thought he must have travelled far, for he carried a heavy-looking wallet on his back, and the staff in his hand was used as though it was real labour to go forward.

"He is tired to death, poor man!" she muttered, her sympathy getting the better of her disappointment, and she crossed the meadow to intercept him.

Until he halted, in sheer weariness, to look around for some spot—a tree, or a bush—anything that would screen him from the glare of the sun, the man in the meadow did not see her; but the moment he spoke, Margaret knew that he was not one of her countrymen.

"Mistress, how far is it to the city?" he asked, in a foreign accent.

"That is it," she answered softly, and full of concern, for the stranger's limbs trembled, and his hand shook when he raised it to set his cap straight. With the other he gripped his staff tightly, lest he should fall.

"Yonder?" he exclaimed, gazing beneath his hand. "I did not see it in the blaze of the sunset. It seems a long way off."

"More than two miles," said Margaret.

"Two miles!" was the dismayed response; "so far as that?"

"Yes, sir. But how will you think to enter the city, since 'tis but a few minutes to sundown? They close the gates the moment the sunset bell has stopped."

"Is it so?" came the discouraged response. "I forgot that it is not here as it is in England, where our walled cities are so few. Then I must lie in the meadow till sunrise."

"You could enter if you had a pass," said Margaret, who was concerned for the stranger; for, in spite of his wallet and the travel stains, she saw that he was no common wanderer.

"But I have no pass."

The stranger and the girl, standing in silence, while the slanting sunlight was sending long shadows over the grass, looked around for some place—a hut, or a barn, or anything where a man who was tired could lie down and sleep; but there was nothing of that sort in view; no village, far or near.

"There is no place that I can see," said Margaret, who had never noticed how empty the fields were of houses until now, when they were so badly needed.

"Ah, well! I may not complain," the stranger muttered. "Why should I? Even the dear Lord saw many a sun go down, and had nowhere to lay His head."

He spoke more to himself, as if forgetful that the girl was near, until she moved.

"I will sit down under the chestnut tree, and take my chance, unless your home is anywhere outside the city walls."

"I live in the city, sir, but they know me, and I have a permit to get in after the gates are shut," said Margaret. "And yet I am so sorry for you," she went on softly.

"If I only knew where I might find some food I would not care," the stranger said, gazing around him, his hand above his eyes.

A low call came while he was speaking, like the sweet note of the last evening bird. It travelled over the meadow from the river, and Margaret looked up quickly. Her dark eyes flashed, and her lips parted with pleasure; then she sent back an answering cry, full of soft, rich music. The stranger, watching her pale face, saw the flush of colour darken it, and, worn out though he was, he marvelled at her beauty, and smiled to himself.

"Pardon me for a moment, sir," she exclaimed, when her answer ended. "I will come back again."

While she spoke she moved away with hurried steps to meet a young man who had appeared on the bank of the broad river. He had been bending low to fasten his boat to the root of one of the willows, but when he saw her coming he came to meet her, and, throwing his arms about her, he kissed her till she asked for breathing time.

"There's a stranger yonder, Herman, and he will see us," she exclaimed, her face burning at the thought.

"A stranger?" Herman cried, flushing at being caught like that, and the girl's laugh rang out when she held back, still in his arms, and saw the colour of his browned face deepen.

"'Tis what I have told you, Herman, again and again," she said roguishly. "You ought to look before you love."

"Look before I love!" the young fellow blurted. "I looked, and saw a girl so sweet and lovely that I lost my heart at once. That's looking before you love, is it not? But where's the stranger? I can't see anyone."

Her lover's arm was still about her when Margaret turned to point to the man she left standing near the chestnut tree.

"He's gone!" she exclaimed, in real surprise, and, breaking away from Herman, she ran to the spot where she and the stranger had been standing. Then a cry of dismay broke from her lips. The man lay in a heap in the hollow, and, leaping into it, she dropped on her knees, and gazed at him with startled eyes.

"Is he dead?" cried Herman, who had come at her heels, and now was in the hollow by her side.

"God forbid!" the girl exclaimed, beginning to chafe the unconscious man's hands.

"He came here while I was waiting for you, Herman. He wanted to know how far it was to the city, and he seemed so distressed when I told him the gates would soon be shut—long before he could reach them. We cannot leave him here, poor man!"

She broke off almost abruptly at a thought that came.

"I might have known! He asked if there was any place where he could buy some food, but when your call came I left him to go to you. It was so thoughtless of me!" she added reproachfully.

"You couldn't come to anyone better," said Herman, with a laugh, but only in jest, for he fully appreciated her regret.

"He must be hungry," the girl exclaimed. "He shall have some of this to help him on till he can get a good meal."

She drew her basket closer, and gave it to her lover, bidding him open a jar that was there. Then she put her arms around the shoulders of the helpless one, who was crouching in a bundled heap, and drew him to her, so that his head rested on her bosom. Putting out her hand for the jar, she gently poured some of the cordial between his lips.

The man swallowed it slowly, and presently his eyes opened.

"Ah, I remember!" he exclaimed weakly. "I have travelled far to-day, and, not being well, the heat and hunger have been too much for me."

"Drink more of this," urged Margaret, and when she held the jar once more to the parched lips the stranger drank the cool draught almost eagerly.

"Now eat this," said Margaret, with a pleasing peremptoriness, when, with one of her hands, she drew a parcel from her basket, and deftly unfolded the spotless cloth which wrapped round something. It was food, and she placed it so that he might help himself while she still held him close to her bosom. He seemed too weak otherwise to sit up.

The sun was now gone down, and the heavens were glowing with many-coloured splendour. Away to the west lay the emerald sea, whose silver-crested waves rolled against the sapphire shores, while purple islands dotted the waters and rested there in stately stillness, and the snowclad mountains on the mainland caught the changing glory. Some of that last beauty of the summer's evening entered the little hollow where these three were grouped together, one helpless in his weariness, the others wondering what they should do with him.

"I am another man," said the stranger presently, sitting up, while Margaret sat back on her heels, watching his face keenly. "Whoever you may be, may the Lord reward you both, for dealing so kindly towards me."

He attempted to rise, but failed completely. Not until Herman lifted him in his strong arms could he feel his feet, and even then he swayed, and flung his arm about the young man's shoulder.

"That does not look like walking two miles," said Herman seriously. "Do you know anyone in the city with whom you thought to stay?"

The stranger shook his head.

"No. I started on my way this morning, and, from what they told me, I expected to arrive in good time to look for a lodging; but the heat was so overpowering that I was forced to go slowly, and here I am, outside, and the city gates are closed."

Herman, still with the man's weight on his shoulder, wondered what he could do for this helpless one, whose face had won his confidence. Presently his perplexity passed.

"I have it!" he exclaimed. "I was to bring in that man whom the Burgomaster sent me to meet, and my permit was to admit both him and me by the water-gate. 'Tis the very thing, since Manton has proved a laggard, and word has come that he won't be here for a week or more. I will take you to my mother's house, master," he exclaimed. "Margaret, unstrap the wallet, and carry it, while I take him to the boat."

The girl's fingers moved about the buckles, and in a little while they were on the move, Herman giving the worn-out man the help of his strong arm. He stopped before they had gone far.

"We can't go on like this," he said decisively; and, taking the stranger in his arms bodily, he went forward with strong, swift strides, but as gently as he knew how, towards the river. The boat was there, and laying his burden in the stern, and bidding Margaret sit beside him, Herman pulled the little craft down the darkening stream, not pausing till he reached the water-gate.

He answered the challenge. What he said satisfied the sergeant of the gate, and, mounting the green-stained steps, now once more with the stranger in his arms, and Margaret following anxiously, lest her lover's feet should slip, he stood on the topmost step of all, and waited for her. Passing along the dark and narrow streets, they paused at last at the door of Herman's home.

Margaret threw the door open and waited for him to pass in.

"Mother," he cried, when, at the end of the passage, he stood in an open doorway, "I have brought you a lodger!"

The woman who sat at the table looked up, her needle half-drawn through the cloth, and her blue eyes opened so wide that Herman laughed at his mother's surprise.

Mistress Bengel started to her feet in wonder at seeing her son so burdened.

"Who is it?" she exclaimed. "Is he ill?" she asked, before there was time to answer her first question.

"Nay, not ill, but worn out. I will take him upstairs to the empty chamber."

He turned as he spoke, and mounted the stairs. At the top, before he thrust the door open with his foot, he called down to the others:

"Mother, you will find that I have brought home an angel unawares."

He laughed again. Yet he felt that it was no jest. He had watched the stranger, and something told him he was above the common run of men.

When the stranger lay quiet on the bed, sighing contentedly to find himself at rest, and clasping his hands for silent prayer before he slept, Herman turned away and crept down the stairs softly.

"Mother," he said, in little more than a whisper, when he entered the living-room and closed the door behind him noiselessly, "do you guess who that man is?"

The woman watched her son's face, and marvelled at the kindling of his eyes.

"No, my boy, I cannot. I did not so much as see his face."

Herman gazed around the room before he spoke again. His eyes turned to the window, as if he thought someone might be peering in. He went to the passage and looked along it. He did more than that, for he went to the street door and, opening it, looked into the dark street, but it was silent, and he saw no one. There was not so much as a footstep to be heard anywhere.

"Margaret," he asked, when he came back to the two wondering women, "did anyone, think you, see us enter the house?"

"No, Herman," the girl responded, in a whisper, awed by this mystery Herman had brought downstairs with him. "I looked about, but I cannot tell you why, and I saw no one. It was so dark. But what of it?"

The question came eagerly.

"What of it?"

Herman's voice sank to a scarcely audible whisper. "The man upstairs, mother, is a friend of Doctor Martin Luther. He is the Englishman for whom such tireless search is being made, and his name is William Tyndale! What would the Familiars of the Holy House say if they knew that he was here!"

CHAPTER II
THE MAN ON THE STAIRS

Margaret stood at the door of her home in the Merdenstrasse, and looked in all directions anxiously before she stepped into the street and closed the door behind her. Her face, lit up dimly by the lantern which hung over the shallow portico, would have shown anyone who saw it that the errand on which her father had sent her was distasteful; for it was dark, and the rain was coming down in an uncomfortable drizzle.

It was not any unwillingness which made her hesitate. It was this going at night, when all that was of ill repute came out of hiding—the scum, one might call it, of the city—and made the streets dangerous.

The Merdenstrasse was empty, but there were sounds which made the delicately nurtured girl shrink. Among them was the clash of steel somewhere, which meant a savage onslaught on a wayfarer who had drawn his sword and was fighting desperately in self-defence. The scream of a woman was heard. The ribald jests and foul songs sung by men who were leaving the taverns where they had spent hours in heavy drinking and gambling came on the night air. At times she heard the tramp of horses' hoofs, and the clink of chain and armour, reminding her that the mounted watch were on their rounds, to make some sort of show of maintaining law and order. But largely it was mere pretence, and it brought no assurance to Margaret.

Whenever she heard the approach of some drunken roysterers, hooting, and shouting out their songs, she drew into the shadow of a portico to hide herself, and once or twice, when the sounds were more than usually startling, she ventured in at some stable door, and waited in the darkness till the way was clear again.

Constantly in that night journey through the drizzle she thought of the stranger whom she and Herman had brought into the city some time before. She did not know how he spent his days, closeted in his room in Herman's home, where he sat from early morning until sundown. What his task was, neither she nor Herman nor his mother knew. Yet they felt that what he did was of the first importance in the man's estimation, and secret. There was no doubt as to the secrecy, for whenever he left his chamber for meals, or, after darkness had set in, went into the streets for air and exercise, he locked his papers in a strong oaken chest that was in the room. He had asked for the use of it when he saw it there, and never left the place without turning the key, and bringing it away with him.

What was that work which so absorbed him? There was never any trace of it when Mistress Bengel put his room tidy in his occasional absence for the night walk in the streets; nothing on the table but an odd scrap or two of paper without a mark to indicate what he had been doing, and the pens with which he wrote.

Surely there was nothing wrong in this task in which he was engaged! Such a man, the friend of Martin Luther, would not stoop to what was ignoble and unworthy!

Margaret had the feeling whenever she thought of him, and more this night than usual, that Master Tyndale's deep thoughts were at work, and that he was bent on holy purposes.

Something had made Herman and his mother, as well as Margaret, lock up in their hearts that secret fact, that such a man was in the house; for, while he never asked them to be silent, they had the idea that trouble would come, disaster, indeed, if it were whispered abroad that William Tyndale was inside the walls of the city.

She was thinking of this, and forgetful of the drizzling rain, when a man's arms were flung around her, the cold hands passing over her eyes.

"Who am I?" was the laughing question.

Her alarm was gone in an instant, and her laughter burst out on the night air. She drew down the hands and kissed them; then, swinging round, she held up her lips for the man to kiss.

"Why is my sweetheart out alone and at this time?" asked Herman, seriously now, for it was never well for a woman, and much less his own darling, to be alone in the dark streets at so late an hour.

"My father asked me to carry a message to his foreman," Margaret answered, as they walked on, hand in hand. "He had no help for it but to send me to Gropper."

Talking quietly, they came to a house in the Wendenstrasse, behind the cathedral, and, leaving Herman in the street, Margaret opened the door, moved along the dark passage, and, finding the stairs, groped her way up them, counting the doors until she came to the room she was seeking.

She gave her message, and turned to go.

"I'll see you to the door, and part way home, Mistress Margaret," said the man, standing, and reaching for his cap.

"There is no need, John. Herman Bengel is outside, waiting for me," the girl said, her pretty face flushing.

"To the door, then, for the stairs are awkward," said Gropper, with a smile, for he had known the girl from her babyhood, and they moved down the stairs together.

They had not gone more than a few steps when they halted, for a man was ascending, carrying a candle which he shielded with his hand, and the light falling on his face showed it plainly. A moment later he had passed into a room on the landing below. Margaret heard Gropper gasp, and it sounded so much like a suppressed cry of dismay that she turned involuntarily, but could not see the man's face at all, not even his form in the darkness.

"What does that man want here?" Gropper muttered, putting out his hand, and holding the girl by the sleeve to stay her from going farther.

"Who is he?" she asked, in a startled whisper, for something was surely wrong, or a strong-minded man like Gropper would not be so put out.

"Who is he?" the answer followed, and the words were whispered in her ear, in trembling tones. "He is that Argus-eyed heresy hunter who goes by the name of Cochlaeus. Surely, mistress, you have heard of him? He is a Deacon of the Church of the Blessed Virgin in Frankfort, and when he ever comes to our city there is trouble for some poor soul who has dared to have anything to do with the Reformation doctrines."

Margaret had not lost a word, and she shivered, for the man's reputation was wide, and thrilled so many with a sense of dread.

They moved on almost unwillingly, going down the stairs with stealth, afraid lest they should attract the attention of this man who had disappeared into the room below. They had to pass the door, and to their alarm it stood slightly ajar.

Neither of them had any wish to play the part of eavesdropper, and were passing on, but as they moved they caught sight of a man who sat at a table in the room, as well as of the other who was in the act of blowing out the candle. But what they heard held them both spellbound.

Cochlaeus either did not notice that the door was partly open, or he was careless as to whether his words were overheard.

"Buchsel," he exclaimed, in a jubilant tone, "I have made a discovery—a wonderful one!"

"Ha!" was the response of the man who was gazing at Cochlaeus questioningly, but in a tone of perplexity. It was plain that he was wondering why the Deacon of the Blessed Virgin was in the city, and coming to his room of all others.

"Yes. I have made a discovery! That accursed English heretic—that limb of Satan!—William Tyndale—is here, within the city walls, and I can give a broad guess as to what he is doing. You remember how he started the translation of the Bible in England?"

He paused, but Buchsel's only response was a nod, for he was waiting for Cochlaeus to tell his story, which he did, not knowing of those two who were standing outside and heard every word with growing dismay.

"He must be here at his old work—that devil's work, I call it!—translating the Scriptures, meaning to scatter his pestilential stuff far and wide, seducing the people who read it to heresy."

The man at the table stared at Cochlaeus incredulously.

"William Tyndale, that arch-heretic, here, in this city, did you say?" he asked, in an amazed tone.

"Yes, I said 'here.' Where could that mean but in this city?"

Margaret's heart beat so wildly that she held her hands to her bosom as if to still it; but she waited eagerly for what would follow. There was no thought about eavesdropping now, much as she abhorred it, for she was asking herself what this would mean for the man who was lodging in Herman's home.

"Where does he lodge?" asked Buchsel, standing up so suddenly that the chair fell to the floor noisily. He was staring hard at the heresy hunter.

Margaret felt faint with fear of what the answer might be.

"Where? I've got to find out. He is here in the city. I know that much. But he shall be found, and then—ah, me!—I will hand him over to the tormentors. He shall be lodged in the dungeon of the Holy House, and the Familiars shall deal with him!"

He paused, and there was silence for a few moments—silence so intense to Margaret that she could hear her heart-beats and the quick breathing of the startled man at her side.

Cochlaeus broke the silence.

"Only to-day I heard it, not an hour since, in fact. I was passing the Gurzenich, where two men were talking in whispers, but my sharp ears—— Buchsel," he broke off, "if ever you go on the hunt for heretics, be sure to thank God if He has given you a quick ear! He has given me that, and I praise Him! My sharp ears caught the words, for I was going softly, my noiseless shoes giving no token of my passing in the dense darkness, so I halted, scarcely daring to breathe lest I should betray my presence."

"And the man—what did he say?" interposed the other, for Cochlaeus went so slowly with his story, lingering over it as though he enjoyed it.

"Ah yes! He said that William Tyndale was inside the walls, somewhere, that he had spoken with him, and had been told that he was prospering with his translation here, because England had become too hot to hold him. And that was not all. He was on the look out for a printer who would put his vile sheets through the press! This accursed printing!" Cochlaeus burst forth, in savage anger. "It will be the ruin of the Church! It will render the whole world Lutheran, unless we find the fellow and crush him!"

Silence followed again, and those who stood on the landing could not move on. They seemed compelled to take the risk of discovery rather than miss what was to follow.

"What do you propose to do?" asked Buchsel, presently.

"Burn the printing-press, and the printer, if I can induce the authorities of the city to display sufficient spirit. And if I can lay my hand on that fellow, Tyndale, he, too, shall burn, and all the papers he has shall go to the flames with him. God help me, and give me the joy of doing it!"

Suddenly the speaker crossed the floor, and slammed the door, leaving Margaret and her companion in the darkness.

CHAPTER III
THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE

When Margaret stepped into the street she was trembling with anxiety. Herman, who was waiting for her, saw by the light of one of the swinging oil lamps that her face was white, and he marked the startled look in her eyes, as well as her trembling hands when she put one out for him to lead her.

"What's wrong, little woman?" he asked in some concern, dropping her hand and putting an arm around her shoulder, walking with her thus along the uneven and slippery pavement.

"I dare not tell you here, in the street," she answered in a frightened whisper, looking up at her lover's face. "Oh, the very stones of the city have ears. Let us talk of something else until we get to your home. Then I will tell you all."

She shivered as she spoke, and looked behind her, gripping one of Herman's hands, for she seemed to feel the approach of that man Cochlaeus, or, still worse, the coming of one of the cloaked and hooded Familiars of the Inquisition. Herman felt her shudder, and tightened his arm about her to give her confidence. Scarcely a word passed between them until they reached his home.

When they stepped into the dark passage, and Herman closed the door, Margaret turned and thrust the bolt into its socket.

"What's that for?" asked Herman, surprised at the movement.

"It will keep out all intruders," she exclaimed, and moved on to the door of the room in which Mistress Bengel was busy with her sewing at the table.

The woman looked up with a smile, but when she saw the girl's face the smile vanished.

"Has anything frightened you, my child?" she asked, dropping her work from her hand and looking at Margaret with great concern.

"Yes," the girl answered, going forward, but halting part way to look behind her. "I bolted the street door, Herman, so I suppose none can hear what I am going to say?"

"It's safe, my love, and no one can come in," said Herman, wondering still more; for he had never known her like this before.

They sat before the fire, but Margaret would only sit where she could see the door. Then the story of the man upon the stairs was told, and what she and Gropper had heard as they listened.

The faces of her listeners blenched, for the penalties of heresy were many and fearful.

"They talk in that manner of that godly man who is under our roof," exclaimed the elder woman in tremulous tones. "Herman, do you realise Master Tyndale's danger?"

"I do, mother, but we must contrive to save him," Herman answered, wiping his face, which had gone damp with the horror of these possibilities. "That man, Cochlaeus, must not find him!"

"He must not!" cried the mother, in suppressed emotion. "No, he must not! Please God, they shall not take him! And yet," she added, with a shudder, "what can we do? What has anyone ever done, when those wolf-hounds of the Inquisition were on the trail? Oh, why did the poor man come here, into the very jaws of danger?"

She buried her face in her hands, and sobbed, for her memory was busy in those moments, and she had in mind the penalty that had been levied on one who was so dear to her, and who would never come home again.

The others watched her, their own eyes blurred with tears, for they guessed what her sorrow was, and what her memory was telling her. They sat in silence, speechless, because they saw that words would be of no avail. They thought, as well, while Herman's mother rested her elbows on the table and wept in silence, of their own helplessness, to say nothing of their own danger, if William Tyndale were to be found in this home of theirs. The only way to escape punishment was by betrayal, but that could never be; and Herman clenched his hands and closed his teeth tightly in keeping with his resolution.

"Mother," he said, breaking the stillness, "we shall not betray Master Tyndale?"

"Betray him?" his mother cried, looking up, her face, tear-wet though it was, almost indignant at the bare suggestion. "God helping us, never, my son! God sent him here for some wise purpose, and we must do our solemn best, my boy, to save him. He's doing God's work, although I wot not what it is. But what did he say yesterday, when I expostulated with him about working so strenuously? 'Wist ye not, mistress, that I must be about my Father's business? I must—I can do no other!—I must work the work of Him that sent me!' I can't forget that, Herman."

"Then you will never give him up? Oh, I am so glad," exclaimed Margaret, leaning forward and laying her own soft hand on the other woman's.

"Give him up? God do so to me, and more, if I betray the saintly man!" the widow said, in tones that left no doubt.

It was growing late, and Margaret got up to go, knowing that they would be anxious at home. Herman stood up to go with her, and they went into the passage. When they walked softly past the door of the front room where Master Tyndale worked it was slightly ajar, and a streak of light fell across the floor of the passage and on the wall. They saw him seated at the table, the candle light shining on his face, and his elbows on the table, and near by a pile of manuscript. His hands were clasped, and his eyes closed. He was speaking, and the low-spoken words came to them plainly.

"Dear Lord, did I not solemnly vow, long years ago, that if my life were long enough, I would cause the boy who driveth the plough to know the Scriptures?"

There was a pause in the prayer, and they watched his face, which for a moment he covered with his hands; but he lifted it again, since the prayer was not yet ended. There was more to hear, and this time the words came even more earnestly.

"O God, the task set for me is great. The burden is almost too heavy for me! And I am compassed about with dangers. I tremble lest something should come to bring ruin to my endeavours. Yet, Lord, it is not the thought of threatening death that troubles me. My fear is, lest my enemies should compass my destruction before I have done my work, and placed the Word of God within the reach of the people at home. Spare me until I have fulfilled my task, and then I will say, 'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.'"

They watched him. They were unable to tear themselves away. It was something to hear this holy man pleading with God, asking for nothing for himself, but only for time to complete his work, and ready after that to live or die, as God would say it should be.

Tyndale unclasped his hands and, taking up his pen, began to write as a man would whose time for work was limited, and whose salvation depended on the completion of the task set for him.

Herman and Margaret went along the passage in silence, almost in stealth, and, closing the street door after them softly, they hurried towards the girl's home in haste. When they stopped at her father's door, Margaret gripped her lover's arm tightly.

"Look, Herman," she whispered. She did not point with her finger, but he saw in what direction Margaret was gazing. On the other side of the street were two men, both looking at her father's house, and Margaret gasped when the lantern, swinging in the night breeze, cast a light on their faces. One was Cochlaeus, but Herman did not know him, nor had he ever seen the other; but the girl knew him for the man she had seen at the table while she and John Gropper listened on the stairs.

"The man on the right," she whispered, shuddering, "is Cochlaeus. The other is the man he was talking to in Gropper's house. Why should they be watching our home?"

The answer seemed to come in natural sequence with the question, for her memory recalled what Cochlaeus had said concerning the fate of the printer who should be so daring as to print Tyndale's translation of the Bible.

Surely, oh, surely, her father had nothing to do with that work?

The men passed on. It was a relief to see them going; a greater relief still when they had gone out of sight. And Margaret put up her lips for Herman's kiss. But even while her lips met his she gasped.

"Herman," she said, keeping her lips near his, "they have come back."

The young man looked up and saw them. The men were at the corner of the street, just visible in the lantern light, and it seemed to him and Margaret, as they watched, that they were gazing at the house once more.

But what could he do?

He was asking that question when the men again passed out of sight.

"Good-night, beloved," said Margaret, throwing her arms around her lover's neck, as he gathered her closer to himself. A fear had come that something tragic and terrible might happen before they met again—if ever they did meet. That presentiment of coming trouble made her kiss Herman as, in spite of her whole-hearted love, she had never done before.

"You are late, my child, and I was growing anxious," said her father when she had lifted the latch and entered the room where he was sitting before an open book which contained the account of his sales in the printing-shop.

"I have been hindered, but I will tell you all," the girl exclaimed, going to his side to give him the answer from John Cropper.

"Father," she went on, when he had made a note of her message in the book that was in front of him, "do you know Master William Tyndale?"

The printer's face paled at the unexpected question, and the pen dropped from his fingers on to the open page. The impulse came to prevaricate, but after some hesitation the answer came slowly.

"Yes, my child; I know him."

"Do you know a man named Cochlaeus, father?" she asked, when that answer came, and almost before she had ended her question Byrckmann sprang to his feet, with a cry.

"God be our helper! Why do you mention that man's name?"

His face betrayed the intensity of his fear.

"Sit down, dear, and I will tell you," said Margaret, dropping on a stool at the hearth, where, when he should sit, she could see his face.

The printer sank into his chair, when he had turned it to face the fire, looking down at his daughter with eyes that were filled with terror. She saw that his body trembled as an aspen leaf shivers on its tree, when she told him what she had seen and heard in Cropper's house. When her story ended he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands, and for some time not a word was spoken. Margaret's hand lay gently on his knee, and sitting thus in silence, wondering, yet almost afraid to speak, she gazed into the fire, save when for a brief moment now and again she watched her father furtively.

Horror gathered about her in those waiting moments, for her imagination revealed some terrible pictures in the fire. She saw a dungeon there, and in it were some dark-robed Familiars. Around were all the instruments of torture, and a red fire glowed in which were thrust the implements that were to do some deadly work. And presently into the chamber came two men, their hands chained, and about them were four Familiars. But it was these two chained ones to whom she looked, for she knew them. One was William Tyndale—the other was her father!

Her father's voice helped her to smother her cry of anguish at a picture which seemed so real.

"My child, if Cochlaeus were to come to this house it would mean ruin for us all, and death for me."

Her lips parted, but she was speechless. It flashed upon her that the printer of Tyndale's sheets was her own father, and if Cochlaeus came he would find them in the house, somewhere, she could not think where; but in that case the terrible picture in the fire was not imagination, but something too real—too fearful—and the day might not be far away when her father and William Tyndale would actually walk into the dungeon to face the tormentors.

"Come with me, my child," said Byrckmann, standing up and staring before him with a face so full of pain that she was alarmed more than she already had been.

He said no more, but went out of the room, carrying the lamp with him. She followed him into the workshop where the printing-presses were; then going to a room beyond, he walked to a corner where piles of paper stood. Giving her the lamp to hold, he cleared a space on the floor, and to her surprise she saw him go on his knees. Had trouble so overwhelmed him that he meant to pray?

But it was not that. He drew a key from his pocket and inserted it in a hole from which he carefully scraped the dust. Standing up, he bade her drop back to the doorway, and, bending low, raised a portion of the floor, making it lean back against one of the printing machines. What she saw brought a cry of surprise to her lips, for she was gazing into a dark cellar. A printing-press stood in the centre of the stone floor below, and close by it was a great pile of paper.

Following her father down the ladder, carrying the lantern with her, she looked around. Thrust up against the walls were other piles, and, going to one of them, she saw that they were printed folios. She picked up the top sheet and read it, and trembled, for it was a printed sheet of a part of the New Testament in English, which she was able to read; and now she understood why her father spoke of ruin being possible. She was realising the far-reaching consequences when she recalled what Cochlaeus had said.

She almost whispered her words when she had looked around to be assured that they were alone.

"Father, is it not perilous for these to be here?"

She pointed to the pile on which she replaced the sheet she had been reading. "I only ask because of what that heretic hunter said, and especially after I have seen him and that other man in the street gazing at our home."

There was silence. No sound came until a few moments later the cathedral bell boomed out the hour with slow and heavy strokes.

"Can we not destroy all this, father?" Margaret asked, when the last sound of the bell came; and she crossed the floor to where her father stood in dumb perplexity. She laid her hand on his shoulder and looked into his face with glistening eyes.

"Destroy God's Word, my child?" he asked. "That were cowardice. It would be like a man throwing down his cross because the crowd was threatening. The Word of God is far too precious; but if you are ready to help, we can make these papers fit for removal, so that if Cochlaeus came he would not find them."

"If I am ready, father?" she asked reproachfully. "How could you question it? I am more than ready. Tell me what to do."

She set the lamp down on the printing-press, and waited to be told.

For long hours, on through the dark night, she toiled with him, putting the precious sheets in bundles, and covering them with strong paper, that none might see their contents. The great bell of the cathedral boomed out twelve slow and heavy strokes at midnight, and the task had barely begun. They never thought of time, and scarcely heard the strokes, for here was a matter of life and death—an endeavour to hide these folios from the hunters of heresy, and, as Margaret felt while she toiled on feverishly, to save her father from the torments of the Inquisition.

The bell boomed out a solitary note and the work was not yet done. Again and again Margaret paused to listen. She thought she heard footsteps—the rattle of steel, the sharp word of command, and then a noise on the street door; but it was her fancy, and her father assured her so when she spoke about it.

Again the strokes boomed on the night air—two. They came an hour later—three. But not until the fourth stroke sounded and the city settled again into silence was the work ended.

"What next, father?" Margaret asked, sitting down on one of the bundles, too weary to stand after the long night of strain.

"That, my child, the Lord must decide. Let us make sure of His guidance, for everything touching on our safety lies with Him."

The printer went on his knees, and Margaret knelt beside him on the stones, her hands clasped and her eyes closed, while her father prayed that the work of sending forth the Truth for the enlightenment of men might not be hindered. Margaret listened in wonder, for there was not one word in the prayer for his own escape. He was centring his thought on the safety of these precious sheets on which he had been working night after night for many weeks, and as well on the safeguarding of the man of God who dwelt in her lover's home.

The day was breaking when they rose from their knees. Climbing out of this unsuspected cellar and lowering the floor into its place again, they piled great bundles of paper round the shop on that side, leaving everything as it had been before.

CHAPTER IV
THE COMING OF THE GUARD

The long day passed, and every hour was filled with intolerable anxiety for Margaret. She went about the household duties in her home with a heart that was heavy with dread. Every unusual sound had menace in it, for her. Had anyone noticed her they would have wondered why, again and again, she glanced around with startled eyes, while her parted lips went far to betray her distress.

Her mother was ill at the time, and again and again Margaret had to go into her room to see to her comfort; but when the girl's hand was on the latch she was careful to throw aside all traces of anxiety, and she went in with a loving smile and a happy-looking face, not wishing to add to her mother's care or to set her thinking that something was wrong. It was a hard task, but her eyes glanced about the room merrily, and she stood at the bedside and chatted pleasantly about little things that made for laughter.

But God knew how the poor girl's heart and mind were on the strain, and how, when she heard some measured footsteps in the street, she listened with an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, lest it should be some of the City Guard, coming to the house to search in her father's printing-shop for what some esteemed tenfold worse than treachery.

Once, while her mother was asking a question as to some petty household matter, she heard the sound for which she had been listening ever since she had got out of bed in the early morning. She gave an answer which made her mother wonder what she was thinking of, and then hurried to the window and looked into the street below.

Her hands clasped in dread, and she almost cried out in her terror, for the thing had come that might well mean ruin. Below were half a score of soldiers of the City Guard, with their halberds gleaming in the watery sun, and the soldiers' eyes were carelessly scanning the houses around them as they stood at ease, or were nodding to some acquaintance who went by. She had seen the men do this many a time, and thought nothing of it; but now she gazed into the street with frightened eyes, and her clasped hands rested on her bosom to still the beating of her heart.

"Father!" she murmured noiselessly, for she thought of that picture she had seen in the fire.

The officer of the Guard was carelessly looking at some papers in his hand, turning one over the other, as if searching for one in particular. Never had she gazed as she was gazing now, her breath coming and going in gasps.

"Why are you breathing in that way, my dear?" the sick woman asked, looking at the girl at the window.

"Was I breathing differently than usual, mother?" Margaret asked, turning for a moment, careful to hide the look of dread, and with a forced smile for her mother's sake. "Perhaps I was!" she added lightly. "Ha! there's Targon, the butcher. I must go down and give him an order for to-morrow's dinner."

She moved to the bedside, and, bending over to give her mother a kiss, she hurried down the stairs.

What did it mean? For when the Captain of the Guard had found the paper he wanted, and had thrust the others back into his belt, he moved straight to her father's door, as if to enter the shop. As she descended the steps of the staircase at a dangerous speed her mind was as quick as her feet. Startling visions of possibilities rose before her. It was that horrible picture again which she had seen in the fire. There was more in it now than before. There was the stake, with its flames fanned by the breeze, and her father chained in the midst of them all. There was that wheel of torture on which he was to be broken. There was the dark cell, with its slime, and horrors, and blackness, all made more intolerable because there would be no more glimpse of the daylight for him, if they did not decide to burn him. Or there might be no death, but the galley to which her father would be chained, with his back bared to the sun and wind, while the whip of the galley captain would come down on the flesh, and leave its streaks of blood.

It was there in those few moments.

She stood in the doorway of the parlour, in the shadow, from whence she could see what was passing in the shop.

The Captain of the Guard was there, and the paper was in his hand.

"Master Byrckmann," she heard the soldier say, with a disconcerting lack of cordiality, "the Burgomaster bade me bring you this."

Almost rudely he tossed the paper on the counter, among the printed sheets and other things that lay there.

"See to that without fail," he added curtly.

Without another word he stamped his way to the door, and, with a rattle of steel as his armour moved on his body, strode into the street, and left the shop door to slam after him. The noise of the slamming sounded very much like a death-knell to Margaret.

"What is it, father?" she cried, hurrying to the printer's side behind the counter when a customer was served, and was gone, and they were alone together.

She glanced into his face, and, although he had appeared unperturbed while the soldier and the customer were in the shop, it was white now, and when her father's fingers were put forward to take up the paper they trembled so that he could scarcely close them on it.

"Something from the Burgomaster, my dear," Byrckmann answered, trying to appear at ease, but completely failing.

He broke the city seal, smoothing out the paper on the counter. They read it with their heads close together, their cheeks almost touching. It was written in the ill-formed characters which were so noticeable in everything which came from the Chief Magistrate's hand.

It told its own story. Word had reached him that a notable and troublesome heretic had come from England, whose name was William Tyndale. How it had happened no one knew, but this fellow, so it was said, had contrived to get into the city. Possibly he had come in disguise, a man with a godless heart, and a mind bent on spreading his scandalous heresy. He was hiding somewhere, but no one knew where, and was supposed to be translating the Scriptures into English. It was suspected, as well, that, if he had not already done so, he would be trying to induce one of the printers to run his wicked sheets through the printing-press.

"I charge you, Master Byrckmann, as I am charging all the printers within my jurisdiction," the paper ran, "to abstain from having anything to do with this scandalous fellow who, like Doctor Martin Luther, is working out the devil's wicked will, and seeking to wean away the people from His Holiness the Pope and Mother Church.

"For bethink you, Master Byrckmann, what can happen more calamitous to the credit of our famous city than that this man, Tyndale, should be sheltering in a house inside our walls, and daring, in his insolence, to interpret Divine Law, the statutes of our Fathers, and those decrees which have received the consent of so many ages, in a manner totally at variance with the opinion of the learned priests of the Church! Yet this fellow has dared to do this thing! He has done what Luther dared! and now, like him, he is tampering so wickedly with the Word of God.

"I demand of you, Master Byrckmann, that if you come across him you shall take his work with a subtle readiness. Pretend to applaud his endeavours. Make him all sorts of promises. Make him believe that it is a joy to you to be of service in his cause; but when he is gone, send me instant word as soon as you have traced him to the house wherein he is lodging."

"Father," said Margaret, whose arm stole about his neck while they still bent over the counter.

He looked at her and saw the colour coming back to her face, and her lips were now relaxed to their usual softness after this intolerable strain.

"What is it, my dear?" Byrckmann asked.

"The Captain of the Guard had other papers in his belt, so he must be going the round of the printers. Do you not think so?"

"That must be it, my child. I thank God," he murmured, clasping his hands like one in prayer as they rested on the counter. "None knows but God, and Master Tyndale and you and I——"

"And Herman, father, and his mother," said Margaret softly. "They know."

"Ah yes! I had forgotten. Now may God send the good man safe deliverance."

He unclasped his hands and stood upright, and gazed out of the window with eyes that gleamed with tears which blurred the forms of those who walked along the street. None of the passers-by suspected what nearness to tragedy there had been in the printer's shop.

"Kiss me, father," said Margaret, and the printer, turning, put his arms about her, and kissed her almost passionately. He had always loved his daughter, but here was an even closer bond; something that was linking them to other things; things that were sacred, and beyond the matters that came in the common round of daily life.

Margaret went back to her mother, singing softly as she went from place to place in the bedroom, putting things right, and making the chamber look more cosy. When she moved it was with a tender grace. When she spoke it was with a gladness and a smile that were restful to the sick mother on the bed.

Who could wonder? That string of visions was passed at all events for the present. Her father, so far, was safe. But at odd times, when she moved about the house, she stopped to say a prayer, pleading that the dear Lord would keep the secret from that ignoble Cochlaeus, and all others who were scenting heresy, and striving to find Master Tyndale and all who had dealings with him. Their success meant so much. Ruin for her father! Ah!—and she went pale at the thought—ruin for Herman!

As the day went on the relief gave place to anxiety.

Her heart grew more and more heavy, for after the first revulsion from that deadly fear her memory served her with a cruelty that was hard to bear. It brought back all that happened the night before. That coming of the man on the stairs of Cropper's home; the enforced but unintentioned eavesdropping outside the door on the landing, and hearing what Cochlaeus knew; and, later still, the watchers in the street just opposite her father's house. It was terrible to contemplate the possibilities, for who could tell whether that paper from the Burgomaster was a blind—something to throw her father off his guard? She shivered at the thought; then she went so hot that she drew her dainty kerchief from her bosom to wipe the dampness from her face.

A change came over her father which greatly puzzled her. She could not understand how he could move among the workmen, and be so cheerful, and smile so comfortably at the customers who bought things over the counter of the shop. Not one among them would have suspected that he had been faced with death, and even now might see the Captain of the Guard enter, and take him away.

She did what under other circumstances she would have despised herself for, but she could not help it now. She felt she must do it, or she would die of anxiety. She stood where she could hear what was said when all the workmen had gone save Gropper, who closed the street door, so that no one should enter the shop, and break in on their conversation without it being known.

"What say you, Gropper, now that you know as much as I do?" her father asked, when the foreman stood before him at the counter.

"Get Master Tyndale and everything belonging to him out of the way," came the answer, in decisive tones.

"Out of the way?" the printer interrupted. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, get him out of the city; but where, I cannot say for the moment. We'll think about it, Master Byrckmann. We'll pray over it, and God will show us which way the path lies," the man said quietly.

He was going to say more, but a customer came in noisily, and the foreman stood back, and waited until the man was served and went away.

As if she came out of the house casually, Margaret crossed the shop, and, going to the door, called to the customer, who was their butcher, and gave him an order for the next morning. Her face was aflame with having played that mean part of listener, but so much was at stake. It was a matter of life or death. And Herman was involved; for if Cochlaeus or the Burgomaster found him harbouring that arch-heretic there was no other end but death.

In her confusion she gave Targon an order which made the butcher stare at her in surprise.

"Haven't you made a mistake, Mistress Margaret?" the man asked, wondering at her paleness; for now her face had changed.

"What did I say?" she asked, and when he repeated the order her face crimsoned. "It must be this thunder in the air," she answered, by way of exculpation, and with an effort she told Targon what she really required.

She wanted to get away, to see Herman and tell him all she knew. If she could talk the matter over with him he might suggest something, and she could tell her father of the plan. But she was hindered. Her father went back to the workshop with Gropper, and left her to look after the customers, who came in one after another, some for the merest trifles, and some on matters of importance.

Two or three stopped to talk of what was being said in the city. First and foremost Cochlaeus was there, and that suggested heresy. Then a special body of the Guard had been out most of the day, halting at every printer's shop to leave a letter which, of course, was from the Burgomaster. But what was of more importance still was this—that it was declared that William Tyndale was somewhere in the city, and that to-morrow a great reward was to be offered as the price upon his head, and a price, also, on the head of any who harboured him.

Margaret thought she would choke when they talked on in that strain, little knowing what she knew, and what it meant to her beloved if the reward were to be claimed. Her Herman! the man who was all the world to her! Once again, while the customers were standing at the counter, talking on in that strain, she did not see them, for she was gazing afresh at that picture in the fire, and she shuddered because it seemed so real that her father and Herman alike were being broken on the wheel.

One by one the customers dropped off, and then none came at all, and the shop was empty when her father came in with a sealed letter in his hand, which trembled as he held it out to her.

"Take this to Master Tyndale," he whispered. "Put it into your bosom so that none may see it, and wait to hear what he says concerning it. Go warily. But there! None will suspect, because Herman and you are shortly to be wedded."

She went to her room for her cloak and hood, and standing at the window she gazed into the street, which was shadowing into dark twilight, earlier than usual because it was raining, and black clouds were sweeping up from the river and spreading over the city. Preparing for bad weather, she went out into the street, after first showing her father where she had hidden the letter.

The rain was coming down steadily, but presently it came pelting, and the wind rushing along between the houses of the narrow streets blew into her face. But she scarcely noticed it. She was absorbed with the thought that she was going to see Herman, to whom she would tell all she knew. Perhaps he would propose that William Tyndale should get away at once, lest to-morrow should be too late.

The rain came down so heavily that the streets were almost empty, although it was not late. It was one of those storms which no one would face if it could be avoided.

At the corner of the street in which Herman lived she paused, not for the wind, although it was sweeping along with the force of a tempest now, but because of what was happening. Out of a narrow passage, where some wayfarers sheltered, there swung out, two by two, some of the City Guard, and at their head the Captain who had left the Burgomaster's letter with her father.

If they had turned her way she would have been relieved, and the fear would have passed which shook her terribly; but they went the other way. Was it possible that they were going to Herman's home?

CHAPTER V
THE MAN IN THE ARCHWAY

Margaret hurried into the archway, where others were sheltering, and a man who was standing near shifted to make room for her. As she stepped in the raindrops came down so heavily that they leapt up from the stones. The water ran from the edge of her hood in little streams which trickled down her face; but it was relief rather than otherwise, for the coolness revived her.

Heavily as the rain was pouring, she bent forward to see whether the Guard were going to Herman's house, but the man, putting a hand on her shoulder, drew her back. They were alone now, for the other people, believing that the rain had set in for the night, hurried away.

"The water is falling down on you, mistress," he said, civilly enough; and he pointed to the gargoyle over the archway, where the water came as from a pipe, and spread out like a fan.

"I was anxious to see where the Guard were going in all this rain," she explained, looking round at him; and the man, catching a glimpse of her face by the light of a lamp which a stableman had just hung up in the arch, saw the look of dread upon it.

"Stand here, then, and you will not get that shower bath," said the stranger, drawing her forward almost roughly, although he had no thought of rudeness. He wondered whether this dainty little damsel, whose pretty face looked so startled, had any reason to dread the City Guard.

Margaret gazed from her new standing-place unrestrainedly, and with her eyes glued on that moving company of men, she noted every step they took. It appeared to her, in her anxiety, that their movements were relentless. They were even cruel, she thought. They passed the greater buildings, looking neither to right nor left, each man resting his chin tightly down on his muffling collar, so that the water which streamed from his helmet should not find its way down his neck.

Even that indifference to what was on either side of the soldiers of the Guard seemed sinister to Margaret. It left everything in such uncertainty. The shock would be so much greater if, after all, the Captain called a halt at Herman's door.

She wished she could see the officer who showed the way, but she could only obtain an occasional glance at the streaming helmet whenever he passed a swinging lantern. She thought that if she could see him she might judge his purpose by his bearing, whether he meant to pass on or slow down to a pace which would enable him to find the house.

The man in the archway became infected with her eagerness, for he, too, stared down the street despite the pouring of the water from the ugly gargoyle's mouth. But she was scarcely aware of his presence. At another time she would have stood out in the drenching rain, in the midst of it, where it poured its heaviest, rather than trust herself in the gloomy archway with an unknown stranger whose presence might well be intolerable to a defenceless girl. But her mind was altogether on Herman, and all other considerations receded. The man near by was an incident in her night's experiences, while the absorbing thought was the disastrous consequences if the Guard went to Herman's house and found Master William Tyndale there!

The Guard moved on and on, going more and more slowly, she thought. Were they doing it deliberately so that the Captain might not miss her lover's home? The thought made her feel sick at heart, and for a moment she reeled. She would have fallen had not the man put out his hand and caught at her arm.

"Dear heart!" he muttered. "I know it all. They stopped at my door one night—just such a night as this!"

The words came unexpectedly, and Margaret turned quickly, looking into his face inquiringly, for she could not miss the pain that was in that almost whispered exclamation.

"'Tis all right, little one," the man said tremulously. "The memory came like a flood upon me, of a night like this, when a City Guard came to my door and took away my darling, just such a girl as yourself."

He held his hands to his face for a few moments, and his body shook with sobs, as it can only do with a strong man in his agony.

Margaret gazed at him. He spoke with a foreign accent, and something reminded her of Master Tyndale.

Brushing his hands across his face, and without another word, the man stepped to and fro in the narrow archway, and then went into the storm and walked away with bent head, while the pelting rain beat on him. Margaret marked how his hands clenched while he passed along in a direction opposite to that which the armed Guard had taken.

His going after those unexpected words made her heart palpitate the more, for if the Guard took that man's daughter, would they hesitate to take a man, and that man her lover?

"No! They would not!"

The words were cried out on the night, but the wind beat them down, and perhaps no one heard them.

The thought that obsessed Margaret was that the Guard were going for Herman. They must have discovered that it was Tyndale whom he had carried up the steps at the Water-Gate. It must be so! Five hundred golden pieces were to be the reward of the man or men who found him who harboured William Tyndale. Five hundred! It meant wealth. Who would care for rain, or pity, when so much gold was to be had?

Lower down the street, which was a very long one, there was a bend, and from the archway Margaret could not see Herman's house. She must see for herself whether the Guard passed it by, in spite of the pelting rain and the boisterous wind.

She left the archway and ran along the causeway with a light, swift tread, careless as to the beating of her soddened dress against her knees. Herman's home lay beyond the bend, but not very far, and they must be very near to it by this time. In her haste she did not see a man standing in the way, with his arms outstretched to stop her.

"My dainty darling!" he cried drunkenly, but she endeavoured to evade him. She failed, and his arms closed about her, and he drew her to him and set his wet and hairy cheek against hers.

"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.

"What is your will?" came the question, and Margaret's heart leapt at the sound of Herman's voice.

"I must come in to search your house, Master Bengel."

"To search my house?" interrupted Herman, who did not betray any perturbation in his voice in spite of the sight of a double row of soldiers in the street. "For what? For whom?"

"For one named William Tyndale," answered the Captain, who was taken by surprise at this show of ease—the absence of confusion and fear.

Margaret could scarce believe her ears when a laugh came through the rain; a laugh she would have known if all the men in the city had been there.

"For one named William Tyndale?" Herman cried, after the laugh, and in such a tone of incredulity that Margaret was amazed at his courage, and his ease in carrying it, when he must have known that he was faced with the prospect of the wheel, or prison, or the stake, with torture preceding it. "Who told you such a mad thing that the Englishman should be here in my house, of all houses in the city?"

"Never mind that," was the impatient answer. "Open this door, and let me enter."

"I protest that you will find no William Tyndale here, if you mean the so-called Reformer who, they say, came over from England some time since," said Herman, as he leisurely pulled the shutter into its place.

It astonished Margaret that he should play this part; and yet she admired his effrontery, and was taken with his boldness in meeting the inevitable disaster. That inevitable thing was ruin. It was death! But her heart bounded with a certain pride at her lover's fortitude. Better die a bold man than a craven. And he was bound to die, because William Tyndale was in the house!

She heard the bolt being drawn. She heard the clinking of the falling chain. She caught the sound of the screaming key in the lock, and then the dull grumble of the opening door.

"Come in," she heard Herman say in an easy tone.

The Captain called to three men to step forward, and the four soldiers entered the house.

Margaret asked herself the question—What should she do? But what was it possible to do? Her presence or her absence could in no way serve Herman; and yet she wanted to be near him in his trouble, to throw her arms about him ere they took him away to those horrible dungeons in the Holy House—the headquarters of the Inquisition—and whisper in his ear that whatever came she was his, for life or for death, just as God willed.

The thought decided her. She sprang up from the step on which she had been sitting in the shadow, around which, unknown to her, the water had gathered and soaked into her dress, and hurried across the road. Disregarding the soldiers lined up in the middle of the street, standing still in the pelting rain, she was moving up the steps, feeling the water squashing in her shoes as she moved.

The soldiers inside the house were standing about; one in the front room with the Captain—in the very place where she had last spoken to William Tyndale—and two others near the foot of the staircase, and in such a position as to look up the stairs, or into the room where Herman's mother usually sat.

Margaret's lips parted in wonder, for Mistress Bengel, who was there, was perfectly self-possessed, her hands idle, it is true, and her usual sewing lying untouched on the table. Whether her ease was real or assumed it was difficult to say, but Margaret was puzzled.

When the girl entered the room, white faced and startled, she looked up and smiled.

"I have visitors, my dear," she said, in her pleasant way.

It was mysterious. Was William Tyndale gone away from the house, so that Herman and his mother could afford to be at ease even with the Captain of the Guard paying this unwelcome visit? Or—and the thought came over her with startling force—was the poor man dead, and, being so, was it of no consequence if the soldier should find his dead body lying in his bedroom?

But dead!

The bare thought of it was a troubling one; for a few hours before she had seen the dear man in the attitude of prayer, with his hands clasped, his face full of fervent entreaty, and she had heard him plead in an earnestness that was indescribable:

"Spare me, O God, until my work is ended."

The prayer was surely heard; but had it been answered? Or was Tyndale dead after all, before his work was done? Was it to be as she had heard her father say, more than once, that God buries His workmen, but carries on His work?

From where she stood, undecided as to what she should do—whether to go into the room and stay with Mistress Bengel, or follow her lover with her watchful eye, and perhaps be of some sort of service, if the opportunity came—she could hear Herman's voice. Shifting a little, she saw what was going on, since the door was partly open. Herman was holding a lighted lamp in one hand, and making a gesture with the other; but his face bore no trace of anxiety as to the issue of the search.

"The room is at your service, Captain Berndorf, but there is no William Tyndale in it. Nor is he anywhere in the house."

The soldier was looking round searchingly. Margaret marked his eager glances, and saw how he passed round the room. He opened a cupboard, and ran his hand round the sides; he shifted pieces of furniture, and pulled down some of the pictures if they suggested space sufficient for a man to go into hiding.

The search in that room was a vain one.

The Captain, with the soldier, came out of it, and not seeing Margaret he brushed against her. When he saw her he was not surprised at the startled look on her face, for such looks were usual in his experience, when he went hunting for rogues and rascals, and honest men and women whose crime was heresy. What was more, he knew her to be Herman Bengal's sweetheart, so that he merely asked her pardon for blundering up against her, and did not inquire why she should be in the house. It seemed to him the most natural thing in all the world that she should be there, and for a moment a sympathetic thought came that the poor girl should witness the arrest of her lover.

"I must go through the house," the Captain exclaimed, turning his back on Margaret, but he had more to say, which plainly showed that he had no sense of certainty as to this errand on which he had come.

"Why it should be suggested that a fellow of Tyndale's stamp should be lodging under your roof," he went on, "I cannot imagine. It was mentioned, probably, by someone who owed you a grudge. Still, here's my warrant to search for the man, and I may not leave you until I have thoroughly satisfied myself that he is not here."

He walked into the room where Herman's mother sat, and Margaret entered that one where the search had been just made. The lamp stood on the sconce, and she looked around. There was nothing on the table where Tyndale had so often sat to write. Nothing was in the place to suggest his presence; not a sheet of paper, no clothing, no traveller's wallet, nothing that could in any way be connected with the stranger whom she and Herman had brought within the city.

Would Master Tyndale be in hiding elsewhere in the house? There lay the question, the tarrying of the answer adding to her heart-beats and her despair. This inexplicable indifference on Herman's and his mother's part would go dead against them when discovery came.

She went sick with dread. Her knees so trembled that she sank into a chair close by, regardless of the soddened clothes which clung to her. She could only bury her face in her hands, and hope, and pray. There was plenty of scope for prayer; so little for hope.

When she felt she could stand again and move about, feeble compared with the sound of loud beating in her heart, she heard the Captain's voice once more.

"He is not here; but he may be upstairs. Men, see that none pass you to go into the street. I will go up and make sure for myself."

He began the tramp up the stairs while he was speaking, and other heavy footsteps followed his.

CHAPTER VI
THE SEARCH

Margaret's heart quailed when she hurried out of the room and followed the men up the stairs. Now, for a certainty, Herman's protégé would fall into the hands of his enemies, and escape seemed impossible. Her pulse beat high, and despair swept over her, to think how she was to witness the undoing of one who was striving for the triumph of the right.

To be caught in a trap like a rat! It was unbearable to think of.

The dulled sound of the footsteps on the carpeted boards of the stairs seemed to call up a vision of a scene which would ere long be real—the vision of a prisoner on his trial; condemned in effect by his judges before he had made his defence, just because he was William Tyndale. And then the attitude of the crowd that thronged the market-place where the stake was standing, and Tyndale chained to it. She could imagine it all, and she could almost hear the babel of execration against him.

To think of it! A man of such noble mien to be browbeaten and battered by the screaming mob, cursed, reviled, mud-covered. She shuddered at the thought, and while the impulse came to follow the others up the stairs, she hid her face while doing so, and sobbed.

She stood at the top of the stairs and looked around. Here, on her right hand, was the room into which Herman carried the tired stranger that night they brought him into the city. On the left was Herman's chamber. Just beyond it, again, was his mother's. Master Tyndale must be in one of them.

Captain Berndorf went into Herman's room, followed by the others, and in a few moments Margaret heard the soldier say roughly:

"Are you here? Come out of it, if you are!"

Resistance would be unavailing, for the Captain's sword was drawn and ready, gleaming in the lamp-light.

Margaret went into Tyndale's chamber. It was lighted by the lantern in the street, for the rays came through the rain-splashed window, and as she stepped in she almost expected to see him sitting somewhere, or lying on the bed, waiting for the inevitable. Yet, when she stood well within the place there was a sense of emptiness. William Tyndale was neither in the bed, nor at the table near the window.

Was he really gone?

While her keen eyes ranged around she saw a square of whiteness on the floor, by the table, and went to it quickly, with an instinctive feeling that it was something which would betray Tyndale, or Herman. When she bent down and caught it up she knew that it was a printed sheet. Under it lay another; under that, again, a third. By the dim light she saw that they were printed folios, and one glance was sufficient to show her that they were proofs of the New Testament, such as she had seen in her father's hidden cellar.

She glanced towards the door, wondering whether the soldiers were there, and had seen that she had some papers in her hand, but the doorway was clear. Bending her head a little, she saw that the passage was empty. The men were still in Herman's room.

She thought of the way out of this very real danger with her swift woman wit, and hastily unbuttoning her dress, she pushed the sheets into her bosom. It was nothing that they were crumpled. What were three sheets of printed paper compared to the lives of two men?

To her, as she thrust them in, the papers seemed to make enough noise to be heard all over the house, for they crinkled in her hands, and the dampness came on her face lest she had been heard, and they should ask her what she had been doing.

While she was rapidly buttoning her dress she turned her face to the window, where the rain came against the glass in heavy gusts, just as the wind drove it. Below were the soldiers of the City Guard, as when she saw them last, two lines of silent, unmoving men, with their halberds gleaming.

The hope sprang in her heart that William Tyndale was really gone. He was not in Herman's room, or they would have found him. They were now going into Mistress Bengel's bedroom, and would they find him there? If not, he could not be in the house, for he was not in this chamber. Her woman mind showed her what a man might not have noticed. The bed was not made as if waiting for a sleeper. It was surprising. Herman's mother had taken away the sheets from the bed, and it looked as though the room had not been used for a long time past.

Margaret centred her attention on what might be taking place in that bedroom, and because the suspense was more than she could endure, she went to see what they were doing.

The men were there—the three; and it was a strange scene on which she gazed. Herman was standing aside, his back to the window, where he could see everything, and Margaret wondered at the expression on his face. It was something like injured innocence, and, painful though the tension was, she could not repress a smile when she saw him watching with the air of a person subjected to the ignominy of suspicion, and to have his home invaded for the search of a man who was not there.

The Captain had his sword drawn, and was walking round the room, looking into the cupboard, and under the bed, and behind the dresses which hung in a screened-off corner. In all reality serious, disastrous in its promise, it yet appeared ludicrous and undignified.

The man-at-arms was standing apart, and the look on his face when he glanced towards Herman intimated that he thought this a fool's errand, on which they had been sent by some mischief-loving fellow who wanted to hoax the City Guard. And on such a night! Of late they had been brought away from the comfortable guard-room for many a fruitless hunt for this fellow, Tyndale, and this was all of a piece with the past experience.

The search was fruitless, but the Captain was suspicious of a hiding-place. Going to the walls, and bidding the soldier do the same, he began to beat the handle of his sword against the walls. First resting his halberd in one corner of the room, the man drew a dagger from his belt and did as his Captain did. He banged on the wall until the dust began to fly, and the plaster began to drop in flakes upon the floor. William Tyndale was too big a prize to lose for the sake of a few bits of mortar. They were sounding for some hollow place where a man might hide.

"You need not spoil my home like that!" a woman's voice came unexpectedly, and Herman's mother pushed past Margaret into the room, and laid her hand on the soldier's wrist, speaking with some asperity. "I shall appeal to the Burgomaster, and require him to pay for the repair of this wanton damage."

She wrenched the dagger from the man's hand, and held it out for the Captain to see. Her eyes were on a picture through which the fellow had driven his weapon, a picture which had been her dead husband's handiwork in his hours of leisure.

"Is that how you come to an honest woman's house?" she cried, swinging round to face the astonished soldier, her eyes flashing, and her bosom heaving while she thought of this wilful damage done, when a hand put out to remove the picture would have prevented its ruin. "I will go to the Burgomaster even now!" she exclaimed, taking down a heavy cloak from a nail in the corner, and throwing it about her shoulders, with the dagger still in her hand while she began to tie the cord at her throat.

The Captain had turned to look at her, the point of his sword held downwards. He saw the damage that was done, and realised the reasonableness of the woman's resentment.

"You were over-rough," he exclaimed, looking at the picture. "But, on the other hand, since we were, told that Master Tyndale would be found here we must needs miss nothing in our attempt to discover his whereabouts."

"His whereabouts?" cried Herman's mother, usually so gentle, rarely other than placid, but now roused by the roughness shown towards what to her had such holy associations. "Find the man if he is here; but neither you nor that fellow there shall damage what is precious to me, since it was my dead husband's work, finished but three days before he died!"

She sat on the bed, and, burying her face in her hands, wept, and the two men could do no other than look on her in concern as her sobs shook her. Margaret stepped forward like Herman, and sought to comfort her, but the girl's face went hot when she heard the paper in her bosom crinkle as she put her arms about the weeping woman.

The men stole away into the other room, carrying the lamp with them, leaving the others in the darkness.

"Is there any danger, Herman?" Margaret asked, drawing her face away from his mother's, which was wet with tears.

"Not unless they find Tyndale, and they won't do that," said Herman confidently.

Again they heard the sound of shifting furniture, the slam of a cupboard door, the tapping of walls, but less roughly; and, after a while, the soldiers stood in the doorway.

"It is as it has been frequently of late," said the Captain, almost angrily. "We are being fooled by someone, and could I but lay hands on the miscreant who sends us on such errands, I would wring his neck!"

He turned to go away, but paused.

"I am sorry, mistress, the picture was damaged. Send it to Josef Amon, the picture dealer, and tell him to put it to rights at my charges."

He moved away, and tramped down the stairs. To make quite sure that they were not deceived, he and the man with him, and the soldiers who waited below with their feet in a pool of water which had dripped from their clothing, passed through the lower room to the yard, tapping wherever they went.

They were absolutely baffled, for they found nothing which betrayed the presence of the man they sought, and on whose head there was so big a price.

The Captain's voice travelled up the stairs.

"Good-night, mistress. Send the picture to Josef Amon."

The street door slammed. A word of command was heard outside, made tremulous by the gusty wind, and a tramp of soldiers followed, sounded less and less, and before long was no more heard.

Herman had gone to the window which looked into the street, but when he returned the candle showed a laughing face. His eyes danced. His whole frame shook. Laughter conquered him so absolutely that he had to bury his face in the pillow to deaden the sound, lest someone might overhear his boisterous mirth.

"Forgive me, mother," he said, in little bursts, when it was possible to find speech at all. "To think how we did them! Oh, to think of it!"

He laughed the more, holding his sides because of the pain.

It was then that his mother saw how wet Margaret was, and she stood up, in concern, wiping her eyes quickly.

"My child, you are soaking. Herman, go downstairs, and I will put this poor girl into some dry clothes, else she will be chilled to the bone, and ill may come of it."

Herman was serious in an instant, and went away, and in less than half an hour Margaret came down with such clothes as Mistress Bengel could find. Then she told her business.

"Where is Master Tyndale? Has he left the city?" she asked, and set the soddened note her father sent by her on the table. It was so limp that the writing on its cover was scarcely readable.

Herman bent down and kissed the puzzled-looking face, and hugged her fondly, laughing the while.

"Is he gone out of the city?" she asked, because her question had not been answered.

"Come with me, little woman," said her lover; and, putting his arm about her, he led her into the front room.

Moving the table when he had made sure that the shutters were safely closed, and the window so heavily curtained that no one could look in from the street, Herman cleared the centre of the floor, removed the carpet, and tossed it in a heap into one of the corners.

"Just a word, little one," he said, before he did more; and he sat down while he spoke, the better to see his darling's face. "I never told you, but years ago my father made a discovery when he was digging for a safe place in which to hide what bit of money he had, in case of war, and he came across something. You shall see it."

He went on his knees, smiling when he saw Margaret's wide-open eyes. Taking the knife from his belt, he drove the blade deeply into one of the boards, and using it as a handle moved the board aside. He moved the next with his hand, a third, and another also. Asking for a lamp, he held it over an open space, and looking into the blackness Margaret exclaimed in surprise.

At her feet were some rough, wooden steps, leading into what seemed to her a deep well, the bottom of which was not visible. Herman put a foot on the topmost step, and descended a little space, when he asked for the lamp.

"Come with me," he said, as she handed it to him, and Margaret followed without hesitation. Reaching the bottom, step, she found herself in a chamber about ten feet long, six feet wide, or thereabouts, and rather more in height. At the farther corner was a spiral staircase, and when Herman went down with the lamp, and she followed, she came to another room.

Herman saw her bewildered looks, and explained.

"My father thought it was a stronghold for heretics when, a century ago, persecution was keener even than now. There were tokens of it in abundance; but never mind that at present. I'm going to let you into the secret of Master Tyndale's strange disappearance."

He cried, but not loudly, and to his call there was a hollow return of the sound.

"Master Tyndale!" he cried again.

"Who is it?" was the response.

"It is I. Herman Bengel."

CHAPTER VII
THE PASSAGE

Margaret gazed into the darkened space, and listened, with increasing wonder.

"That was Master Tyndale's voice," she whispered, half frightened, while she gripped Herman's hand tightly.

"It was. I put him down here because I chanced to hear that Cochlaeus had been suggesting that he was lodging with us. I told the good man what I had heard, and proposed that he should go into hiding, and he did not hesitate, for he guessed how big and terrible was the net which had been cast for him. When he had gathered in his arms all that was most precious to him, his Bible and his papers, he followed me to this dark place without any demur."

Herman drew the girl aside a little, and pointed into the darkness. From where she then stood she saw a light some distance away. Then she saw a man moving towards her, and carrying a lamp in his hand. When he drew nearer she saw a face; and the nearer it came, the more plainly did she see it. It was so close at last that she recognised the man to whom she was desirous of giving her father's letter.

"Master Tyndale!" she exclaimed, with bated breath, going forward to meet him with outstretched hands.

But something like revulsion came. Her heart had been crowded out with anxiety all that day, and during the night which preceded it she had slept but little, because of the many hours in which she and her father had been packing those incriminating sheets which meant so much. Then had come the journey through the rain-driven streets, and the anxious waiting in the archway, watching the passing of the City Guard. Her hopes had scarcely any being. Her fears were dominant. It was a wear on the mind, and to crown it all was the tension while the house was being searched.

It was more than she could bear. The man who approached her seemed to sway. She felt that the place where they were standing was closing in on her. The floor appeared to ascend, and the roof to sink upon her. Then all was blank.

Herman saw her swaying and caught her in his arms before she fell.

"My darling!" he whispered, kissing her white face and her lips and her closed eyes. "What is wrong?" he asked, holding her to him, and full of fear when he found that she took no notice of him.

"I will carry her to my mother," he exclaimed, taking her bodily into his arms, and turning back to the spiral staircase.

"Nay, bring her to my chamber, my son," said Tyndale, who took both lamps and led the way, while Herman followed with Margaret.

How long she lay on the rude bed she did not know, but when she opened her eyes, Herman's mother was kneeling by her side, doing what she could for her restoration.

"Now, dear heart, take it quietly," the motherly woman said tenderly. "We are safe here. Give your message, and Herman shall presently take you home."

The words were reassuring, and presently she sat on the edge of the bed.

"Master Tyndale," she said, one hand holding the woman's, and drawing the crumpled papers from her bosom with the other, "I found these in your room when Captain Berndorf was searching the house for you."

She held the sheets towards Tyndale, but a cry of dismay escaped not him alone, but the others. Their faces paled, and Tyndale, calm though he was, with deadly danger circumscribing him, trembled. For a few moments he was dumb, but at last he spoke tremulously.

"Ah! If these had fallen into the Captain's hands, of what avail my hiding in this dark place? And what of the danger to my friends?"

His hand shook while it rested on Herman's shoulder.

"I should never have forgiven myself," he muttered. "Never! To have brought sorrow to a home where I have received such unstinted kindness! But there," he added solemnly, "so much the greater reason for thanking God!"

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."

He stood up and began to pack his papers, the precious sheets on which he had spent his fine scholarship with such unremitting patience and splendid zeal. Apparently he did not realise the futility of it, as the others round him did. How could he think to get away from the city now that Cochlaeus had set the hunters on the move? It seemed to Margaret and the others, while they watched in silence, that William Tyndale was like a rat in a trap; not safe behind the iron bars, but certain to be routed out and snapped at by the sharp teeth of the dog the moment he left the cage.

Their minds were active as to the possibilities. Suppose Tyndale ventured into the streets and made his way towards the quay, would he not meet someone who would challenge him, since it was posted up all through Cologne that a heavy price was on his head? Heavy if he were brought in dead; heavier still if alive, so that he should be dealt with by the tormentors. If he got as far as the ramparts would he be likely to find the sentry asleep? The shuffling gait of the scholar, so Margaret thought, would betray him. While he moved he would run the gauntlet of a dozen who would know him for a stranger, dark though it would be in the stormy night. Even on the quay, were he to get so far, who could suppose that he could slip on board any of the river-craft unseen? Captain Berndorf and his men had marched away from the house in that direction, and were possibly searching the ships.

"You cannot go to-night, Master Tyndale," said Herman presently. "Lie here in peace, and be content where you are safe, where no one could suspect your presence; and I will watch for an opportunity."

The younger man spoke with an assurance he did not feel. Already he looked on his protégé as a man within the toils—himself scarcely less so. But why display any doubt when a way, in God's mercy, might open?

Tyndale realised the reasonableness of Herman's words, and, desisting from his eager task, he sat at the table, drawing away from the others the printed sheets which Margaret had saved from the eyes of the soldiers. He read some portion of them aloud while the others sat and listened. Then came the kneeling moments, when he committed himself and his companions to the Almighty hands. Still more urgent was his entreaty that he might be spared to complete his task of making God's Word ready for the multitude to read.

When the prayer was ended and the little company stood again, Margaret wondered at Herman's face. His eyes were bright. His face expectant. Going to the table, he took the lamp, and was about to walk away; but he paused.

"Master Tyndale, while you were praying," he exclaimed, "something came to my mind, and now I feel sure that God will answer that petition of yours."

They looked at him in wonder.

"What do you mean, my son?" asked Tyndale.

"That God may show us a way out of the city, which will spell safety for you. Margaret, come with me. Mother, stay with Master Tyndale."

Margaret went after Herman, who scarcely waited for her, for he was on the move by the time her hand touched his arm.

"What is in your mind, my dear?" she asked, while they moved on into the forbidding blackness beyond the room where they had been praying.

Herman put down his hand for hers, and clasped it tightly to give her confidence. Their eyes met, and she saw how his sparkled with what seemed to her to be hope.

"I'm going to explore, little one. It came to my mind while we were on our knees that I had heard my father say that once the city nearly fell into the hands of an enemy because of a secret entrance into it from the meadows. May not this be it?"

Margaret's eyes grew round with astonishment, and instantly she was alive to the possibilities. If it were as Herman's father said, and this proved to be the passage which was in reality the city's vulnerable point, William Tyndale could get away without having to run the gauntlet, as it were, in the streets and on the quay. He would escape Cochlaeus, and possibly some of those black-robed Familiars of the Inquisition who infested the city. What fear and grief and humiliation it would save if such a way could be found! No danger would threaten her beloved. There would be a safe retreat for Tyndale, or at least the opportunity for finding securer quarters elsewhere; and Cochlaeus would waste some valuable time prosecuting his search.

They came to a door which opened when Herman pressed against it. It moved silently and heavily, and when they had passed through the opening, and turned to look at it from the outer side, they saw that it bore the same appearance as the rock in which it was set. When they closed it, it was impossible, in the dim light of the lamp, to detect any difference between it and the rock itself.

The two went on slowly, Margaret drawing close to her lover's side, and, noticing this, he put his arm about her waist to give her a sense of greater security.

Sometimes the path on which they found themselves descended; but as they went, they saw that it was leading on to some definite spot. Surely it could not be a cul-de-sac? They could hardly fail to find an outlet, but the question was, where? Would it be as Herman's father had said—in the meadows? Or would it lead into some house, just as it had begun in one? In that latter case it would mean the realisation of their worst fears, and Tyndale would either be compelled to make his venture through the streets, or if Herman should be taken prisoner by the City Guard on some suspicion, and Margaret as well, and Herman's mother, he would lie in that hidden chamber, in darkness and starvation, dying at last, rotting and forgotten.

Margaret shuddered at the thought.

"Art cold, little one?" Herman asked, feeling the involuntary shiver of the girl at his side.

It was nothing to wonder at that she did so; for here, where they were walking, their feet were in the mire. The dark walls were streaming with water which spread out on the floor, forming pools in places through which they splashed.

"I shivered at my thoughts," said Margaret quietly, gazing into the darkness, wondering whether she would see any sign of an ascending passage, which might mean a rising to some house cellar like Herman's. She felt more hopeful when the floor dipped again, and so suddenly that she slipped on the slimy earth, and would have fallen but for Herman's strong arm which kept her on her feet.

"Your thoughts?" exclaimed Herman questioningly.

"I was thinking of what would happen if this path ended at someone's house," she said, looking carefully to her footing.

An exclamation escaped Herman's lips. He had hoped that a fear like that was only his, and not hers, for the same idea had come to him.

"Who would have thought of such a thing as that?" he said half laughingly, to hide his own anxiety, but the girl at his side was not deceived.

"I thought so, Herman, and so did you," Margaret said half reproachfully, clinging still more tightly to her companion, for the way in front grew blacker and more forbidding. But on they went, determined to know what the end of this underground path would be.

"I believe we are in a great cavern, sweetheart," said Herman presently, when they halted involuntarily. The floor on which they were treading was no longer soft earth, but gravel and hard rock. No walls were visible, nor could they see any roof.

Looking into denser blackness, they heard the splash of water, and the lantern light showed a gleaming drop falling.

Going forward, they came to a spot where the dropping water had made for itself a hollow basin, but, passing round it, they walked on. Before they had gone far they halted suddenly, and with an exclamation of dismay; for, stretched full length against the wall, down which some water trickled freely, percolating through the rock overhead, lay the body of a man whose flesh had gone, and time had left nothing but the clothed skeleton—death in its grimmest and most forbidding form. By his side, and clinging to him, lay a woman to whom time had been just as unkind. The man's hand gripped a small book, and Herman, kneeling on the floor to look, saw that it was opened at a page where he read some words that were in startling contrast with the end which had come to these who lay so still.

"In my Father's house are many mansions."

It was easy to imagine the story of that tragedy. Years before, the Inquisitors had hounded these poor ones, and they had found a hiding-place which became a death-chamber to them. Not daring to venture forth for food or liberty, they had died in this cavern.

Margaret and Herman went on, the horror of this discovery, and the pitifulness of it, thrilling them. They had not gone far, tracing the cavern walls in the hope of finding an exit, before they came to an ascending passage, and they stood still again, wondering to what it would lead. Would it take them to a house, and therefore to almost certain danger? Or would it lead them to the open country outside the city?

The ground was damp and bare, and mildew was on the walls; but as they went forward slowly and cautiously, prepared to hurry back if danger threatened, the lantern showed them moss in little patches; then plants that were content with little light so long as there was air to play about them.

Because of the cool air they felt that they were coming near to some opening, and if they carried a light it might betray them.

"Suppose we leave the lamp here, my dear," Margaret suggested. "We can use it when we return."

Herman nodded and set it down, and again they moved on. Now there were bushes, and presently a sky was overhead, with scudding clouds, whose jagged edges were fringed with silver whiteness by the clear-shining moon. The storm that had swept the city had ended.

A few steps more, and they were confronted by a bush, high, broad, and almost impenetrable, but, finding a way through, they saw the meadow, skirted by the river that rolled on in a stately flow.

CHAPTER VIII
THE PRINTER'S WORKSHOP

When they had gone back to the house, and told of what they had seen, Herman took Margaret home, and then the story of the night's experiences was related to Byrckmann, whose eyes brightened.

"God is in this. Now I see daylight," he exclaimed, turning to his daughter with a smile, the first she had seen on his face, which was genuine, since he had heard that Cochlaeus was in the city. He had forced himself to look serene and unruffled when his customers came to the shop, and had spoken to the workmen as though care sat but lightly on him; but whenever Margaret watched him while he was alone she knew that he had covered his face with a mask to hide his fear of approaching disaster.

But things had undergone a change, and Byrckmann went to bed that night doing something that was unwonted—humming to himself as though he had no more dread. Her father's cheerfulness and obvious relief gave Margaret such a sense of safety that she, too, slept soundly.

It was early morning when she got out of bed, and, drawing back the curtain, she looked into the street to see what sort of day was promising. What she saw surprised her, for John Gropper was crossing the road to the shop.

"So early?" she muttered, for by the strokes of the cathedral bell it wanted two hours before the workmen would come for the day. But she asked no questions when it was her usual time for going downstairs.

During the day the horses came to the door, and the waggon was laden with bales; then moved away in the direction of the quay. She thought nothing of it, because it was such a usual thing. She saw at times how men came and went, talking with her father at the counter, or going with him into the workshop; but his care was so sensibly diminished that she was able to move about without that oppression at her heart. She laughed light-heartedly when Herman came, and told her that he had spoken to her father, and that the wedding could take place next week.

"Ha! You hold me lightly, as if I were goods and chattels to be disposed of as two men might arrange!" she cried, holding Herman off at arm's length, her pretty face full of laughter, and her eyes dancing. "What if I decline?" she asked saucily.

"What if you decline, my pretty maid?" Herman asked. "When the morning comes I'll come, and what would you do in my strong arms if I picked you up, and carried you through the streets?"

"And expose me to the ridicule of every passer-by," she exclaimed archly.

"That way, whatever the passer-by may think, my little maid, rather than not at all."

The day was ageing when a change came. She was telling her mother of things that had happened downstairs; the queer requests of some of the customers; the obstinacy of the new maid in the kitchen; the gloom on the face of one of the 'prentices because he had mistaken the day when his time expired, and he had two more weeks to serve; of an unusually large order that had come in—a dozen things like that; and the pale face of the suffering woman grew rosier, and the lips parted in smiles, and the mother chatted eagerly about her daughter's wedding.

The joy passed suddenly, like a thunder-clap, and the old care returned, and more fiercely because she had thought it gone entirely. The twilight was coming as she sat at the window, telling her mother what was going on in the street, the workmen straggling off in ones and twos because the day's work was ended. It was not that which made the rosy cheeks white, and drove the love-light from her eyes, and made her heart beat with anxiety. Not that commonplace thing.

Some men were moving along the street, and the sound came up to the open window, like the steady tramp of soldiers. Then she saw the City Guard.

She had already seen them go by twice that day, but the conditions of the coming had changed. Two men were walking with the Captain of the Guard: one of them Cochlaeus; the other the Dean of the Senate, who never accompanied the Guard unless the business was of the most serious import.

She hoped they would pass, but the soldiers ranged up in a double line before the door of her father's house, just as they had done in front of Herman's home; and then the Captain and the Dean followed Cochlaeus into the shop.

She was dismayed and confounded, for her thoughts went to the cellar where the bundles were hidden away. These men had but to go there, and the mere presence of the press would lend suspicion as to its use in that unusual place. They had but to strip away one of the strong wrappers and they would see those printed sheets!

"Mother, there is Mistress Amon passing!" she exclaimed, making that her excuse for leaving the room so abruptly. She was going down to face the trouble, for it must be that.

When she passed the doors on her way downstairs the rooms seemed silent, tragic almost in their suggestion of disaster. A hush had come over the place which boded ill, but there was the rush of sound in her ears, and the beating of her heart. A mirror was at the bend of the stairs, and she was startled to see her face; it looked so weary, and so drawn with fear.

She went on, wanting to learn the worst. It meant so much for the home; for her father, of whom she was so fond and proud; for her darling mother, from whom they kept all the rough winds of life because she had enough to bear in the way of bodily pain. Yes. And it meant so much for herself. For how could she think of marriage when she was known to the world as the daughter of a man who was to die at the stake, or, as an act of uncommon mercy, to end his days at the galleys?

At the foot of the dark stairs she stood unseen, either by her father, or the Dean, or Cochlaeus. The Dean was unusually serious, and it was easy to see that his errand was an unwelcome one; solely one of duty; whereas Cochlaeus betrayed his satisfaction at the prospect of seeing Byrckmann undone, and Tyndale's hope of getting his Bible printed vanish.

COCHLAEUS AND THE SOLDIERS SEARCHING THE PRINTER'S WORKSHOP.

What struck her most was her father's bearing. He was faced, she knew, with ruin, and she did not see how he could escape discovery. Cochlaeus was reputed to be well versed in all the tricks of heretics to hide their guilt, and he was not easily baffled. Yet her father was quite at ease. He was grave enough, but he had not the bearing of a man who feared the outcome of this search. Margaret saw the Dean look at him askance.

They went to the workshop, followed by a couple of soldiers, who left their halberds in the shop as being too cumbersome to carry in the winding passages.

Margaret stole after them, but was careful to keep out of sight. The workmen were all gone home, and through the glass door she saw that the workshop was left as usual. Printed sheets lay about. The presses were there, empty, waiting for the morning. The written papers which were copy for the printing were in the usual places, and tools, and ink, and other things.

Her father contented himself with waving his hand, but she heard him say:

"This is my workshop. Search as you will."

The searchers moved in all directions, and Cochlaeus, more active than any, looked around for hidden places, and seemed to be calculating the thickness of the walls, suggestive of room for hiding; but there was nothing to bear out his suspicions in that matter.

Nothing was discovered in the workshop, although with his strong hand Cochlaeus tore open every package to see that nothing in them was likely to belong to Tyndale. Even the paper wanted for printing was dealt with in the same ruthless way, until Byrckmann's patience reached its limit, and he made a protest to the Dean.

"This priest, who has no official standing in the city, has chosen to suspect me, yet he is welcome to make his search. But prevent him from doing such wanton damage to my goods, or I will sue the Senate for the charges."

Cochlaeus swung round and stared in amazement at the printer, but he caught the glint in his eyes, and saw that Byrckmann, far from being afraid, was almost defiant. He went about his work more carefully, and did no more preventible damage.

Nothing was found; nor in the inner shop, where special work was done. But what of that? Margaret's mind was on the cellar, where the real danger lay. She watched anxiously, lest any stray piece of paper might betray her father, but she wondered whether, with all his sharpness, Cochlaeus would think of the cellar.

"Master Byrckmann," cried Cochlaeus peremptorily, "remove the bundles from this side of the room, so that we may see the floor beneath."

"Nay; I do not make the search," came the sturdy answer. "'Tis not for me to give a hand in what you think will be my undoing."

The tone was decisive. The Dean looked askance at the printer, and muttered to himself that Byrckmann did not bear himself like a man who had anything to fear. He turned to the soldiers, and bade them remove the bales to the other side of the room. They responded sulkily, for this was not their work. As the last bale was dropped on top of the others, Cochlaeus stamped over the cleared space.

"Ha! This is hollow!"

Bending low, he scanned every part of the floor, and at last he went on his knees to feel about for any sign of an opening.

"Byrckmann, come and raise the floor!" he cried.

"Nay, 'tis your business, not mine," was the quiet retort. "'Tis your search, as I told you just now; not mine. You can lift it as readily as I."

The Dean looked round again and, ignoring the Captain of the Guard, who yielded to his superior, he nodded to a soldier. The man came forward and, looking carefully, thrust in the point of his sword at the spot where the floor seemed to be moveable, and, lifting it, threw it back with a noisy clatter and a prodigious dust.

"Now we shall see!" cried Cochlaeus triumphantly, and he hurried down the steps. The Deacon of the Church of the Blessed Virgin had discarded his dignity in his eagerness.

Every pulse in Margaret throbbed wildly. She felt like falling in a fainting heap, but she controlled herself, and watched, to mark the fatal ending of this quest. Yet she marvelled to mark her father's ease.

As the last soldier moved down, and his head went out of sight, she was more amazed than ever to see him rub his hands, and his face broaden into a smile. She wondered whether he had suddenly gone mad with the strain of the last few days, and therefore he did not realise his danger.

Presently a soldier's head appeared, and his face, when it came in sight, had a whimsical look on it. So it was with the next, and he stamped his foot as his heavy boot touched the floor. He dropped his sword noisily into its scabbard, as if there would be no use for it.

The Dean came into view, impassive as before, unless one could interpret that peculiar look on his lean face as one of satisfaction because the quest had ended so. There was bewilderment in the Captain's face when he also emerged from the cellar.

Last of all came Cochlaeus, and his sinister face was red with wrath. As he stepped away from the ladder he swung round on Byrckmann, and spoke in a passionate tone.

"Why did you not say there was nothing here to connect you with that fellow Tyndale?"

"You put no question that I could so answer," was the quiet, but exasperating response. "You came to my shop, and without asking me anything, you said, 'We have come to search your premises.' You did not say for what, and since the Dean was here, a man whom I esteem, I offered no protest, although you have no authority in this city, and suffered you to have your way. You have had it."

While the soldiers left the house, Cochlaeus stamped to and fro, protesting against being made a laughing-stock.

"Nay," said the Dean quietly. "You came to the Senate House and lodged your information in such confident terms that Master Byrckmann was printing off this Bible for Tyndale, that we granted you the opportunity for the search. You cannot blame the printer because his hands are clean in this matter."

Cochlaeus scowled and walked away, while Margaret, still wondering how it came about that the cellar was clear, followed him through the shop, and gazed after him through the window when he stalked along in anger down the silent street.

CHAPTER IX
THE MAN BY THE RIVER

There was the sound of footsteps behind her, and, turning quickly, Margaret saw her father walking to the door, where he drove the bolt into the socket.

"What does it all mean?" she asked eagerly, looking at him across the counter. "Father, my heart was almost bursting with anxiety; for when I saw those men searching the workshop, and Cochlaeus asked for the floor to be raised, there was no way out of the dreadful pass that I could see. I thought to see them go into the cellar and find the printing-press and those printed sheets. It was almost more than I could bear!"

She sank on the stool and buried her face in her hands, shuddering, and thus she stayed until her father bent over the counter to her, and gently stroked her hair.

"It was thoughtless of me, my dear," he said soothingly; "and I ought to have told you what I did. Gropper and I pulled the press to pieces and placed it in the storeroom. Then we spent another long night in covering William Tyndale's sheets with strong wrappers for a long journey, and they were taken in a waggon to a ship which is lying at the quay. There they are, stowed away in safety, where even Cochlaeus would scarcely find them."

"Then I saw them," she cried.

"They went this morning," the printer said light-heartedly; and for awhile, as the shadows fell and twilight gave place to darkness, save for the light which came in through the window from the lantern in the street, they talked of this danger which had threatened them.

"If only Master Tyndale were well out of the city," Byrckmann muttered. "I would go to him, but it would be unwise. Someone would see me, perhaps, and Gropper must not."

"Let me go," said Margaret.

"'Tis dark."

"I have been in the streets far later than this, father. Don't you remember?"

Without waiting for more, Margaret went to her room for her cloak and hood.

"What is the message?" she asked, coming into the shop again, fastening a dainty bow under her chin. She pulled the bow into shape and buttoned her cloak. "Give me the message and a kiss, and let me start."

"I will come part way with you, my dear," her father said; "but I will tell you before we leave the shop. The walls of the city seem to be all ears of late."

He took down his cap and buckled a sword on his thigh; then, having whispered the message, which he made her repeat, to know that it was thoroughly understood, he led the way into the street.

They parted at the archway where Margaret had sheltered from the storm, and she thought for a moment of the man who had been standing there. Byrckmann stood well in the shadow and watched his daughter, but when she came to the bend in the long street he hurried after her, to make sure that no harm came to her. From a dark doorway he watched, and saw her stop at Herman's door, and presently she passed into the house. After that he went to Gropper, but returned home, as he put it to himself, like a thief in the night, alert for every sound, and fearful lest he should meet the City Guard. The experiences of the day had shaken his nerve, and the very air seemed full of danger.

Herman's mother answered Margaret's knock on the door, and when she saw the girl she drew her into the dark passage, and thrust in the bolt.

"Herman," she called.

"Yes, mother," was the answer from the top of the stairs.

"A young lady to see you, my son," was the laughing call.

"Give her a kiss, mother—a nice one; and tell her I'll be down in two minutes!" the young man cried, his strong, clear voice vibrating with pleasure.

"I was dressing to come round to see your father," he said, before long, gazing at her as she stood in the lantern's light, looking radiant in her young beauty, her laughing face betraying the fact that in her love for Herman she had banished all her care.

"My father!" she exclaimed archly. "Would you dress like that to see him?" But he smothered her with kisses as soon as he had set down the lamp, and his hands were free.

"I am come on business, Herman," she said presently. "Father sent me with a message for Master Tyndale."

"He is in the cavern," said Herman doubtfully.

"Let me go to him at once," Margaret exclaimed, leading the way to the front room, and going into the darkness before Herman had brought the light; but ere long she was face to face with Tyndale.

"My father told me to say to you, 'Get you gone out of the city, for Cochlaeus is on your track.' He has been to our home to search for your printed sheets."

"And did he find them?" Tyndale asked anxiously.

"No. My father anticipated his coming, and the bundles are all on board a ship called the Marburg, now lying at the quay. She leaves to-night. He suggests that you should go through the cavern, of which I told him, and wait at the riverside, where you or Herman will send an owl's cry over the water as the vessel passes. He is gone to Gropper's house to bid him see the skipper, and ask him to leave at ten o'clock to-night. He is to listen for the owl's call, and take you on board."

There was no need for haste. Quietly and persistently Tyndale gathered up his few belongings. Some were most precious, but woe for him if Cochlaeus laid hands on them. He set them on the table at which he had been working when Margaret entered the lonely underground room, and he suffered her to look at them. One was a New Testament, the Latin version by Erasmus. The other was the Vulgate, and from these two books he was basing his translation into English for the people at home to read.

There was so much more than when he entered the city, a worn-out traveller, borne in Herman's arms. Then it was the heavy wallet, swung pilgrim-like on his shoulder, holding these precious volumes, and two or three necessaries, but no more. Now there were sheets on which he had laboured incessantly, almost feverishly, page after page, making a heap of papers, each scored over and corrected before he placed it on the pile with the others. These had to go with a few proofs which had come from Byrckmann's shop, smudged and rough from the printing-press. They had to be wrapped about with something, and presently they were ready to be borne in the wallet like a soldier's knapsack.

"A dangerous burden," said Tyndale quietly, when it lay on the table, "but a precious one; and in God's mercy it may more than balance much of the wickedness and sorrow in the world," he added, with kindling enthusiasm.

It wanted nearly an hour to the time when the Marburg would leave her moorings and move up the river. They divided the burdens among them, Margaret's share being the lantern, and with this she led the way. She shuddered when she passed the spot where those dead ones were lying, but she did not tarry, and she only spoke when she whispered back a warning where to stoop, and where the footing was treacherous.

When they came into the open the moon was low down on the horizon, peeping between the heavy foliage of some trees, but making the shadow dense in which they sheltered themselves. Overhead were the glinting stars, Venus riding a few inches higher in the heavens than Jupiter, and close at hand was the dark and slowly moving river which reflected the sparkling sky dots and the dense bushes on the opposite bank. The waters were almost soundless but for the gurgle as they played with the plants and flowers which bent and nodded as the current moved.

Waiting but alert, they saw a great mass moving in the middle of the stream.

"'Tis a raft," said Herman, when he had peered beneath his hand. There were lights on it, and, as they flared, the watchers saw people moving to and fro, and when the moon uncovered her face there were ragged tents, and women sitting near them with their little ones about them.

"So much the better for your journey, Master Tyndale," said Herman, as the moving mass went by. "The river will be clear for the next few days."

The huge floating mass disappeared at a bend in the stream, and again the eyes of the watchers scanned the waters for some sign of the Marburg.

"I would that William Roye had been less dilatory," Tyndale said presently. "He promised to meet me weeks ago, and said he would send word as to his coming."

"Perhaps he heard that there was danger and dared not come," Herman suggested, without taking his eyes away from the river.

"William Roye was ever afraid of his skin," said Tyndale half bitterly. "But he would have been useful to me as my amanuensis."

"Ha!" exclaimed Herman, starting. "What was that?"

A few yards away he saw a man crawl into view from the bank, and stand up at his full height. From the same spot a boat was pulling into the centre of the stream as if to overtake the raft, which was no more in sight.

It might mean much. It might mean nothing. But whether friend or foe it was not desirable to have anyone so near when the ship they were awaiting might soon come into view. Yet nothing could be done.

"Stand well back in the shadows," Herman whispered. "The man may move away."

It was a difficulty for which they were not prepared. The bare idea of a little company, bent on furthering God's work in the world, resorting to violence was unthinkable; yet, to be cooped up like this, and suffer the ship to go by without her passenger, spelt disaster, for Cochlaeus was a veritable sleuth-hound, and might run Tyndale to earth.

The stranger appeared indifferent whether he was seen or heard, and time seemed to him of no importance, since he looked about him idly. The moon began to flood the meadows more freely, so that the fields and the dells, the woods and cornfields, the distant mountain slopes and their torrents became visible, but the man was the object from which those in hiding could not take their eyes.

The puzzle was to know what to do. The impulse came to Herman to walk along the bank as a casual wayfarer, and he would accost the man and lure him away, so that he would not see Tyndale join the ship. So much hung on the secret movements of him in whose wallet such precious things were hidden.

Before he had time to decide, the man was on the move. He walked at first apparently without an aim, but he swung round and approached the bushes where the others were hiding. As he drew nearer, the moonlight showed him plainly, a man of fine physique; and he, too, had a pilgrim's wallet on his back.

He paused to scan the stream again, attracted by the silver glint on the waters. The man coughed, and Margaret started. She had heard a sound like it somewhere, but where and when she could not tell. The man, drawing nearer to the bush, halted again, and spoke to himself in a grumbling tone.

"To think of missing my entrance into the city like this! Now I have to stay here the whole night through, and go in in the broad light of day, when God knows who may spot me, and what may chance."

Margaret remembered the voice. It was the form of the man to whom she had spoken when she sheltered in the archway from the pelting rain. It was certainly his voice.

"Herman," she whispered, "do you remember what I told you of the man in the archway the other night—the man who cursed the Inquisitors for what they had done for his daughter?"

"Yes, what of it?" asked Herman, keeping a watchful eye on the intruder.

"That is the man."

"Are you sure?"

"Certain."

"I wonder whether I dare go to him and speak," said Herman, half to himself; but Tyndale suddenly sprang to his feet, and tramped past him, muttering as he went. Herman threw out his hand to catch at him, but was too late. Tyndale was stalking on towards the man, who heard him coming, and, alarmed, had put his hand to the dagger in his belt.

"William Roye," exclaimed Tyndale.

The two men met, and clasped hands while they stood face to face.

CHAPTER X
ROYE AND THE INQUISITORS

After that hearty greeting, Tyndale and Roye walked to and fro on the river-bank, so absorbed in the pleasure of their meeting that they forgot the danger of moving about in the clear moonlight. Herman, growing anxious, called to them that they were running needless risks.

"I forgot!" exclaimed Tyndale. "It was such a joy to see William Roye that everything went."

"'Twas a dangerous absent-mindedness," said Herman, almost sharply, looking round while he spoke, to make sure that none were near enough to observe them. While he did so, Tyndale hurried to the bush, followed by his companion, and they hid themselves in the shadows, with the others.

"Now, my dear Roye, explain yourself," said Tyndale, almost peremptorily, sitting on the grass in a place so dark that one could scarcely see the other. "Why did you stay away so long? I have been working feverishly and unceasingly all these weeks, and the Lord's work has tarried because I have but this one poor pair of hands to do the work of two."

"Hush, master," the response came quietly. "In some degree I am to blame, but not so much as it would appear."

Tyndale answered half reproachfully, for now that the pleasure of meeting had given place to reflection, he felt that the man for whom he had sent so urgently had failed him, and hindered his task. So many weeks had gone.

"I cannot but blame you, whatever your excuse!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, master, do not say that. Let me explain. Your letter found me, and I read it by the light of a street lamp. Perhaps it was the act of a madman, but a lad gave it to me by night when I was out walking. He dogged my steps until we were in a quiet street, and he caught up to me and whispered:

"'Are you William Roye?'

"'Yes, but why?' I asked, rather startled, for I thought I was an unknown man among strangers.

"'Then I have to give you this,' and he thrust your letter into my hand, and seemed to vanish in the darkness. I knew at once that it came from you, for I know your handwriting so well. I broke the seal and began to read, but by the time I got to the end and saw your name I was startled. I chanced to look up, and saw two black-robed figures coming towards me."

Roye stopped, and clasped his hands convulsively, as if the memory of it, even, was overwhelming.

"Were they Familiars?" asked Tyndale eagerly.

"Yes, master. Hear you me, Master Tyndale?" he exclaimed hoarsely, his voice little more than a whisper. "They were Familiars. You know what need I have to dread them, yes, and to curse them," he went on, wringing his hands, his breath catching with a sob. "Did they not, or the City Guard for them, which was all the same—did they not come to my home and take my darling Gertrude from me to that dark dungeon of theirs?

"But these men came on me unexpectedly in the street; and they came with that horrible, weird tread, almost soundless, and so the more fearful. I stood where I was, beneath the street lamp, transfixed, holding the letter in my hand, and staring at them, open-mouthed.

"They must have seen that I was desperately frightened. Oh, fool that I was! I was betraying myself to those black-souled, black-robed night-hawks, and there was the letter trembling in my hand!

"They drew level with me, and I watched, praying that they might pass on; but they did not. One spoke to the other, though I do not know what he said, and in a moment he thrust out his hand to clutch at the letter.

"In an instant I was alert. Had he got hold of it the consequences would have been terrible. They would have known where you were hiding. The address was on the letter, and that black-hearted villain, Cochlaeus, would have been on your track."

Roye stopped, and there was silence, Those who listened were spellbound, for they realised the possibilities. Those Familiars would have come straight to the door of Herman's house!

Margaret's brain reeled at the thought of what might have come to her lover and his mother. She caught at Herman's great hand convulsively, and he, travelling on the same road of thought, bent down and kissed her fingers softly.

"Go on," cried Tyndale, almost querulously, for the suspense was hard to bear. "Go on, Roye! Why do you pause and tantalise us? Who knows but that the man, Cochlaeus, may even now be at Herman Bengel's door!"

While he spoke, Tyndale drew off his cap, and wiped his face, which had gone damp with fear.

"I crave your pardon, Master Tyndale," Roye answered quickly. "I was somewhat overcome with the thoughts that are rushing through my soul. But I will tell you all.

"I stepped back when I saw the Familiar's hand come out, and I held the letter behind me. But the man followed me, saying sternly, 'Give me that paper.'

"'Tis mine!' I cried, and now I remember how my voice rang out on the night.

"I marvel at my boldness, but in those moments I thought, not of my own peril, but of the consequences to my master if I gave up the letter. I thought how your safety would be imperilled, your life, indeed, and God's work brought to a standstill."

"Go on, dear Roye," came Tyndale's urgent words, and the others seemed in their imagination almost to hear the footfall of the City Guard, and the loud knock on Herman's door, and then his mother answering it to find herself faced by Cochlaeus and the soldiers.

"'Give me that paper!' the man reiterated, and suddenly, when he came forward with a swift step, he snatched at it. But, thank God! I hindered him. The consequences, if he got it into his possession, awoke in me a boldness at which I have trembled a score of times since then. Had there been time for cold thought I might have given it to him meekly, obsessed with that unconquerable force that is behind the minions of the Inquisition. But the impulse came, and I acted on it. The menacing hand—thin and claw-like—went very near the letter. It had almost clutched it; but I lifted my own. See, Master Tyndale! Mark what my fist is like."

Roye held it out for the others to see, and as it was so stretched forth the moonlight fell on it. It was tightly clenched, and Margaret gazed at it, wondering who could stand up against a blow from it.

"THE FAMILIAR FELL LIKE A LOG ON THE STONES AT MY FEET"

"I lifted my fist, Master Tyndale, and brought it down on that black mask. My whole strength went into the blow, and I heard the man gasp. His hands went up in self-protection, for I struck him again. The first blow awoke me. The second came because I thought of my darling Gertrude. I struck a third time, and he fell like a log on the stones at my feet, and lay still—dead, perhaps. I do not know.

"The second Familiar came forward with a cry of rage. He shouted to me that by daring to strike his companion I had outraged the Church, and, screaming out his words, he flung himself upon me. I still had my child in my mind, and as I stepped aside I struck at him. He staggered sideways, but recovered himself, but when he came at me again, he fell back with my blow, and lay across his fellow."

Margaret and her companions breathed more freely, for it seemed to them that the Familiars had failed to get possession of the letter; but she longed to know what happened.

"What followed then?" she asked, laying her hand on Roye's arm.

"What followed! I hurried away lest I might be seen; but as I went down the street with the letter in my hand, two other Familiars met me. The light of a street lantern fell on the white paper, and I realised that the same thing might happen here as with those other two. What should I do? If I tore it up those men might gather up the pieces, and with patience they could put them together again, and read it all. Then they would see Master Tyndale's name, and the place where he lodged.

"The Familiars were some distance away, standing beneath a swinging lamp to read the names, perhaps, on the sheet they held—the names of some poor creatures doomed to the torture chamber. I tore off my master's name, and, thrusting the piece of paper in my mouth, I ground it between my teeth and swallowed it. Then I tore out the address, and swallowed that as well. Even then I was afraid of the consequences. God alone could tell what they might have got from what was left who found it, so I turned down an alley, and in the darkness swallowed it all."

Roye stopped. Margaret laughed low in sheer relief, for now no Familiars could be at Herman's street door. Herman chuckled, while Tyndale rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

"Still I do not understand your long absence, William," he said presently. "How does it account for the weeks that have gone by without your coming to my lodgings?"

"Why, master, of course," said Roye, who seemed to have forgotten the purpose for which he was telling the story of his adventures. "I ate the letter, but in my haste I had taken no note of the address. I wanted to know what you were writing to me. I only knew the name of the city, not the name of the street."

He heard the subdued laughter of the girl at his side, but was not much disconcerted.

"A natural thing, William," said Tyndale.

"It was, master. The great thing, first of all, was to prevent discovery. Then I was confronted with a real difficulty—the task of finding you. I came at once to the city, and all through the weary days since then I have gone through and through the streets, not daring to ask for you, but hoping as well as praying that I might find you."

"I saw you!" exclaimed Margaret.

"You saw me?" the man retorted incredulously.

"Yes. Do you remember the night when the rain poured down, and you sheltered in an archway? I came while you were standing there. Had I but known!" Margaret added earnestly.

"Was it you?" asked Roye, in surprise.

"Yes, and I was even then going to the house where Master Tyndale lodged."

"If I had but known!" the man exclaimed, repeating Margaret's words. "Then, master, I had proved my loyalty to you and your great work, and my honest wish to serve you."

Tyndale did not answer, for something came looming out of the darkness, when a heavy cloud had cast dark shadows on the river—the form of a slowly moving ship. She slid out into the moonlight, and as she took clear shape, Herman knew her by the peculiar figurehead at her bows.

"'Tis the Marburg!" he exclaimed.

Hurrying to the bank, and taking great risk while doing so, he sent a plaintive and monotonous owl note travelling through the air. He did it again and again until a man in the ship's bows held up his hand by way of answer to the call, and disappeared.

Before long a boat came noiselessly, the oars being muffled, and presently she struck her nose against the bank.

"Is Master Tyndale ready?"

The question came cautiously from a man in the boat's stern. Happily the clouds had again gathered, and none, had any been watching, could have seen Tyndale step from among the bushes and make his way to the bank.

"I am here. Are you not very late?"

"A bit," was the sturdy, but whispered answer. "It couldn't be helped. That fellow, Cochlaeus, has been prowling about the harbour for the last three hours, and, not content with asking who was on board any of the ships that meant to leave to-night, he went aboard every one of them, and rummaged about in the cabins and down the holds, tapping everywhere where there was a possible place for a man to hide in. The Marburg came in for special attention."

Tyndale stood on the bank and listened, and the moonlight, playing on his face, revealed the intensity of his anxiety.

"Did he find anything? Was he suspicious about those precious bundles?" he asked.

"No, master; his whole aim was to lay those long lean fingers of his on flesh and blood. And something laughable happened, although some of us sweated with anxiety at first. Cochlaeus got down into the hold, where there were some casks, and these he tapped with his staff, as he tapped every mortal thing there was. Some of them sounded hollow, and he turned them over, but when he came to one and turned that on its side, a man sprawled out."

Cochlaeus caught at him.

"'Ha! Master Tyndale, I have you at last!' he cried jubilantly, but a moment later he screamed aloud. It was Heinrich, the simple lad in the city, who, for some freak, had stolen on board to have a free ride up the river, and hid himself thus, that none should know.

"He was frightened when he saw that it was Cochlaeus who had gripped him, and in his frenzy of fear he snapped at the hand of the heretic hunter, closing his teeth upon the long bony fingers, making him scream with pain. But Heinrich would not let go. Not he! He seemed to take a delight in making the Deacon of the Church of the Blessed Virgin dance about, and he bit the harder. Ah! how he bit! and some of the sailors laughed till the tears came, hoping that the simple lad would bite the harder, to part repay the brute for the sorrow and pain he had caused to so many who had come into his power.

"When the Captain came, wondering what the laughter and the screams meant, he persuaded the boy to loosen his teeth; but not until he had clenched his teeth for a final bite.

"'I'll bite harder if ever he lays hands on me again!' Heinrich cried, looking at the Churchman, and there was a mad light in his eyes."

The sailor dropped his laughter, and became serious.

"Poor lad," he muttered. "And yet I am glad he showed his teeth to that fierce tormentor, and made him think, perhaps, of the poor girls, and the mothers, and the men he has tormented in those ghastly cellars of the Holy Houses. But come, Master Tyndale. The ship is moving down the stream, and will not wait for us."

Tyndale stepped into the boat, dropping his wallet at his feet before he sank on the seat.

"Come, William," he said to Roye, whose foot was on the gunwale.

"Nay, William, if that is what they call you," said the sailor, holding up a refusing hand. "I only take Master Tyndale."

"But you must take him, friend!" exclaimed Tyndale, bending forward eagerly. "'Tis William Roye, my amanuensis, and if he does not come with me my work will be greatly hindered."

"Then in Christ's name, good man, come and be welcome. All who have a hand in spreading God's truth may have a place on board the Marburg, and I know the Captain will approve."

A few moments more and the boat shot away from the bank into the stream, and was lost in the darkness, which was providential when so many eyes might be prying into the doings of the night. For the clear shining moon had gone behind some dense clouds and shrouded the river and the meadows and the city near by in blackness.

CHAPTER XI
ALONE IN THE CAVERN

Only once did the moon peep through a rift in the cloud to light up the waters and show the Marburg making her slow way against the stream. It was a fleeting glimpse which the watchers had as they stood on the bank before they turned to find their way back to the house by the cavern way. The shaft of silver, as it fell, revealed the dim form of the vessel which carried such a precious burden with it, and a life which meant so much for the world's weal.

Then darkness fell again.

Herman and Margaret stood hand in hand, gazing into the blackness, hoping that the clouds would drift by, and the sky be cleared to show them the empty river, with the ship gone out of sight, and safely away from the jurisdiction of the authorities of the city. Instead, they came more and more heavily, and the darkness grew denser.

After a while they sat down and began to talk of their own concerns, and the married life they were going to lead within the week. Margaret, with her lover's arm about her, told him what her hopes were; but she spoke as well of her diffidence, lest he might be disappointed in his wife.

"Hush, little sweetheart," whispered Herman, drawing her closer, so that their lips met. "'Twill be the finest bargain any man ever made; the best gift God ever gave to anyone. And when I think of it, 'tis hard to contain myself, that this day week you will be mine."

Margaret was going to answer, but a sound came, and she bent forward to gaze into the darkness towards the harbour from whence the Marburg had come.

"What's the matter?" Herman asked.

"Did you hear the sound of a man's feet? Can you not hear some voices?" she whispered.

The stillness of the night, while they listened, was broken by the sound of voices and the tread of feet. It was no thing of the imagination. At first there was but a distant murmuring, but now it was undeniable that men were coming, swiftly, persistently, and, judging from the tone of their voices, they were greatly incensed.

Before long, while Margaret and her companion sat shadowed from observation by the bush, they began to distinguish the words.

"To think that I should have been duped like that," cried one.

"'Tis Cochlaeus," Margaret whispered, but Herman made no answer. The man was saying more, and he would not miss a word.

"I went through the ship, and through it again, but found no trace of that accursed Englishman; not a sound nor a sign of his presence. Nothing came of my search but the discovery of that mad stowaway, who has left marks on my fingers that will stay for many a day."

The company halted close by, and Herman and Margaret, holding themselves in silence, neither moving hand nor foot, scarcely breathing lest they should betray their presence, peered into the darkness. Accustomed to it by this long night vigil, they saw the indistinct forms of six men, but who they were, or whether armed, it was impossible to tell. What they heard set their hearts palpitating with fear.

"What can you do?" one asked, who had gone closer to the bank, as if to gaze up the broad stream.

"I mean to overtake the Marburg, go on board, and search afresh for Tyndale," said Cochlaeus, almost viciously.

"And if you find him?" asked the other, speaking back over his shoulder, but not moving from the bank.

"Make an end both of him and his accursed practices," came the hot answer. "Canst see the ship?"

"No."

Margaret thought she knew the voice of the man on the look out, and presently her suspicion became a certainty. The man who spoke to Cochlaeus on equal terms was the Dean, who had accompanied the search-party in her father's shop.

"Let us start, and we may overtake her!" cried the Deacon. "None will see us walking on the bank, so that for once the darkness is a blessing in disguise."

"And what then?" the Dean asked impatiently.

"What then?"

The response betrayed astonishment at such simplicity.

"What then? I will board her, of course, and search again. What else should I do? What less could I? That fellow on the wharf said that he saw one go on board who answered to Tyndale in every point, and I would give half of all I have to lay hands on him."

The Dean spoke curtly.

"Let us go if we must, since you seem so set on it. But I warn you that it will be a fool's errand."

Cochlaeus was on the move at once, and it seemed to those who were hiding in the bush that the company went forward in a straggling line, not one among them willingly, save the man who led.

It was alarming to Margaret and Herman to find that after all that had been done, when things appeared to be going so well, and when in fancy they saw Tyndale sitting in a quiet room somewhere in the city where Martin Luther lived, absorbed in his holy task, this persistent sleuth-hound was on his track, and shortly, whereas he was imagining himself safe, he might be in the hands of his tormentors, and his dream of a great task completed broken in upon.

"Herman," Margaret whispered, afraid to move lest she might betray her presence, although the sound of the men's footsteps had grown indistinct as they fell on the meadow grass.

"Yes, little one?"

"They will find him, and they will kill him!" she exclaimed, her voice breaking.

Herman was holding her hand, and it felt damp with her sudden fear.

"I will take you home, my dear, and then go after them. I shall do my best to pass them, for I shall go fleetly, and give warning to those on board the Marburg."

"You will be too late!" Margaret protested. "It will take you an hour or more to go back with me, and then those men will have gone so far that you will not overtake them, much less pass them."

She buried her face in her hands, for the vision had come to her in those moments of dread, of a godly man in the hands of the tormentors, tortured, and then for a certainty bound to the stake for death. It was a terrible thought that this saintly man should be cut off in the midst of his splendid work, and be counted among the martyrs.

She lifted her face, and because at the moment the clouds drifted by, Herman saw that it was wet with tears.

"Go now, Herman," she cried, springing to her feet, and holding up her lips for him to kiss. "Go now!"

"And leave you to go through the cavern and home alone? I cannot. I will not!"

"You must, Herman. I can go alone. What is my loneliness compared with that good man's life? Would you have the world irremediably impoverished because a girl like me must needs have an escort? Go, Herman," she ended imploringly, with a hand on either shoulder, as she looked up into her lover's face.

He sought to persuade her, but she was resolute.

"My beloved, go, and God go with you. Save the good man, for he will certainly die if Cochlaeus lays hands on him. And in that case I shall never again know any happiness."

She wound her arms about his neck, and kissed him. But then she waited no more. When she disengaged herself from Herman's arms she turned away and hurried to the cavern's entrance. Before he quite knew what she meant to do she was on her way, and all that he could hear was the sound of light but hurried footsteps. He followed and called after her, but no answer came. He went to the entrance of the cavern and peered in, but saw nothing, nor did he now hear a sound, save the echo of his own voice when he mentioned her name.

He thought she had taken her courage in her hand, doing so in desperation, and knowing the place by this time, she must be making her way towards his home. Perhaps by this time she was close on the chamber where Tyndale had been hiding.

With this conviction he turned away, bent on overtaking and out-distancing the fiery-spirited Inquisitor.

He did not know that when Margaret had gone from him, her courage failed her as she thought of the place where those grim skeletons were lying. She was afraid to venture. She shivered at the thought; for, although she knew of the lantern, ready to be lit with the tinder-box at hand, she felt that she could not go through the cavern by herself. Rather than do that she would stay the long night near the river, taking whatever risks there were; for what men might threaten did not seem so terrible as the confrontation with that solemn silence which spoke so awesomely of a tragedy of bygone years.

At the entrance to the cavern her courage was still less, so that she crouched in the darkness of the bush and waited. She was wanting some sign that Herman was on his way, but instead she heard his feet thud on the grass not far away, as though he was following her. Then she heard his quick breathing, and marked how he halted. Although she could not see him, since, like herself, he was in the black shadows of the bush, she guessed what he was doing—that he was bending down to peer into the cavern.

His call came, but she remained still, scarcely breathing lest he should hear her. Then, when she found it so hard to be silent that she must betray herself, he went away.

She came from behind the bush, but could not see him. She could only hear his footsteps growing less and less distinct. He was going swiftly to make up for lost time, and she was relieved.

Standing farther out in the open, away from the entrance, she heard the faint thud of a man's feet on the sod, and fainter yet, and fainter still. Then silence, with only the sounds of the river, the sigh of the water among the rushes, the occasional hoot of an owl, the slight swish of the wind on the grass and among the trees, and the movement of some belated creature wandering from his lair in search of food.

The sense of loneliness disturbed her. To be here, in the meadow, with the black river on one hand, the stretch of dark country on the other, and, where the watchmen were on the city wall, some challenge coming, making the loneliness seem the greater.

The feeling sent her to her knees, crouching lower and lower; but another thought swept through her mind. A man of God was being hunted. The hunter of heretics was after him. Her lover was on the path, seeking to save him. Could she not pray? Was not that the recourse for anyone in need?

She rose from the crouching posture until she was fairly on her knees, and with her hands clasped, she prayed for the hunted one. She thought it no shame to pray that the hunters should be undone, that they might fall on some stumbling stone and be broken. She prayed that Herman might speed well on his errand of warning.

How long she prayed she did not know. There was no reckoning of time in those moments of pleading, for the thing that mattered was, that the prayer should be heard by Him who sat on the Mercy Seat.

She got up from her knees and moved slowly towards the entrance, for she must go home. But her courage failed, just as it had done before. She crept into the place in something like desperation, lit the lantern, and essayed to go forward.

She went haltingly, her heart beating wildly. She could hear the sound of its throbbing. Then, to her alarm, something came like a cry through the silence—a cry that must be from those still lips away to her left.

She held up her lantern high, so that the light should the better lessen the darkness, but it showed her that grim forbidding heap on the cavern floor.

What was there to fear? she asked; yet she knew it to be the dread of the intangible which was so overwhelming, following on the strain of so much anxiety when Cochlaeus was searching her father's house, and after that the further mental tension of watching for Tyndale's escape when he appeared to be hemmed in with danger. To her excited imagination, after such a day, the cavern was peopled with horrors. Her mind was under compulsion to think of the dead bodies close by her—to conjure up a story of unspeakable suffering, isolation, hunger, deadly fear, and the terror of the coming of the tormentors.

She thought of this while standing in the open space, one hand holding the lantern high, the other on her bosom to still the wild beating of her heart. Then came the sound of voices, and a cry which was like a challenge, all coming as a jar to her being.

She did not know the voices, for they sounded hollow and echoing in the ghostly place, having something of menace in them.

The sounds came again. Once more she heard the challenge, and she could bear the strain no longer. The lantern fell from her hand and crashed on the cavern floor, where the candle spluttered and smoked the horny sides. Her brain reeled. In the diminished light she saw something moving, she knew not what. After that she fell beside the lantern, and lay as one that was dead.

Who they were who came she did not know, nor who they were who, a few moments later, stood and gazed down at her, each one holding a lantern.

CHAPTER XII
THE NIGHT RIDE

When Herman started on his errand his thoughts were divided. There was the wish that he had insisted on seeing Margaret safely through the cavern, if it had only been to give her over to his mother's care.

He had accepted her ruling, for he realised the fatal consequences if that sinister creature of the Inquisition found Tyndale. He thought of the vessel going up the river, past the castles of robber lords, and freighted with merchandise such as had never gone up the stream before, since the bundles of quarto sheets of the New Testament which Tyndale was so laboriously translating into simple English were in the hold.

Two things were fixed deeply in Herman's mind: one that, come what would, Cochlaeus must not come into touch with Tyndale; the other that his late guest, now so honoured and so loved for his gentle ways and godly life, must arrive in Worms, where he would be comparatively safe, since that city was in what Cochlaeus called "the full rage of Lutheranism." And Luther, too, was there.

The purpose was a spur to him, although with the endurance of an athlete he went on and on. He was in feverish anxiety to go yet faster, and give warning to the fugitive of the men who were after him.

One thing he could not understand—that, fleet of foot though he was, he went so far without overtaking Cochlaeus and his companions. Nor as he went did he come across any sign of the Marburg.

With a cry of dismay he pulled up when he came to a village on the river-bank. In his absent-mindedness for this long hour, thinking of so many things, and not of the way he was taking, he had travelled down the river, and every step had taken him farther and farther from the man he was so eager to serve!

An hour lost! Nay, two; for he would now have those long miles to travel back before he reached the point from whence he started, and only then would the real endeavour commence. Who could tell what had chanced in the interval?

He did not waste a moment, but swung round on the instant when he had discovered his blunder. He roundly blamed himself for his stupidity, but prayed that he might not be too late.

On he went, the speed growing greater as the urgency swirled in on him. He covered the ground so swiftly that the hour he had lost was not doubled when he came to the spot where Tyndale's hunters had been talking. He was bathed in perspiration, for the return journey had been covered in little more than half an hour.

Still, when he heard the city bell boom out the hour, he knew that Cochlaeus and the others had a lead of an hour and a half, and while he took off his cap to wipe his face, he wondered whether he could make up the loss and be in time.

The thought was like a whip to him, and he went on with untiring speed, centring his mind on that one purpose, to overtake Tyndale's pursuers.

He passed no one in that hard night's travel. More than once he plunged through the woods which ran down to the river's edge, where he found himself in a darkness so dense that it seemed almost Egyptian. He had to go slowly then, only able to guide himself by the scarcely distinguishable gleam of the water; and more than once he sprawled over a straggling root, and once again he struck his head against an unseen branch which hung low over the path.

The enforced slackening of speed was exasperating; but he took things more calmly when he remembered that Cochlaeus was in the same plight, and would have to go as slowly.

When he came into the open country again he was capless and bespattered with mud. His doublet was torn, and he felt the warm trickle of blood on his cheek, where the jagged point of a broken branch had grazed the skin. But these were minor matters where the thing at stake was of such overwhelming importance.

By the time he had stepped clear of the forest the heavy clouds had thinned away, and the moon, while she did not altogether show her face, was casting some blurred light on the path. He was able now to go forward with a more certain step, so that he put on speed, and ran desperately, with the energy of young manhood, careless of fatigue.

He passed a village which straggled towards the river. He wondered whether he should take a boat and pass up the stream with it. He would come to the ship that way; but when he looked at the waters, they were running strong, and the boats that were moored at the landing-stage were heavy ones. He left them, and went on.

In one of the meadows were some horses, standing idle, sleeping as they stood, but one awoke and turned sleepily towards him. The idea came that he could force him into service.

He hesitated. One might choose to call it robbery, but God knew that it was no dishonest motive that prompted him. Against the temporary appropriation of the horse was the life of a man whose service to the world was of inestimable worth. He could take the horse for a few hours, and see that he was returned. He could give the messenger who took the animal back a reasonable sum to pay for the unconsented hire.

Yes. He would do that. It would help him to make up the lost time through that stupid blunder for which he mentally lashed himself again and again.

He went cautiously to where the horse was standing, but he found himself in a difficulty at the outset. His hand was on the sleepy creature's mane, and then he realised that there was neither saddle nor bridle. As for the want of a saddle, that was nothing to one who had ridden bareback scores of times, but how was he to guide this silent and perhaps docile creature, who was blinking at him stupidly, wondering whether he was to be called away from his well-earned leisure to some hard night duty?

A suggestion came, and he acted on it. There was a long, thin lace scarf round his neck, and it could be made to serve his purpose. In a few minutes his ingenuity produced a bridle and bit, all in one, which would not put the horse to any discomfort. Then he sprang on the creature's back.

"On, good horse!" he cried, as he bent down to gather up the loose ends of the scarf. "God's good man is in jeopardy, and many a blessing may be lost to the world if you fail me to-night."

The horse moved forward, but with no great willingness at first. After a time, however, he seemed affected with his rider's eagerness. His rest in the field had made him fit for service, and he responded. Before many minutes had passed he was going quickly, then at a gallop in which he stretched himself out whole-heartedly.

The moon still hid her face, but she threw out sufficient light to show the way, and what was round about. As the horse raced onwards Herman's spirit rose. He began to think of possibilities. As yet he had seen no ship, nor any sign of one. Nothing was moving on the river but a small craft which floated with the stream. Nor had he seen those men who were following the impatient lead of Cochlaeus. And yet it was of such supreme importance that he should overtake them, and ride beyond them.

After a time his heart leapt at the sight of a company of men, and when he drove his horse across a meadow to get so much nearer, he saw them halt, as if to wait for the coming of this rider in the night.

Suffering his horse to take his own pace, he bent low as he passed the men, so that his face should not be seen. The moon rendered him just the right service for those critical moments. She showed herself through a rift in a cloud for a moment or two, and the light fell on the men.

He knew them all. The Dean was one. Four others were soldiers of the City Guard, whom he had seen constantly for years, in their frequent perambulations through the streets, and their halberds at this moment gleamed at the moon's uncovering, but went dull again when the clouds moved by, and the country and river were once more wrapped in gloom.

Cochlaeus was there, standing apart, trying to intercept him, but Herman drew the horse aside.

HERMAN DUG IN HIS HEELS AND THE HORSE GALLOPED PAST.

"Stop!" the man cried peremptorily, and held out his hand to catch at the bridle, but Herman dug in his heels, and the horse galloped past. Who was Cochlaeus, that he should exercise his authority here, in the open meadows, far away from the jurisdiction of the Burgomaster?

The horse plunged forward, and his hoofs thundered on the path. Herman turned to look back. The group was just as he had left it—a bunch of men, and that one who stood aloof; but although he could not see he supposed that they were gazing after him angrily, because he had treated Cochlaeus so cavalierly.

On went the horse, and Herman was elated at the thought that he had stolen a march on the men who were in pursuit of William Tyndale. At the pace the horse was travelling he would overtake the Marburg and give his warning. The captain would surely do something then to get his passenger away, if by any chance it became necessary.

While the horse galloped on, taking the path along the river-bank as though the rush through the night air was welcome after a spell of rest, Herman thought out a plan which would mean safety for Tyndale. All his desire now was to overtake the ship, get on board in some way—by swimming, if in no other manner—tell his story, and then follow out this idea of his. He knew of a charcoal burner's hut on the other side of the river, hidden away in the forest, and there, with Roye to help him, Tyndale could pursue his task, the amanuensis writing while the scholar slowly dictated his translation. The printing-press could do its part later, but at all events Tyndale's great work could go on.

The horse galloped on for three or four miles more, and then the moon was out again, and made the river look like a broad ribbon of silver winding in and out amid the forests and the low-lying meadows.

A shout of gladness came when Herman saw a great black object on the water, which, as he drew nearer, proved to be a ship beating up the stream, her dark sails bellying in the wind. Was it the Marburg?

He lost sight of her presently, for a forest came in between. He slackened the pace and rode into the thicket, able to see the way because of the clear shining of the moon, so that he took the zigzag path, moving round the clumps of brushwood, avoiding the hollows, and going carefully where the straggling roots and heavy undergrowth made any progress treacherous.

He had at last to dismount and lead the horse, feeling his way almost in places, going at times at little more than a snail's pace, the horse snorting and breathing heavily with his long run.

Then the forest ended.

Standing still to gaze around ere he ventured into the broad moonlight, because he heard voices and the jingle of steel, Herman saw a broad sweep of grass which stretched from the river up a steep slope, until it came to the spot where this cul-de-sac of green terminated in the closing up of the forest. A great castle was standing there, grey and forbidding in the moonlight. On the other side of the broad grass incline was dense forest again, and Herman meant to cross to it. But on this wide strip of open grass soldiers were moving towards the river swiftly, their swords and steel breastplates gleaming in the moonlight.

Herman dropped back, for the presence of the fighting men boded evil to any whom they saw who did not belong to the lord of this domain. Many a castle on this river was the hold of a robber chieftain who preyed on the travellers on land or water, demanding tribute and often holding his prisoners to ransom.

Herman took his tired horse back into the darkness of the forest, and, fastening him in a hollow where he could not be seen, returned to the slope again, to watch the glade and see when it would be safe to move to the other side.

For a time he could see nothing of what was happening on the river, but he was full of apprehension when he thought that the soldiers were bent on piracy. By this time the Marburg must have passed the landing-stage of the castle, and in that case would be safe, unless—and there he halted in his hope, and went cold with fear. Suppose that men had been placed on the watch, and, seeing the Marburg labouring up the river against the stream, had gone out in a boat to stop her, on the pretence of levying tribute, while a messenger raced up the slope to the robber stronghold to bring down the lord with his fighting men!

The consequences were too well known to anyone who lived within sight of the river, and this particular castle was often spoken of—was common talk, indeed, in the city. The ship would be gone through and robbed, if the captain and the crew were not armed and ready to make a fight for it. And William Tyndale, known, perhaps, would be carried to the castle, to be dealt with just as the wine-drinking and blasphemous master of the castle might choose.

It was natural to suppose the worst, and to suppose the worst was to anticipate what was most probable. Ribaldry would be the slightest of Tyndale's troubles. Torment was next to certainty. It might be that the lord of the castle, knowing how the Inquisitors would crave to have the Englishman in their hands, would sell him to them, if they paid a big price.

Herman thought of this. Then it dawned on him that he was thinking the worst while Tyndale's vessel might have stolen by when the moon was hidden, and by this time be far up the river, away from this robber lord's influence.

He stole in and out among the trees towards the river, careful not to be seen, and then his worst fears were realised. The Marburg was in mid-stream, and about her were a score of boats, out of which armed men were swarming on to her deck.

CHAPTER XIII
THE PRISONER

Herman's hand involuntarily closed over the dagger at his belt, but he realised his helplessness.

He could do nothing, for here, or within call, moving up or down the slope, and out on the waters, playing a pirate part, were scores of men, all armed—men whose business it was to fight, and who, if he had gone forth to make any remonstrance, would drive their swords into him, and laugh at his mad venture. They would do it as the natural act when one had the impudence or imprudence to confront scores who knew no law but what the lord of the castle cared to make.

He watched the strange scene on the river, and from where he stood, compelled to be silent, but with a feeling of dread, he saw, in the full flood of moonlight, that the armed men were in possession of the ship. On the upper deck a man's body hung over the handrail. The man was either dead or badly wounded. That was the only token that there had been resistance to these river pirates, for the sailors, unarmed, and only a handful against scores of trained fighters, had realised how futile it was to endeavour to save the ship.

The crew were driven into a corner of the deck, and held there like penned sheep by a few soldiers whose breastplates glanced in the moonlight every time they moved. They were ready to cut down any sailor who was mad enough to attempt to break away.

Herman's teeth chattered, although the night was warm, for the thought of William Tyndale's extremity sent an icy shiver down his spine. All the bold effort to get the good man away had come to naught. There was the deadly fear of what might follow, added to the bitterness of a frustrated plan and the thought that God's Word was not to reach the people of England after all.

He resolved to do whatever remained possible. He would wait and see what was done to Tyndale—where he might be placed by the robber lord. Then to his alert mind came the thought that he might even yet be able to get Tyndale away. But how, or what the way might be, only the good God could tell.

There was no sound of fighting. Instead, the laughter of the soldiers came over the waters. Their steel helmets bobbed here and there, and Herman knew that the men were searching the ship for anything in the way of booty—money or goods.

Presently the first things came in the shape of bales, possibly of silks, which were dropped over the side into the boats. Other bundles followed, but only what was of value, for these soldiers were experienced pillagers who spent their days and nights in this sort of work. They knew what things were of worth, and what the lord of the castle would be able to turn into gold. Boat-load after boat-load came to the bank, the booty was handed out to men on the bank, and the boats returned for more.

Herman was startled by a sound on his right hand, and, looking round quickly, he saw half a dozen men emerge from among the trees and stand out clear in the moonlight. He saw the newcomers' faces, and he dropped back farther into the shades of the forest, for one of them was Cochlaeus.

For a while these men gazed on the unexpected scene, and Herman, watching, saw how the face of the heretic hunter worked with passion—the fury of a man who thought he had but to overtake the ship, and ask for Tyndale, and he would have him in his power, but now discovered that the Englishman was beyond his reach.

They were near enough for Herman to hear what was said.

"Is this Schouts' place?" Cochlaeus asked, pointing towards the castle, and speaking in hoarse and passionate tones.

"Yes," said the Dean; "so that there is danger for us as well as for those who are on board the ship."

"Danger for us?" exclaimed Cochlaeus, in amazement. "Danger for me, an emissary of the Church?"

"Schouts cares no more for the Church than for the meanest man on board the Marburg. He has no fear for God or man."

Cochlaeus gazed at him incredulously, and when the Dean and the others drew back among the trees, he stood clear out in the moonlight and waved his clenched fists, in the impotence of his disappointment.

"Come back!" the Dean exclaimed, fearful lest this man might do something yet more rash, if he had not already betrayed their presence by his mad gestures. "You do not know this robber lord. He would flout you or the Lord Cardinal, anything and anybody that belongs to the Church, as readily as he would beat down one of his own soldiers who dared to disobey him!"

The Dean stepped forward, and, with a strong grip on the Churchman's arm, drew him away forcibly among the trees.

"I pray God we were not seen," Herman heard the Dean say.

What Cochlaeus and his companions did after that Herman could not tell, but as time went on, and he heard no sound to indicate their presence, and saw no more of them, he concluded that they had gone back.

Convinced that this was so, he watched for Tyndale, wondering whether the robber lord would only concern himself with booty and let the men on board alone.

The boats went to and fro, until the Marburg's hold must have been emptied of all that was worth carrying away; and now Herman was eager to know what would follow. The man whose body had been hanging over the handrail began to revive, and he staggered over to a coil of rope on which he sat with evident pain. He was apparently waiting for the worst. The moonlight falling on the face made Herman aware that it was the captain of the ship.

Someone went to him—a tall man, clothed in the garb of a nobleman, and giving one the impression of immensity. He must have been Schouts, the predatory lord of whom the Dean had spoken. The captain lifted his face as if to answer a question, and it was crumpled and lined with pain, and ghostly in its paleness; and even while Schouts was speaking, he fell sideways, and lay on the deck like one who was dead.

The other swung round on his heel after gazing at the prostrate man for a few moments, and, tramping along the deck, moved down the ladder into the waist of the Marburg. Before many minutes had passed a man's loud voice rang out, and the soldiers on board began to search in obscure places for something.

Were they looking for Tyndale?

The unspoken question was answered quickly. Two men came along the lower deck, and between them walked a bearded man.

It was William Tyndale.

He did not walk cravenly, although he moved slowly and with bowed head. The soldiers, with their swords drawn, took him to Schouts, whose weapon-point rested on the deck. Something was said, although Herman heard no sound of voices, and the robber lord, turning his back on his prisoner, walked to the ship's side, the prisoner following. One by one the men came down the rope-ladder into a boat, Schouts first, then Tyndale, and after him the two soldiers. As soon as they were seated, the boat was pulled to the landing-place.

Herman hurried to the spot where he had stood for his first glimpse of the grass slope. It was in his mind that he might see Tyndale more closely, and who could tell whether, in God's mercy, something might happen whereby he might effect his escape? It was a wild hope, but he did not set it aside.

He passed the hollow where the horse stood quietly and tiredly, and reached the place just as Tyndale made his way among the heaps of pirated merchandise. There were half a score of armed retainers about him now, and the hope of rescue passed.

Looking out on the river, while Tyndale was kept standing to wait for further commands, Herman saw the sailors moving away from the spot where they had been penned in by the soldiers. He heard the sound of the winch, as they slowly raised the anchor which had been dropped on Schouts' demand, and before long the sails were bellying in the wind, and the ship moved up the stream.

A call came on the night air, and the company, of which Tyndale was the centre, began to move. He came slowly, as though he were ill, but the soldiers, apparently realising this, suited their pace to his. Schouts moved up the slope without waiting, but halted close to where Herman stood, to call back to the men to begin to carry the spoil to the castle.

Tyndale drew level with Herman's standing spot, and, scarce knowing why, the young man went in and out among the trees and bushes, anxious to watch the prisoner. It was a perilous venture, for a false step might cause him to make some sound, and the captain of Tyndale's guard, expecting an attack, might send some of his men into the forest to search. It could scarcely mean less than death if they found him, and what excuse could he make but this, that, having occasion to pass on through the forest, he had found his way barred by the soldiers? They would laugh his explanation to scorn, perhaps, and run him through with a sword or carry him to one of the dungeons in the castle.

The castle gate was reached at last. The drawbridge was already down, but the portcullis had to be raised before any of the party could pass in. Herman so stood that as the moonlight fell on the face of the prisoner he saw how he cast a wistful look around him, as though this might be the last he would ever have beneath God's open heavens. Hopelessness, too, so Herman thought, was on the tired man's face, and the traces of bitter disappointment because the work on which he had been engaged might never be completed.

When Tyndale stood at the drawbridge, waiting for it to be raised, Herman heard sounds behind him, like the stealthy movements of men, and felt alarmed for his own safety. But another idea came. Was it possible that some were approaching with the intention of attempting Tyndale's rescue? But who would be so mad when, at the clangour of the castle bell, a hundred armed men would be on the spot?

Knowing that he could not be seen, he waited to discover the meaning of these movements, and what he saw surprised him. One man took his place behind a tree not more than half a dozen yards away. Another drew away from a bush and stood beside the first comer. Others crept up from the dark shadows, but not so near, within call, but standing well out of sight.

"That is Tyndale," Herman heard one say, and the voice belonged to Cochlaeus.

The voice of the other who answered was the Dean's.

"Then if he crosses the drawbridge, and the portcullis falls, Tyndale goes out of your power. But let him go! Now that Schouts has him in his robber den he is as good as dead. God alone knows what he may do to silence him, for I count Schouts equal to anything. You have but to think of the man to know that he is barbarity personified."

Cochlaeus spoke back in low tones which vibrated with exasperation.

"What care I for that? We want this fellow, Tyndale, in our own hands. We can only feel safe to know that he is in our care, and that, when the torture he deserves is over, we shall effectually silence him. For ever!" Cochlaeus added, almost aloud, in his virulent hate of the Englishman.

He dropped into silence when the Dean spoke sharply at his rashness in speaking for a hundred ears might catch any sound in the still night.

The portcullis rose when the drawbridge dropped, and the gate was already open. A moment's pause followed, before a word came from the captain of the guard, and the soldiers, springing from inertness into full attention, moved across the bridge with their prisoner. Before many moments had passed Tyndale had gone out of sight.

There was a hollow sound of tramping on stone inside, another command, and before the footsteps died away the gate was closed with a heavy clang, and the portcullis dropped.

Tyndale was shut up in the castle. But to what? Was it to death?

CHAPTER XIV
THE FOREST RANGER

Herman stood in silence far on into the night. He watched the soldiers pass by continually on the grass slope, and saw as well a little army of retainers go down to the river to help in bringing up the goods that had been taken from the Marburg. He was eager to know whether among the booty brought up to the castle any of Tyndale's bales of printed sheets were there, for, if so, then all the toil of those past weeks had gone for nothing. The last load passed over the drawbridge, the portcullis dropped as the last man entered the gate, and then silence followed.

Herman had missed nothing, and he breathed with intense relief when he found that no such load had been carried into the robber's stronghold. On that count, indeed, Tyndale was not the loser.

But more important still was the fate of the prisoner.

Herman watched the castle walls as they stood there, grey and grim in the moonlight. The feeling grew upon him that Tyndale's position was a hopeless one, for this stronghold was impregnable, a death-trap from whence no prisoner could hope to escape. The towers and curtains bristled with gleaming lances and polished helmets of fighting men. What chance, then, was there for rescue or escape for anyone shut up in the stronghold of that robber noble who feared neither God nor man, who scouted all human laws, and laughed—so common rumour had it—at the bare suggestion of mercy?

Herman was puzzled to know what a man like Schouts meant to do with Tyndale, and why he had singled him out while all others on board the Marburg were allowed to go free. The Reformer's religion could have no weight with him, for he was known all the country round to scoff at anything religious, and heresy was no more obnoxious to him than the extremest orthodoxy. It was impossible that the master of the robber den had any care, or even any hate, for the Protestantism that was causing so much controversy in Europe.

Could it be possible that Schouts thought to hold Tyndale for ransom? He was too poor to find two or three hundred pieces of silver, leave alone as many golden crowns, before he would be allowed to go free. Herman knew how poor he was. If he told his story to the lord of the castle, it would be the same story he had told in Herman's home—that he was possessed of nothing, that his poverty was like the Saviour's who had no home wherein at night to rest His tired head. The money on which he lived, and with which he paid for the printing of his Bible, was not his own. He was being supplied with it by some godly English merchants who, caring a great deal for the so-called "new learning," were placing the means within the scholar's reach, enabling him to live without want while he translated the Scriptures into the English tongue.

With money in some shape or form, as the one great want of this notorious bandit, Schouts would scorn the thought of counting William Tyndale a prize, who could at the most give him, when he surrendered all he had, a few gold pieces. Herman sat on the trunk of a fallen pine tree, and, burying his face in his hands, tried to think out this incomprehensible thing, that Schouts should think it worth his while to hold William Tyndale as a prisoner.

He was puzzling his brain over this when he heard some sounds behind him, as of someone moving about among the trees. A deadly fear swept through him, and, putting his hand to his belt, he gripped the handle of his dagger. It might be some wild beast prowling, getting at the horse, perhaps, or coming for himself. Or it might be one of Schouts' men, who would run him through if he saw him, or raise a loud outcry, bringing soldiers out of the castle to carry him there as a prisoner.

He sat in silence, in statuesque stillness, scarce breathing. The darkness where he was, was dense; but he felt perturbed when he thought that the moon in the open would show him, silhouetted, as it were, to anyone behind him.

The sounds went on, always in stealth, and they drew so much nearer that he knew it was someone human, and not a prowling beast. Herman's impulse was to challenge the man, whoever he might be, but he thought it well to be silent and not betray his presence. After a while, sitting with his dagger drawn, ready for any onslaught, he knew from the sounds that the man was moving away towards the castle.

He breathed more freely at the thought, for the man had other things in his mind. Unexpectedly the stranger stepped a little into the open, where the moonlight cast his shadow on the grass, and an exclamation of amazement sprang from Herman's lips.

"Roye!" he said, in subdued tone, just loud enough for his voice to carry to the man who stood gazing at the castle.

Roye started at the unexpected call, and dropped back among the trees.

"Who is it?" he exclaimed, in a tone which betrayed his anxiety.

"Herman Bengel. I am here."

A moment later he had sprung from his seat and was trampling among the brushwood, the low-hanging branches of the trees rustling as his body swept against them.

"Have you seen Master Tyndale?" Roye asked, the moment they met in the darkness, where they barely saw each other's form.

"Yes. He was taken into the castle. But why should the robber lord take him there, a prisoner, more than any other on board the Marburg? Yourself, for example?" Herman asked in a puzzled tone. He scarcely paused, for another thought had come.

"It could never be that the robber lord had some inkling that Master Tyndale was on board that ship and was thinking to carry him away to some safe place, just as was done once with Doctor Martin Luther, to hide him from his enemies."

It was a new idea. There was something like hopefulness in Herman's soul when he considered the possibility, but the hope was dashed at once when Roye spoke.

"Would God it were so. But this man, this bandit lord, I heard the sailors say, when they were speaking about him as we were beating up the river, has no fear of God in his heart. He scoffs as much at the Reformers as he does at the Catholics. The idea is to sell my master to the tormentors if they will pay the price."

"God forbid!" Herman cried, smitten with horror at the thought. "It cannot be!"

"Why not?" asked Roye. "Others have done it. The Inquisitors have bought the prisoners in these bandit castles by the score, paying big sums of money for them, to have the opportunity of dealing with them in the torture chambers of what they call their Holy Houses. Schouts must have heard that Master Tyndale is badly wanted, and he believes he has a prize."

They stood and talked in whispers. At odd times some creature slunk past them into the forest depths, out of their way; but nothing human came near them. Feeling oppressed with the hopelessness of the position, they turned back into the forest, Herman leading the way to the hollow where the horse was tethered. Their idea was to go back to the city and tell the story of this disaster.

After a while they felt the stress of hunger, and, seeing a light down one of the forest avenues, they went towards it and found a hut, from the window of which the light was streaming.

"Who goes there?" came the cry when Herman knocked loudly on the door; then someone passed the window, and Herman, seeing the face, knew him.

"'Tis Otto Engel!" he cried.

"What if it be?" was the man's half-menacing answer, for he heard the words. "I asked who was there, not who was I!"

"I am Herman Bengel."

"What?" was the incredulous response. "Out in the forest at this time o' night? What art doing here?"

"Knocking at Otto Engel's door, to ask if he will sell two hungry men some food."

The ranger laughed.

"That's good! to come to a friend to buy a meal!"

By this time the bolt was drawn and the bar dropped, and now the ranger filled up the open doorway, a giant, so he seemed, by contrast, even to those outside, who were both beyond the average size.

"Come in!" he cried, drawing back to make room for them to enter, and thus allowing the light to fall on the faces of his visitors.

"One is Herman Bengel. I know that much," he said, as they passed into the hut. "But who is the other?"

"I'll tell you when the door is shut," Herman said in a low tone. "It is not well to shout a man's name, nor even whisper it—not this man's, at all events, even in the depths of the forest."

"Ha! some criminal escaped from jail, and you think to bring him here for me to hide him?" the ranger said jestingly, to tease Herman.

"Just as you will. But can you lodge this horse?"

"Yes. Come this way," was the hearty answer. Laying a hand on the queer bridle, but saying nothing, he led the horse to the other side of the hut, where he placed him in a snug stable and gave the tired creature a plentiful supply of food and water.

Before long the two men were sitting to a meal which Engel set before them, so appetising that in spite of their anxiety they ate with keen relish, the ranger plying them with food till they could eat no more.

"Now for this story—the reason why two men should be out in the forest at this time o' night," the ranger said, when he had cleared the table.

Herman gazed about him before he answered. He got up from his stool and walked round the hut, looking into the corners, and opening an inner door to assure himself that no others but themselves were there.

"Nobody's here, Herman," said Otto Engel, who was watching his movements, and guessed his purpose. "I live here all alone. I've neither wife nor child, more's the pity!" he added sadly. "Those creatures from the Holy House in your city came out here one day, and took my wife. And the little one pined away, and her mother never came back."

The big man clenched his fist, and brought it down with a resounding blow on the table, so that the flagon, which held the Rhenish wine, and the horn cups danced. His face flushed, not so much with anger and hate—though both were there—but with grief and the yearning for revenge if an opportunity ever came his way. Herman thought, as he gazed at him, that if any of those Familiars of the Inquisition ventured into his hut, though he were alone, and they were two or more, they would never leave the place alive.

"What brings you here, Herman?" Engel asked, more quietly, when the tempestuous passion had gone; but his hand trembled as the fist, still clenched, rested on the table, and his face twitched with emotion.

"William Tyndale is the cause of our being here to-night," Herman said, returning to his stool again, satisfied now that he could speak as freely as he pleased.

"Tyndale?" cried Engel, his face full of surprise. "Do you mean the Englishman?"

"Yes. I'll tell you all about it, Engel."

Herman told the story from the day when he and Margaret met the tired traveller in the meadow, down to the capture of the Marburg a few hours before.

"Is that all?" Engel asked, having listened with parted lips.

"All? Isn't it enough?" exclaimed Herman.

Silence followed. Each man was busy with his thoughts—Herman and Roye wondering how far their dread concerning William Tyndale might become a certainty, and the prisoner should be handed over to the tormentors; Otto Engel ruminating on the memory that never left him, but wondering as well what he could do to set the man free who was daring so much for the world's uplifting.

Herman had not mentioned his and Roye's fears as to what Schouts would do with his prisoner, but Engel's own thoughts had travelled in that direction.

"My lord, in the robber's castle yonder, will make a pot o' money out of William Tyndale!" he exclaimed, breaking the long silence, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"How?" asked Herman, startled at the thought that their fears were likely to become a reality.

"How? This Cochlaeus will offer Schouts a big sum, and the two will haggle over terms. Perhaps they'll spend days in making offers and rejecting them; but I can see the end as plainly as I see this fist of mine. The Inquisitors will get William Tyndale into their toils, while Schouts will get his price. Don't I know?"

Silence followed again, save for the sounds of the sleeping dog on the hearth, who barked in his dreams, and the blazing and crackling of the pine-log fire.

"I will spoil their wicked game for them!" the ranger exclaimed presently, shifting his great feet and turning away to the fire, so that the blaze of it lit up his face, usually so ruddy, but now pale, yet full of determination.

"What do you mean?" the others cried in their surprise.

"What I said," came the answer almost curtly. "I'll spoil their wicked game for them."

"How?" cried Roye, coming to the ranger and laying a trembling hand on his shoulder. "In God's dear name, Otto Engel, tell us what you mean," he went on eagerly.

"I scarcely know."

The answer came in a tone which showed how greatly perturbed he was.

"I must have time to think. I must sleep on it, and then, please God, we will do something. Go and lie down yonder, both of you, for we'll want some quick brains to puzzle this thing out. It will take some thinking to frustrate a man like Cochlaeus, but we'll do it. We'll spoil their wicked game for them, and we'll cheat the robber lord somehow."

Engel waited to say no more. Blowing out the lamp, so that the only light inside the hut came from the flickering flames of the fire, he threw himself on the hearth after a brief and silent prayer; and as if he only had to will it, he went off into a heavy sleep. The others followed his example, lying on the bed of leaves in the corner, and before long all were asleep in the ranger's hut.

CHAPTER XV
A DARING DECISION

The sun had been up for some time before any of the sleepers began to stir, and when Otto Engel stretched himself and yawned, and, doing so, awoke the others, he had no sense of shame for being a laggard with the day so far run on. It was his custom to sleep away so many of the hours of daylight, for he was very much of what he called himself—a night-bird, who must needs walk about his business while the world was sleeping. That night wandering was a part of his duty as ranger of the forest.

"I'll get you some breakfast," was his first word, when Herman sat up and stared around, wondering where he was; and before long the three men and the dog were eating what for two of them was a late morning meal.

"I think I'll find my way home," said Herman, who was depressed and ate but sparingly. Roye, too, sat playing absent-mindedly with his bread.

"Nay, you must stay here to-day, if anything is to be done to help William Tyndale," the ranger cried, tossing down his knife and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, while he shifted back his stool to cross his knee.

"How can we help Master Tyndale?" Roye asked gloomily.

"I'll tell you before the day is gone; but the thing wants a deal of consideration. If you care to stay, you are more than welcome, and, what is more to the point, your assistance will be valuable. Whatever I may decide, I won't be able to do anything single-handed. I know that much, so that William Tyndale's largely in your hands."

Herman watched the stalwart forester.

"What do you think is possible?" he asked.

"I don't know any more than the man in the moon, as people say. I shall have to think the thing out. My real idea is to get William Tyndale out of the hands of Schouts, if you must know, and cheat Cochlaeus as well. So now you know.

"Lie by, and don't show yourselves," he added, looking to his belt to see that he had his weapons there.

By this time Engel was standing at the door, with the dog at his heels ready for duty with his master. "When I have thought this thing well through I will come back and talk it over with you. It may be a couple of hours. It may be a great deal more. But I'll come, and if you are here, so much the better. Burn it into your mind, Herman Bengel, and you, William Roye, that we are going to get Master Tyndale out of that devil's den."

He went out, pulling the door after him noisily, and walked down the foot-beaten track. He halted before he had gone many yards, and, returning, opened the door again.

"Help yourselves to food when you feel hungry," he said, standing in the entrance with his hand on the latch. "There's no need for stint, since the larder's full enough. I may be away some time, for, if you don't mind, I'll take that horse back, and set him adrift in the field where you found him. It would be awkward for me if they found him in my stable. Shall I do that?"

Herman nodded.

The forester had more to say.

"Put the bolts in the door to keep intruders out. I don't want any of my friends yonder to come and find you here." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the castle. "They come sometimes for a chat, and so I get to know things. If any of them come, keep quiet, and don't open the door. They'll think I'm on my rounds."

He stalked away to the stable, and Herman, as soon as he saw him ride past the window on the borrowed horse, drove in the bolt.

The hours went slowly, and to those who were shut up in the forest hut, compelled to be idle, they seemed interminable. They talked over the possibilities at which Otto Engel had hinted so confidently, but in the slow passing of the hours they began to grow hopeless over Tyndale's affairs. They speculated as to what the forester might be able to do, but their own memory of the drawbridge and portcullis, and the armed men on the walls, drove them to the conclusion that his scheme was a wild and impossible one.

Again and again Herman went to the window, and looked out to the forest, hoping to see the forester, but there was no sign of his coming. He saw the giant trees rearing their proud heads to the sun, which at some spots found its way on the pathways and undergrowth. Some wild boars rushed by at odd intervals, and a dark-grey, grizzled lynx chased a poor creature among the branches, or dropped to the earth on an unsuspecting victim. It served to pass the time to watch from the window all that went on in the forest—the wolves that passed, or a bear that shambled along, but halted at an ant-hill to scrape out the nests and lap up the eggs.

But the all-absorbing matters were those two—the rescue of William Tyndale, and Margaret, who in less than a week was to be his wife. He shivered at the thought of her journey through the cavern, with its loneliness and those tokens of death from which she had shrunk even in his company. What must she have felt when she was moving in the cavern alone?

The hours went on—the longest he had ever spent. The morning passed. The sun changed his position, and cast long, slanting shadows, and presently the afternoon began to grow old. Then evening came, and the forester had not returned.

They began to be anxious for his safety, and fears of many sorts were talked about. Had he shot some wild creature, and in the brute's agony had he been mauled and torn? The anxiety became so great, when the shadows grew dense and night was falling, that Herman drew the bolt, intending to go out and search for the absent man; but Roye, as much distressed, but cautious, dissuaded him.

At last they heard the heavy stamp of feet on the path outside, and then the scratch of a dog's paws on the door. Herman's hand went to the bolt, but he waited for another sign, and when Engel spoke quietly and lifted the latch he opened the door.

"I put the horse back in the meadow!" the forester exclaimed, lowering himself stiffly on a stool, but he had barely done so when he straightened himself and went to the cupboard to get food for himself and the dog.

"Sit down," cried Herman. "I'll do that."

"I've got to the bottom of my scheme," said the tired man, glad to be seated. "I'll tell you all about it as soon as I find myself in front of food. But we'll see to the dog first," he added, the moment Herman set the meat on the table.

"I've found a way for getting William Tyndale out of that robber's den, so that we shall surprise both Schouts and Cochlaeus, and spoil their plans!" Otto Engel exclaimed, his mouth full. He was eating ravenously, for he and the dog had gone all the day without food. In his wanderings he had threshed out that difficult problem of deliverance. "I can see my way, and we'll have him out of it before I'm very much older," he added, when he had swallowed a draught of water and had given the dog another great helping.

"You can?" the others cried, startled by the forester's words, and impressed with his confidence.

"Yes, I can!" mumbled Engel, who seemed to grow hungrier as the moments sped.

"And what's your plan?" asked Roye, drawing his stool up to the table, where he leant forward and gazed at the ranger. "Is it sure?" he went on, laying his hand on the other's arm. "Or is it possible that you may fail and leave us to our disappointment, and my master to his death?"

His face was pale and his voice eager and tremulous, while his eyes gleamed as though they were not far from tears.

The ranger swallowed his mouthful, and then he answered as earnestly as Roye:

"Neither of you shall be disappointed, please God, if you choose to throw in your lot with me and make this venture. You will possibly say 'tis a desperate thing to do. You may even deem me mad. I know not what you may say or think when I tell you what I mean to do. God only knows what you may say about it—that it is like putting one's head into a noose if by any means the plan should fail."

Engel's meal was ended now, and, getting up from the table, he carried his stool with him and sat before the fire, and sprawled his crossed feet to catch the warmth of the burning logs.

"I suppose nine out of ten, not knowing what I know, would say it was a madman's venture, but I'll tell you exactly what is at the back of my mind, and you shall say 'yes' or 'no,' according to what you think, when I have had my say."

The others pulled their stools to the fireside and listened; but while he unfolded his plan they thought he must be mad. Yet when they looked at his face they felt they were mistaken. He had evidently planned the whole thing out, basing this desperate scheme on his knowledge of the castle and not on mere supposition.

They shrank from the venture which the forester proposed, for there could be but one ending to it, without benefiting William Tyndale in the slightest degree. On the very face of it, it was doomed to failure, and it might end in death for them all.

"You are only telling us of the bare possibilities, Otto!" Herman exclaimed, when the ranger had ended. "You surely do not mean that we shall make such a wild attempt?"

The ranger swung round on his stool and faced Herman, but did not speak until he once more turned to gaze into the midst of the burning logs, leaning forward as though he saw pictures among them.

"I am telling you of something more than possibilities," he said presently. "I count what I propose as a certainty, and I mean to try my plan. I shall be glad to have you with me, but if you are afraid—and it's not to be wondered at if you are—I will do the thing alone; only the task will be so much the harder, and the risks will be greater because it will take so much longer time. God helping me, the man on whom so much depends shall be freed!"

Engel sprang to his feet, overturning the stool, and paced the floor, walking round by the wall and past the door and window like a caged beast, back and forth again, as though to walk off his excitement.

"I mean to try it!" he exclaimed. "I've been kneeling a lot to-day in the forest to pray about it, and I believe God has shown me the way. It would be woe to me if I did not do my best for the good man after that."

He was moving about restlessly, not pausing while he spoke.

"I can't imagine how you mean to get inside the castle," Herman said, incredulous. The scheme was such a preposterous one.

Engel went to a cupboard on the farther side of the room, and, feeling about in the darkness, he brought out a sheet of paper, which he smoothed out on the table.

"I'll get a light," he said, and when the candle was burning he spoke again. "You are both able to lay some claim to scholarship, I suppose; so you will understand this plan with a bit of explanation. It's a plan of Schouts' castle, but he doesn't know I've got it, or he might hang me over his gate."

He bent over the sheet when he had covered the window, so that none might look in from outside. Then, with his forefinger, while the others bent over, he opened out the scheme more fully. He showed them the point where he would go in, where he would go when he was once inside, and how he meant to get out with William Tyndale, and the others, with the plan so plainly before them, saw that the scheme was possible, provided there were no accidents to mar it.

But it was a desperate venture, to say the least, for three men to pit themselves against the robber lord, and expect to snatch their friend from the clutches of one who had scores of servitors, every one a trained fighting man who had no fear of God or man, and, like the Norse warriors who had in them the Berserker spirit, would go to the battle when the call came, and fight with frenzied and merciless fury. The bare suggestion was little less than madness.

After bending over the table so long, the forester straightened himself and gazed down at the crumpled sheet of paper which was resting on the table among the crumbs and broken bread which had not been swept away. Herman and Roye glanced up at him, and saw the resolute look on his face and the total absence of fear. The first to speak was Herman.

"Otto Engel."

"Well?"

"I shall go with you."

"So will I!" Roye exclaimed. His pale face showed that he did not speak lightly.

The ranger put out his hands and gripped those which were stretched out to him.

"I counted on you both," he said quietly.

"When shall we start?" Herman asked.

"Now."

Roye turned his back on the others and gazed into the fire, but a few moments later he swung round again.

"I said I would go, and so I will. But 'tis too great a venture without asking God's help before we start," he said, dropping on his knees at the table. The others did the same, and buried their faces in their hands while the elder man prayed concerning this dangerous enterprise, and asked that William Tyndale might have a safe deliverance.

"Now I can go in double strength," cried the ranger, still on his knees; and there was something exalted in his tone and a look on his face that is rare with men. "Please God, we'll have that dear man here before the dawn comes!"

He rose to his feet, and, looking to his weapons, bade the others do the same. Telling the dog to keep safe watch, however long they were away, giving him a big bone to wile away the hours and placing food within his reach in case the creature should grow hungry, he blew out the light, threw open the door, and walked into the night.

The moon was already showing her face in fitful gleams where the leafy canopy of the forest was broken here and there; but even thus it seemed dark at first. They moved in stealth, not knowing who might be abroad. Once they saw a pair of shining eyes in the thicket, but at a sharp word from the ranger and a menacing movement on his part, the beast moved off, snarling, yet frightened, for three men were too many to meet in fight.

"'Twas a wolf, and he's a desperate coward when you get him in a corner," Engel said carelessly.

The slow going in the forest took more than half an hour of their time, but at last they reached the open, where the green slope swept, up which William Tyndale had been taken, as a prisoner.

All was silent now, and the moonlit sweep of grass had neither man nor beast on it.

Away to the left were the silver-shining waters of the river, but it was clear. No craft moved up or down, and nothing tempted the bandit lord from his warm banquet-hall. Presently, however, Herman and his companions caught the glint of steel, and then they saw a soldier come from behind a bush and pace the bank, doubtless on the look out for any vessel that gave promise of plunder.

"Were it not for the trouble that would come, I would go on my knees here and pray that some craft might pass which would bring Schouts and his cut-throat soldiers out to-night," the ranger muttered. "'Twould go some way towards lessening our own danger."

"Many a poor man would lose his life to-night if we prayed like that," said Roye seriously.

"Yes. That's the worst part of it. One benefits so often at the price of another's irremediable loss," came the ranger's grave response. "Ah, well! We'll take it as God sends it!"

He led the way along the edge of the ascending slope, but well within the shadows of the trees.

The castle stood on the brow of the hill, and those who were on this desperate errand saw the massive towers and wondered how an enemy could hope to scale the walls and capture the place. Standing for a while, since there was ample time, Engel told his companions what the castle was like inside, so that they might not be altogether unprepared for what they would see during their venture.

"You pass the gateway which those two towers defend. Then you are in the first or lower ward, which is defended by as many as eight strong towers, and separated from the second ward by another gateway with a portcullis.

"In the second ward is a dungeon tower and a prison chapel, but William Tyndale is not in that part of the castle. I found out so much when I was abroad to-day. You go out of the second ward by a long flight of steps to the third and fourth wards, which are surrounded by a steep rampart and a wall, I know not how many feet thick, nor how many high. Then you come to the very heart of things. There is the King's Tower, where Schouts is lodged. There's the Queen's Tower, where his lady has her quarters. The kitchen and the chapel and other places are near. Well, it's in the King's Tower we have to go, for Master Tyndale is lodged there, and because I have a friend in court, I know just where."

The ranger stopped talking abruptly. They were approaching a broad and open path which ran through the forest, and they caught the sound of men's voices.

Standing back where none could see them, they waited, wondering at the meaning of these unexpected sounds. A minute or two later the lights of lanterns appeared on their right in a dense part of the forest. These came nearer and nearer, and not only were there the sounds of men's voices, but of horses' hoofs, their snortings, and the jingle of their trappings.

Before long a dozen horsemen moved past those who were standing in the shelter of the bushes—two men, fully armed, going first, their drawn swords glancing as they rode out to the grassy slope. Then two others at whose sides swords hung in their scabbards, and behind them a number of well-armed men.

None of the watchers could tell who they were, for the heavy foliage hid their faces; but when the cavalcade swept round towards the castle, Herman gripped Roye's arm.

"Do you know who they are?" he whispered eagerly.

"Ay, I know," Roye muttered. "One is Captain Berndorff of the City Guard, and the man riding at his side is Cochlaeus!"

CHAPTER XVI
WITHIN THE CASTLE

The cavalcade halted at the drawbridge, and a horseman sounded a trumpet which brought a soldier to one of the towers over the gate.

The watchers had gone forward among the trees, keeping pace with the horses, and now saw and heard all that passed. The soldier demanded their business, and the response came from Cochlaeus.

"Tell my lord of Schouts that the Deacon of the Church of the Blessed Virgin wishes to confer with him on a matter of the first importance. Say that I have ridden out from the city for that purpose."

"Bad hours for a Churchman to keep," the soldier remarked insolently, and laughing. He waited, to know whether Cochlaeus had more to say, but, when he found that no answer came, he turned away. More than a quarter of an hour passed, and then the gate opened slowly, the portcullis was raised, and the drawbridge dropped over the moat noisily.

"My lord says that the Deacon of the Church of the Blessed Virgin may enter," said the warden surlily.

Berndorff, hearing what the soldier said, gave an order, and the horsemen moved forward. Already the feet of the first two horses were on the bridge, but the soldier caught at the bridles.

"Nay!" he cried. "I told you that my lord said that the Deacon might enter. I ought to have said, 'and no other'! All else must stay outside and cool their toes, or ride away, just as they please. But as for going in, no!" the soldier exclaimed roughly.

"An insolent varlet!" cried Cochlaeus, riding forward. "Is that how you speak to a dignitary of the Church?" he asked angrily.

"I speak as my master bids me, and, whether it be insolent or not, I stand by my orders," was the sharp retort. "These must wait until your business is done and you come forth again."

THE CALL OFTHE NIGHT RIDER

CHAPTER ITHE MAN IN THE MEADOW

CHAPTER IITHE MAN ON THE STAIRS

CHAPTER IIITHE PICTURE IN THE FIRE

CHAPTER IVTHE COMING OF THE GUARD

CHAPTER VTHE MAN IN THE ARCHWAY

CHAPTER VITHE SEARCH

CHAPTER VIITHE PASSAGE

CHAPTER VIIITHE PRINTER'S WORKSHOP

CHAPTER IXTHE MAN BY THE RIVER

CHAPTER XROYE AND THE INQUISITORS

CHAPTER XIALONE IN THE CAVERN

CHAPTER XIITHE NIGHT RIDE

CHAPTER XIIITHE PRISONER

CHAPTER XIVTHE FOREST RANGER

CHAPTER XVA DARING DECISION

CHAPTER XVIWITHIN THE CASTLE

THE CALL OF
THE NIGHT RIDER

CHAPTER I
THE MAN IN THE MEADOW