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.