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.