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.