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.