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.