THE FLIGHT FROM THE HOLY HOUSE
For the whole of that long day which followed Margaret's next
awaking, no one came to see her. They who kept the prison thought
that the jar of water and the loaf would keep her from starvation,
and it was evidently no part of their plan to make her comfortable.
But the bird who had been before came to her, peeped into the cell
between the window-bars, twisted his little head inquiringly, and
waited almost expectantly.
Margaret watched him, and wondered whether he had been fed by the
prisoner who last lodged in this dismal place. Breaking off some of
the soft part of her loaf, and having crumbled it in her hands, she
approached the window. The bird was cautious, and drew back to the
other side of the bars, where he was free to fly away if Margaret
meditated any treachery. There he watched warily, twisting his head
all ways, while she spread the crumbs on the stone sill.
She hoped he would come while she stood near, but he contented
himself with peering and chirping impatiently, as if to ask her to
drop back, and she understood. She stepped away to the middle of the
cell, and when she did so he came forward to peck at the food until
the last crumb had gone. By way of thanks he sang a song to the
lonely prisoner, and flew away.
The loneliness that followed was unutterable. The hours dragged on,
intolerable in their slowness. They must have been
leaden-footed--the slowest hours that Time ever dealt out!
Night came again, and still there was no visit from the men who were
so silent and forbidding when they were with her. There was no fresh
supply of food because of their absence, but the loaf was not gone,
nor was the water-jar quite empty. But these facts did not go far to
lessen her anxiety about the future, for the question came to her as
to whether this was the only food she was to have. The stories
afloat in the city were that that was often the practice with the
Inquisitors; they brought food at the start, just once, and no more,
and then the victims were left to slow starvation, or so weakened by
hunger and thirst that, when torture came, they collapsed.
But why was she here? Who could have suspected her of heresy by
anything she had ever said or done outside her own pretty room at
home? These Familiars were like bloodhounds. They could scent out
heresy as surely as the hounds could smell a hunted man; and possibly
they had discovered that she had befriended William Tyndale--had even
been one of the two to bring him into the city.
She sat and wept at the thought. She wept as well to think that when
her wedding day came she would not be at her father's house as bride.
Her heart went out in yearning for Herman, whom she so dearly loved.
She thought of his consternation and his grief when he found that she
had not returned. It was more for him than for herself, and her
misery at being lodged in this dreary place with no prospect but
death.
Morning came with her silver light again, and the crucifix came
slowly into view; and the face of the Saviour was full of sorrow. It
matched her own unhappiness. The light of the dawn showed her how
small her supply of food was. She was intensely thirsty, but she
felt she must husband both bread and water. She was afraid to do
more than moisten her lips and swallow a mouthful to take the dryness
from her parched throat. The bread had woefully dwindled, for the
rats had been at it, and one or two scrambled across the floor when
she flung out her hands to drive them away. The bird came for his
meal, and she could not deny him; and in payment for it he sang a
song which brought the tears; for it set her thinking of freedom, and
made her yearn for it more than words could ever tell.
The loneliness, with nothing to do but think and pray, was
intolerable. She was realising that it is never good for one to feel
the sense of being absolutely alone, for one would grow morbid, and
distort the realities, and become fearful or bitter, as she feared
she would do.
Perhaps that was a part of her torture. It was possible that the
Inquisitors knew from their experience with other prisoners that
loneliness was as much of pain in its way as the use of the
thumbscrew or the hot pincers. Whether they did so or not, she felt
that to the lonely one, robbed of liberty and companionship, the
choicest and most entrancing spot on earth, "the valley of flowers
and the hills of glory," becomes a desert which in time is peopled
with horror and a deadly fear. How much more this dungeon in which
she was lying!
When evening drew on, the shadows grew deeper in the cell. The
crucifix was presently barely visible, and Margaret shuddered; for it
seemed to her that the noisome creatures of the place were coming out
of their hiding now that the light was going. Her heart leapt at a
sound she heard, but she knew not whether to hope or fear. There was
the noise of a key in the lock as she had heard it before, followed
by the dropping of the bars and chains and the drawing of bolts.
Then, with a slowness that was trying to her nerves, the door began
to open.
Two Familiars entered, one blocking up the doorway, in case the
prisoner should try to rush through in the wild hope of finding
liberty.
The other approached the straw on which Margaret sat, looking up at
the cowled creature wistfully, with her hands folded, the once rosy
cheeks no longer coloured, but white and wan. If this man who came
disguised in that ugly cowl had known that to-morrow was her bridal
day, he must have thought that there was nothing here suggestive of a
happy bride as she crouched at his feet. His black robe rustled on
the straw, sweeping across it when he bent to set another loaf and a
jar of water on the floor.
Not one word passed. Of what avail was it to ask these men why she
was here? They would not deign an answer, of that she was sure.
When this one who brought the food was once more at the door, he
turned to speak.
"To-morrow you are to appear in the Audience Chamber to answer
certain questions concerning that Englishman, William Tyndale. If
you do not answer satisfactorily, so I am told to say, you will be
put to the torture."
"To the torture?" she cried.
She shivered at the word, and buried her face in her hands, while the
Familiars passed away, taking no notice of her cry.
"Torture!" she moaned again, when she was alone.
She needed not to be told what was embodied in that word which
thrilled the hearts of the most hardened with horror, and none ever
asked what form it would take, since all had heard of the rack, and
red-hot irons, and the pulley.
She was determined on one thing through those long night hours, when
she was too distressed to eat and drink, although she was so hungry
and thirsty. Whatever came, she would not betray William Tyndale.
She sat and rocked herself in the extremity of her dread, but after a
time she rose from her seat and, kneeling, prayed. She felt that she
could pray better in that posture, but the time which followed made
the cell like a Gethsemane to her. She prayed as He did who hung
upon the cross. She wanted the cup to pass from her, if it were
possible. Those were her "hours of amazement"--hours of darkest,
deepest midnight, when her heart recoiled from the promised suffering.
She was kneeling thus when she heard a sound, and she looked up
quickly, wondering whether the Familiars were returning to tell her
something more. She had not noticed it, but the moon was shining
through the window, and as she turned to look, the shaft of light
seemed broken, and something moved, a dark shadow like a man's
fingers closing round the bars; then something like a man's head
appeared, and a voice followed immediately.
[Illustration: SHE SAW A MAN'S FINGERS CLOSING ROUND THE BARS.]
"Margaret Byrckmann, are you there?"
The voice was familiar, and she sprang to her feet, overturning the
jar of water as she moved.
"Who are you?" she asked, not seeing the face, which was in shadow.
"Heinrich. You know poor Heinrich, do you not? I know you are
Margaret Byrckmann, now that you have spoken. I know your voice, for
it has always spoken so kindly to poor Heinrich."
The voice was a man's, and yet there was so much of the child in it.
"Why are you here, Heinrich?" Margaret asked, going close to the
window and putting up her hand to touch his, for the sake of the
companionship after that long spell of loneliness. It was something
to have this man, or this boy--this boy in a man's strong frame--near
to her. She waited for his answer, wondering whether he had brought
any message from her father or Herman.
"I was in the cavern and saw them take you away. They carried you
because you were senseless, so I heard one of the Familiars say. I
tried to stop them, thinking I might get you out of their hands, and
I lay in their way across the dark path. Not seeing me, they
stumbled over me and fell. Oh, how they cursed me!
"I did not do that again, for I thought that another fall would hurt
you, lame you, perhaps; but I followed to see where they put you, but
when once they carried you through their private door I could
discover no more, for they locked me out. But I meant to find out.
I have been trying to do so all these days and nights. I have gone
from window to window, and now, God be praised! I have found you!
Let me kiss your hand--that beautiful hand that never did me anything
but kindness!"
He bent his lips to her fingers and kissed them passionately.
"Why have you come, Heinrich? Have you brought me a message from
anyone?" Margaret asked, hoping that he would mention Herman's name.
"No. I have not left this accursed house, save to run home for
something to eat and drink, and I have brought this."
He drew something out of his bosom, and laid its rough surface on
Margaret's soft hand.
"A file!" she exclaimed, thrilled with a hope that came when she
realised what it meant.
"Yes; I am going to file away these bars and get you out of that den.
I will take you where they will never find you. Move your hand, lest
I may hurt you."
Heinrich began to work at the bars like one possessed, and Margaret,
standing near, could hear how the file bit into the iron. In the
stillness of the night the sound was alarmingly loud to her, and she
was afraid that someone would hear and come to ask the meaning of it.
Now and again Heinrich paused to look around, to know whether he was
seen, or anyone approached.
Suddenly he set the file on the sill.
"The City Guard! Go on filing quietly. I'll come back." He dropped
away from the window, and Margaret was alone again.
Using the file, she worked at the bar until her arms ached; but what
mattered that? Was not liberty to come in payment for the toil? But
Heinrich was so long away that she was afraid he had gone for good,
and perhaps she would not escape at all. He returned, however, when
the lane was clear and silent again, and, after working at each bar
in succession, he exclaimed in exultation when his strong hand tore
away the last one, and the space was open.
"Can you climb up on your side?" he asked, thrusting his head and
shoulders through the opening and looking down into the darkness.
"I think so," Margaret said doubtfully, for the window was high from
the floor. "But you must give me your hand." Her hands came up to
him out of the darkness.
"Wait," the man whispered. "I will come down and give you a lift up.
When you are where I am, you can drop down into the lane."
Telling Margaret to stand aside, he glanced up and down the lane to
see that the way was clear; then he drew himself up, crawled through
the opening, and dropped into the cell. Before she knew what he
meant to do, he had her in his strong arms, and, lifting her lightly,
he placed her on the sill, where the bird's meal had been served.
"How deep is it down to the lane?" she asked, for the moon had gone
behind the cloud, and she was looking into blackness. "I'm afraid to
drop."
"Then don't. Make as much room for me as you can," Heinrich
whispered up to her. "I'll climb up and let you down easily."
Before many seconds had passed he had scrambled up, and was squeezing
his body between her and the wall, crushing her against the side of
the deep opening, but chuckling at his success. But he stopped, and
almost roughly he pushed past Margaret and dropped into the lane.
She understood, and her hair seemed to lift and her heart to stand
still, for from the cell from whence she had just been lifted came
the sounds of dropping bars and the turning of a lock.
"Quick, for the love of Heaven!" Heinrich called to her in a whisper.
"Drop into my arms. They are strong, and I will catch you!"
She moved on the instant and fell into the strong arms of the man
below. He caught her as though she had been no weight at all, and
before he set her on her feet he carried her across the lane into the
dark shadows, where they could not be seen, and then he put her down.
"Come with me," he panted, out of breath; and, taking her hand, he
ran with her, on and on, now down the lane, and always keeping in the
dark, now through a gateway and across a garden belonging to one of
the city merchants, down a narrow alley where, if they had gone side
by side, Margaret would have scraped her arms against the wall, then
across a broad street, deserted save by the City Guard, whose
measured step sounded and whose gleaming halberds could be seen as
they passed a huge bonfire which blazed in the market-place to allay
infection, since the Burgomaster and City Fathers feared the coming
of the plague.
Heinrich did not pause, and Margaret, longing to escape the clutches
of the Inquisitors, never asked him where he was taking her. The
thought which absorbed her was liberty; and that remembrance of the
sound of the shooting bolts and the fear that the Familiars, when
they found that she was gone, would pursue her, using the window as
she had done, made her feel that she would go anywhere, yes,
anywhere, rather than fall into their cruel hands.
"On, Heinrich, on! I hear them coming!" she exclaimed, when her
companion slackened his pace a little, and, still holding him by the
hand, she went beyond him and dragged him forward. "Oh, do not lag
behind!" she added, panting.
"The danger is gone now," the other said, detaining her. "They do
not see us, and they have no notion as to the way we took. I am
taking you to a place where they will never find you."
Heinrich turned down a dark lane, still holding her by the hand and
patting it reassuringly. His quiet confidence restored her
confidence, and she was content to go his pace.
At last he came to a ramshackle building. It might have been an old
cart-house, or a place where cows were lodged, or a stable. At
another time she would have hesitated to be drawn into such a
darkness, especially as she could not discern what the place was
like; but the instinct of flight disposed her to disregard everything
in the way of doubt. She thought of nothing but that one purpose, to
get away from those minions who had threatened her with the torture
chamber.
Going slowly, lest Margaret should stumble, and holding her firmly by
the hand to lead her round obstacles which he knew of and which she
could not see, Heinrich stopped suddenly. Margaret could feel,
although she could not see, that he was bending forward. Then he
tapped sharply three or four times.
"Who is it?" came a woman's voice.
"Mother, I am here. Open the door."