HERMAN'S RETURN
Herman satisfied himself that Tyndale was safe, and that everything
was provided for his comfort, before he started on his journey home.
Once on the way, he travelled in haste, but careful when he reached
the city not to show any signs of trepidation. He passed through the
gateway just before the gloaming fell, and the wardens gave him a
friendly nod.
"How has your business prospered?" the chief warden, with whom he was
a favourite, asked, as he so often did.
"Excellently well," was Herman's answer. "How go things in the city?"
"Doubtful," the warden said almost impatiently, as if it annoyed him
to recall something. "That Deacon, Cochlaeus, has worried the
Council for days past, and the Burgomaster has had a troublesome time
because, forsooth, the Churchman declared that the Englishman,
Tyndale, has been hiding within the walls, but had, in some
unaccountable manner, got away. And he must needs declare that we
were not alert, else he would never have passed the gate. Then he
came down on those who have to keep an eye to the ships, and he
blames them and us alike, thinking to hit the right one with his
random methods."
The man stamped out his annoyance on the hard stones, and Herman felt
that if the chief warden could have his way Cochlaeus would have no
gentle treatment.
"Didst say William Tyndale, here, in the city?" Herman asked, in
simulated surprise. "You mean that English fellow who, they say, is
come to this country to get his Bible printed?"
The men stared at him in equal surprise.
"Dost mean to say, Herman, that you do not know that it has been
common talk in the city that he was hiding somewhere here? Cochlaeus
was so sure about it, that every printer's shop has been searched,
although he declared his conviction that the real culprit was Master
Byrckmann, who is to be your father-in-law some day, so they say."
The wardens laughed, but Herman put on a look of supreme contempt for
such an absurd charge against Margaret's father.
"I have been away so much of late," he explained. "And so many
things happen in a short time. Have they found Tyndale?"
"That's just where the fun comes in," said the chief warden, his
face, like his underlings', all smiles.
Before he said more, he looked about him in all directions; then he
dropped his voice so low that the others could scarcely hear him.
"The Englishman was here without a doubt. I saw him. So did each of
these. But not one of us would tell of him, although there was a
price on his head; for who would sell a man to those tormentors? The
poor man lodged somewhere, nobody knows where, and when night fell he
used to come into the streets for an airing. But let that pass. I
can tell you something more."
The warden paused to look about him again.
"Cochlaeus came back a few hours since, more like a madman than a
reverend father of the Church, and his face was not pleasant to see.
He had not passed the gate long before it got to be known that he had
found that Tyndale really was in the city, and went away in a ship.
He, and the City Guard, tracked him into Schouts' castle, up the
river, and that saintly minded robber lord was ready to sell the
Englishman for a thousand golden crowns. And how do you think the
matter was settled?" said the chief warden, with a chuckle. "When
the bargain was struck, and they went into the dungeon for Cochlaeus
to claim his purchase, William Tyndale was gone!"
"Gone?"
Herman's face was the picture of astonishment.
"Do you mean to tell me that Tyndale managed to dupe Schouts, of all
men in the world?" he cried.
"I do. And since I have no love either for the robber lord, who is a
rascal, or the Deacon," said the chief warden, whispering behind his
hand, "I'm glad the poor man got away. I hope he'll get clear out of
the country and spoil the plans of the Inquisitor."
Herman looked at the man to judge how far he seemed sincere, but it
was impossible to doubt him. So had he seen others look when
Cochlaeus was spoken of--a man hated of all men for his work's sake,
to say nothing of his well-known mercilessness.
Herman moved on. He did not know, as he passed away from the gate,
that the chief warden looked after him commiseratingly, and shrugged
his shoulders.
"There's trouble in store for that poor fellow," he said to the men
around.
At heart Herman was relieved to find that no whisper had got abroad
that his home had given shelter to the man whom Cochlaeus was
searching for. At first he walked along the street with a free step
and a light heart, for he would soon see Margaret, and explain to her
why he had been away so long. And to-morrow was the day of their
wedding! He was home in time! He whistled gaily at the thought.
But for some unaccountable reason a sense of dread came to him. The
gaiety passed, and the dread grew with every step onward, before he
had gone far. The thought came that Margaret would blame him for
neglect, leaving her for so many days without a word, and her wedding
day so near! And yet he had sent her a message by a man named
Jermyn, who knew the circumstances, since he worked at the windmill,
telling her he would be home in good time for their marriage, but he
must make sure that William Tyndale was safe in hiding, and beyond
discovery. But his content, while on the road, had been rudely
shaken, for when he came to a lonely spot on the way, he saw a man
lying, beaten, and bruised, and bleeding by the wayside, and it was
Jermyn, his messenger, scarce able to speak.
When he had lodged the poor fellow at an inn, and left money to cover
his nursing, he had come on swiftly, anxious to set the misfortune
right.
A sense of brooding calamity grew on him while he walked the familiar
streets, but what form it could take he could not conceive. It was
not that Margaret would resent his laggard arrival, and display
unreasonable temper--he knew her too well to have that thought. It
was a brooding fear of something infinitely worse than that. It
might be that ruin had overtaken her father because Cochlaeus had
discovered the part he had played in printing off the Scripture
sheets. It might be---- God forbid!
He stopped, and drops of sweat like great beads rolled down his face.
His darling might be dead!
He had turned down the street which led to his own home, thinking to
see his mother first, and change his travel-stained clothes for
something better; but this possibility sent him down a byway which
would take him by short-cuts to his darling's home.
He went at first at a swift walk, but this unnameable horror grew on
him so much that he broke into a run, so that when he came out of the
alley almost opposite Margaret's home he was so spent and breathless
that he had to stand a few minutes before he could enter the house
and was able to speak.
When he entered the shop Margaret's father was standing behind the
counter. The gloom on the printer's face forced a question from his
lips.
"What is wrong? Where is she? Is she dead?"
He stood at the counter, his hands shaking as they rested on it, his
face flushed with the heat of his run, his lips trembling, and his
breath coming almost in sobs.
"I know not," was the slow and sad reply. "God knows, Herman, but we
do not. And to-morrow was to be her marriage day. Come in, my son,
where we can talk."
The printer led the way into the quiet parlour behind the shop, where
Margaret and Herman had spent so many happy hours. There Byrckmann
sank into a chair, and, resting his elbows on the table, buried his
careworn face in his hands, and wept. And to see a strong man weep
is like watching a strong swimmer in his agony in a sea that claims
him, and is seeking to drag him down.
"My darling! My child! My child! Would God I had died for thee!"
he sobbed.
Herman sat and gazed at him with hungry eyes. His soul was in a
tumult. He wanted to ask what this meant, but he dared not, while
this storm of grief was shaking Byrckmann. But bit by bit, in a
little while the story came, so meagre since Margaret's father knew
so little. Margaret had never returned home. He had gone to
Herman's home, and neither had he come, and his mother could tell the
printer nothing. She could only express the wonder whether the girl
had sought to find her way through the cavern, while Herman had gone
forward with Tyndale to see him out of danger, and she had lost
herself in that great, wandering place, which had once lodged the
larger part of an army.
Herman's mother and Byrckmann had gone down to the cavern, and had
searched it through and through, not once, but twice, and even
thrice, thinking that some corner had been left unexplored. Strange
to say, they found a passage Herman's mother knew nothing of, but it
seemed to end in a _cul-de-sac_. They found a lantern on the floor,
broken and smoked, and a bit of lace. The lantern belonged to
Herman, and the lace was Margaret's; but that was all.
The printer had gone everywhere he could think of in the city to look
for his daughter, and John Gropper had gone as well. He was out now,
looking for her. So, too, had the workmen left the printing-presses,
which now stood idle, to search, in their love for her, even down to
the boys who served the men; but it would be the same as before--the
same story of failure.
Herman sat, stupefied. This was calamity. It might mean so much!
It could scarcely mean less than death.
While he walked slowly home he was reeling as a drunken man, and
people, in the darkest part of the gloaming, looked at him askance.
But they understood when they saw who it was, since it had become
widely known that the beautiful girl whose marriage was fixed for
to-morrow had disappeared. Some had whispered the dread words--"The
Inquisition!" Byrckmann had it in mind, but did not say the words.
Nor had the wardens at the gate spoken of it, although they knew that
Margaret was missing, and feared for the possible explanation--the
Familiars!
"Mother, she's gone!" he cried, as he entered his home, and,
staggering along the passage, stood, white-faced and shaken, in the
doorway, where she sat, trying to do her usual work.
"I know, my son!" she exclaimed, coming to throw her arms about him
to comfort him. But how could she do that when the uncertainty was
beginning to vanish, and the thought was crystallising in her mind
that her boy's bride was somewhere in the Familiars' power? It had
once been said that over the gate of Hell the inscription was cut
deep in the imperishable granite:
"All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
Was the haunt of the Inquisition a place where Hope could come any
more than in that Hell of which the poet wrote? And what was it to
them that Margaret was tender and beautiful and young? That was no
shield to ward off their torture strokes.
Herman's mother felt that it was useless to whisper any words of
comfort, for she was borne down by anxiety, and fearful of the worst.
When he had had some food, and had washed away his travel stains,
Herman went through the cavern, but the quest was an unsuccessful
one. His exhaustive search brought him to the passage of which the
printer had spoken. He halted in the _cul-de-sac_, with the rock in
front of him, and examined it closely. All these underground ways
and caverns which were common in that part of the country might have
their arms or, as they seemed to him, their tentacles; and yet he was
convinced that this was no dead end.
Standing in the dim light which his horn lantern threw on the walls,
he tried to think the whole thing out, and form some plan of action;
for if Margaret was alive he would find her, whether the search
covered days or weeks.
He stood with folded arms, the lantern at his feet; but he bent down
for it presently, and scanned the rock which closed up the end of the
passage. He had thought of the _cul-de-sac_ in the forest cavern,
which the forester had shown him, and which proved to be an entrance
to the castle of the robber lord.
Might not this be like that, and leading into some place where
Margaret might be?
The thought began to frame itself into something like a certainty,
for when he set the lantern on the floor again, he noticed that the
earth which had drifted on the rock was beaten in, as though it had
been trampled on by many feet. He went on his knees and saw some
footprints--those of men who were not shod as he was. His boots were
nailed, but these marks were not from them.
Presently his eyes, in that keen search, caught the gleam of
something like gold, and when he took it into his hand and held it to
the lantern light he exclaimed in wonder. This was his darling's
golden bracelet, which he had given her on the day of their
betrothal, and he wondered how it came here. Thrusting it safely
into his pocket, he sat back on his heels and thought. Was this not
a _cul-de-sac_ after all, but the entrance to some house?
He endeavoured to locate the spot. Hard by, just over the cavern,
was the city wall. He knew of the houses that were there, but this
passage, which was long and narrow, running inwards beneath the
city--where did it lie? It ran level with the city wall at first,
but then it took a turn, and at right angles it stretched along for
many yards.
For a time he merely groped, as it were, in his mind. It was
difficult to get his bearings as to streets and houses, but after a
while the thing assumed such shape that a cry came from his lips, and
his heart so throbbed with pain that his hand went to it to still it.
"The Holy House!" he exclaimed. "My darling is there!"
He went over it all in his mind again, and knew it must be so, and
then he saw what had happened. The picture was vividly portrayed,
and his imagination served him so well that he could see men's faces,
their doings, and his darling's horror. Margaret had gone into the
cavern when he left her, and had fallen into the hands of the
Familiars, who had walked down this passage and in some way through
this place which was blocked by an apparently impassable wall of
rock. And she was taken into that place of terror--that den of
infamy. It must be so, for there were those dull footprints, such as
Familiars would leave, and her bracelet to show that she had been
there. And every footprint pointed to the rock. None turned away
from it, to suggest that they had found her here and carried her away.
His blood began to boil at the thought of Margaret's jeopardy. His
memory was alive to all the deeds of cruelty he had heard of, and his
hands clenched tightly, while he began to think of vengeance. His
fingers went to his belt, and, drawing the dagger from its sheath, he
gazed at it, and vowed that if those men had hurt his darling, or
stood between her and her liberty, the steel should be reddened with
the blood of her tormentors.
He sprang to his feet, caught up the lantern, and tested the rock as
he and Engel had done when they entered the castle in the forest to
search for William Tyndale. He scanned it thoroughly, but for a long
time saw no trace of any opening. At last he observed what looked
like a crack, and drawing the dagger from his belt again he thrust
the point at it. The thin, keen-edged blade went in some little
distance, and he moved it upwards. It ran up and up, till it would
go no farther. He turned the blade, and ran it from right to left
for the space of a couple of feet. Then down the left side the
dagger moved. At the bottom the blade travelled easily towards the
right.
That was proof that there was an opening in the rock, and he believed
that the rock would move. But how? Was there a spring anywhere that
must be touched before it would shift inwards and towards him? He
began to search for it. With the lantern's aid he scanned the
surface, inch after inch, intent on finding this spring, for he meant
to get in, taking the tremendous risks, to look for his darling and
bring her away, if he could find her, whatever the cost.
Nearly an hour went, and although he began to despair he could not
bring himself to give up the attempt. Margaret must have been
carried through that space which was nearly four feet high, and he,
too, would go and bring her from the Holy House, even if he had to
fight his way inch by inch. What could frustrate him when his dear
one was there?
When the quest for the secret spring appeared so hopeless that he
began to think the discovery was impossible, his finger, which
travelled over the face of the rock near by this door very
delicately, marked something unlike what was near it. He pressed the
spot, and to his wonder and relief, and yet almost to his alarm,
because of what might follow, the door moved slowly back to the left,
and there was an open space before him.