THE HOUSE ON THE WALL
Herman and Heinrich came out swiftly from their hiding-place,
whispering back to the forester to stay near the others and protect
them. When Engel gave his assent, they ventured stealthily through
the vaults, using one of the lanterns when necessary.
They were bent on assuring themselves that Cochlaeus and those who
were with him were really gone, and as they dogged their steps nearly
all the time in darkness, Heinrich whispering to Herman when to turn
to right or left among the storage, they scarcely lost sight of those
whom they were following.
Not one among them all, so far as they could tell, turned to look
back, and at last they mounted some broad stone steps into the
warehouse on a level with the wharf. Listening intently, Herman and
his companion heard the jingle of keys, the creaking of great hinges,
the sound of heavy boots on some stones, and the noisy clang of the
door as it was closed. The key turned in the lock again, and all was
silent.
"Gone!" exclaimed Heinrich, in a tone of relief. "I was fearful lest
we should be found when Cochlaeus came so near to our hiding-place.
If he had discovered us, with all those armed men near, what would it
have availed to fight?"
He shuddered.
"Didst hear my teeth chatter, Herman? It was from real fright," he
confessed openly. "But come. The way is clear, and since they have
locked the door the place must be empty of any men who could
challenge us. Come at once. We'll get out of the city before that
Churchman finds that his birds have flown, and there are not many
minutes left before he will be at the printer's door."
He turned away, and hurried back, winding in and out among the
merchandise, using his lantern freely for Herman to see the way; and
as soon as he was within the doorway of the cellar in which Margaret
and the others were in hiding, he threw all caution to the winds.
"Come at once. The way is clear," he cried. "Forester, help
Mistress Byrckmann. Take her in your strong arms if needs be, and
Mistress Margaret and her father can carry the lantern and show you
where to step."
He had scarcely ended before Margaret had come away, and Herman could
see her holding up the lantern. Then her father came, handing out
his wife, and last of all was Otto Engel, who did as Heinrich
suggested when he saw that already Margaret's mother was overwrought
and unequal to the call upon her strength.
"Lead on!" he exclaimed, as he bent low and gathered up the sick
woman in his strong arms.
Heinrich led them up the stone steps and past the great double gates,
on through the great warehouses, which were windowless, through the
stables where the horses looked round at them sleepily, until they
stopped at a door which opened outwards. As they paused there they
could hear the wind screaming past the door outside, and the rain
patter against the woodwork, as well as bubble in at the doorstep,
blown there by the gale which was sweeping across the city.
"We must hide our lights the moment I open the door," said Heinrich;
"but don't put them out, for we shall want them presently. Art
ready, Herman?"
"Yes," came the answer, for Herman had taken the lantern from
Margaret and had led her by the hand through these dark places,
always alert for any danger that might menace her.
They could hear the stealthy slipping of the bolts, and then the
scarcely stifled creaking of the hinges as the wind drove in the door
the moment the latch was lifted.
"Pass out, one by one," said Heinrich. "Bend your head, forester,
for the door is only a low one. Ah! I thought as much. Hast hurt
thyself?" he asked, in some concern, when Engel caught his forehead
against the lintel.
"Not much," whispered the forester, although the blow had staggered
him. "Fortunately I was going slowly." But with that he stood in
the open with the wind playing about his face.
"What next?" asked Herman.
"I'll shut this door to save suspicion, if the wind will let me do as
much," said Heinrich, struggling to pull the door together, but
failing till Herman caught it, and closed it on the latch after
putting both hands to the task.
"The street is empty. Now follow me."
Heinrich crossed the road, his form dimly showing in the darkness,
and the others followed, swaying and staggering with the wind, the
forester more than once beating against the wall while carrying
Margaret's sick mother.
Heinrich moved down an alley, going slowly, each holding out a hand
to either side to keep in touch with the wall, and feeling with their
feet, not to trip over any projecting doorstep. No harm came, and
then the alley was left behind.
Where they were none knew, save Heinrich, for the darkness was dense,
and the street into which they emerged was like so many others,
narrow and tortuous, with the wind screeching along and causing the
swinging signs to creak and scream as they moved before the blast.
"As straight across the street as you can go," said Heinrich aloud,
and even then they barely heard him in the roar of the wind and the
pelting rain. He moved forward, but staggered, and, his frail form
unable to withstand the rush of wind, he fell heavily on the stones.
"Art hurt?" Byrckmann asked anxiously, stretching out a hand to help
the poor fellow to his feet.
"Not much. Only bruised a bit. But that won't count," he added
cheerfully. "Come along."
They reached the other side of the street, but, going past the door
of an empty house, Heinrich led them down a side passage and halted
in comparative calm at a doorway.
"We are here," he said, when they had again grouped about him. "And
here, please God, we shall find respite from the wind and rain, and,
better still, confound that monster, Cochlaeus."
He chuckled as he pulled a key from his bosom, and, telling them to
go carefully and turn a little to the right when they were once
inside, he waited for them to file in, standing like one on guard at
the doorstep to keep out any intruders.
"Feel your way!" he exclaimed, when he had closed and bolted the door
on the inside. "We dare not show a light on this side of the house.
Put out your hands, and that will help you. Ready? I'll count the
steps I take. One, two, three."
He counted up to fourteen and halted, and again the others, groping
in the darkness, were about him. There was no sound while they stood
in stillness, save the howling wind outside and the scramble near
them of a startled rat who was taken by surprise at the intrusion.
"We are going up a stone staircase, which tends to the right the
whole way. I have counted the steps scores of times, for I have
often been here, and there are twenty-eight of them. Now come after
me. I'll throw you a light as soon as we take the first bend, for
there are no windows this side of the house, and no one can see us;
not even the City Guard if 'tis bold enough to come out on such a
night."
He hurried up the stairs in the darkness without any hesitation,
because every step was familiar, and after he had mounted a dozen he
threw some light on the stone staircase to show the others where to
go. From this point they mounted the remaining steps, both lanterns
showing light, and those who followed him watched in wonder. The
staircase had its way in solid masonry. Here and there were slits in
the walls, just wide enough for a man's head to fit in, but too
narrow even for a child to enter, and each slit was eight or ten feet
deep, perhaps more.
"Where are we?" asked Herman, looking about him.
"You shall see presently," was the lightly spoken answer. Heinrich
was exuberant. Whether danger had passed or not, the others could
not say, but his gay spirits, in contrast to his previous care, gave
them confidence, and they followed him without hesitation. At the
top of the steps he turned into a room, so small that a tall man
could hardly lie full length upon the floor, while the place itself
was hemmed in by, or formed a part of, some solid masonry.
In one side of the room was a window, broad enough even for a man of
Otto Engel's proportions to crawl through, but to pass through it was
impossible, for there were bars from top to bottom, and bars crossed
these from right to left.
"What's next?" asked the forester, who had gently placed Margaret's
mother on the stone floor, and now stood panting with his struggle
against the storm when so heavily burdened.
"We're going through that window," said Heinrich, with quiet
assurance and a contented smile on his face.
"Art mad?" cried Engel, staring at the bars and then at their guide.
"Who could get through that window with those irons crossed like
that?" he asked almost angrily, half disposed to think that this poor
madman had duped them and had brought them here to no purpose, unless
to hide and starve, unless he could bring them food.
Heinrich laughed outright, and rubbed his hands.
"I thought you would say as much," he answered gleefully. "But wait.
Have patience, and ere many minutes have gone you shall be outside
the city."
He was serious now, and they watched him wonderingly, still thinking
him mad. He went out of the room, and they heard his boots beating
on the stone steps as he clattered down them in the darkness. A
suspicion came that he had served them treacherously and had gone
away, leaving them in this empty house, which might, for aught they
knew, be some part of the Holy House, and this one of the dens in
which some poor prisoner would sigh out his hours, by day and night,
until the tormentors chose to deal with him. Even Herman and Engel
felt their faces blench as this thought thrilled them, and Margaret,
who feared as much as they, put her hand in Herman's arm and drew
closer to him.
"Has he tricked us, think you?" asked the forester, going to the door
to stare down into the darkness of the stone staircase. But when he
had stood there a moment or two he heard returning footsteps, and
Heinrich came up, two steps at a time, carrying a coil of strong rope.
"Didst think I'd gone and left you all?" he asked half roguishly.
This gay side of him had rendered him oblivious of their anxiety, and
he was gloating over their surprise when he let them into his secret.
"I did," said the forester, completely puzzled.
"You might have trusted me," Heinrich exclaimed half reproachfully as
he uncoiled the rope, making them wonder all the more. As he threw
down the last coil, he crawled along the stone recess to where the
bars were, and then they were amazed. One by one he took a bar in
his hands as he knelt before them. Lifting one, as if it fitted into
a socket, he drew it away and laid it by his side. He did the same
with another, and yet with more, until every bar was lying on the
great stone window-sill, and there was a clear and open space as soon
as he threw the glass window back on its hinges, broad enough even
for the forester to pass.
While they watched him in silence, he leant out and gazed about in
all directions; now to right, to left, and downwards, and, satisfied
with what he saw, he came back to them in happy complacence.
"Go and look for yourselves!" he exclaimed, as his feet touched the
floor; and the forester, nearest to the window, climbed up and moved
on his hands and knees to the opening. The others heard him exclaim
in wonder, and presently he came backwards, and was once more with
the others.
"Heinrich!" he exclaimed, catching at the simple one's hands, "I
wronged thee, and from the bottom of my heart I crave pardon. You
have brought us to deliverance."
"'Tis true," said Herman, who had gone into the embrasure and, having
gazed for a few moments, turned round to speak back to the others.
"We are on the outside of the city. This is part of the city wall;
yonder is the river, and the harbour too, and away here to our right,
close by, is the forest which leads to Engel's hut. Margaret, we are
safe if we can manage to let ourselves down by that rope, and if you
and your mother have courage enough to be lowered so far. And yet,"
he added doubtfully, "I know not how the last one can come, for it
will want a stronger man than Heinrich, even with the most willing
heart, to lower the lightest of us."
Heinrich laughed and skipped about in childish glee.
"Come back and I will show you!" he exclaimed. "Besides, 'tis well
not to waste time," he added, changing suddenly to seriousness.
Herman crawled back, and was near to the edge to drop on the floor
when Heinrich stopped him.
"See!" he said, taking one of the bars; and, scraping away some of
the mortar which was powdered only, but carefully catching every
grain in his cap so that none should be wasted and fall to the floor,
he drove the bar far into a hitherto unseen hole so that it stayed
firm in the wall. He took the rope, and, making a strong loop at one
end, he passed it over this, and they understood.
The last that came could lower himself by sliding down the rope,
whereas the others could be let down safely with a loop and a sliding
knot about their body.
"Who will go first?" asked Heinrich.
"Someone who can help the women when their turn comes," suggested the
forester. "Suppose you go first, Herman. Then Mistress Margaret,
and then her mother, and her father to follow. After that, either
Heinrich or myself."
The noose went round Herman's body, under his arms, and, not to lay
any strain on the others, he threw out the whole of the rope that was
at liberty, and suffered himself to go down, hand under hand, until
his feet touched the ground below. He loosened the rope, and when it
was drawn back, Margaret came to the window, and he dimly saw her
sitting in the loop and clinging to the rope while they were lowering
her gently, but swaying in the furious wind. Before many moments she
was in his arms, and he covered her face with kisses.
"God is going to send us into safety," she answered, throwing her
arms about his neck and clinging to him in the darkness until it was
time to render service to her mother, whose turn was next.
The last to come was Heinrich, who had gone down that rope so many
times, and they gathered about him to bless and thank him for what he
had done.
"Heinrich," said Margaret, taking him by the hand, "in God's dear
mercy you have been our deliverer. We owe so much to you--our lives,
I doubt not, and our liberty."
He stood and gazed at her in happy laughter.
"'Twas God who made me your helper," he said, his voice thrilling
with gladness. "But you must be gone. Yonder is the forest, and the
forester knows it well. He can lead you there ten times better than
I. Now I am going back to my mother, for if Cochlaeus has bought
those vaults he will not fail to find his way into our home. We must
find another. Perhaps they will suffer us to live in this house we
have just left."
"God speed you!" he exclaimed, careless of the wind and rain, and
holding out his hand to each of them in turn, but keeping Margaret
for the last. When she gave him hers, he drew off her glove and
covered the hand with kisses, not heeding how the rain came like
pellets on his uncovered head. She knew not whether the drops which
fell on her hand were rain or tears.
"Good-bye, Heinrich," she said, almost weeping. "I shall never
forget. Oh, never! I shall never fail to remember how you were
ready to give your life for mine."
She made him glad almost to delirium when she put up her hands and
drew his wet face to hers, and kissed him on both cheeks. He hurried
away to the wall with happy laughter, and when he had climbed up the
rope and they knew that he was safe within the house, Engel took
Margaret's mother in his arms, and the little company walked on into
the dark forest.