CHAPTER I

THE MAN IN THE MEADOW

As she walked across the meadow, carrying a basket in one hand, and swinging a a dainty blue hood in the other, Margaret Byrckmann made a picture that was pleasing to behold. She looked up as she moved along, but her eyes went down again before the dazzling sun which was setting in a blaze of red splendour, silhouetting the battlemented walls of the city.

She gave this evening beauty scanty attention, for her dark eyes were watching the meadow. Then a cry of pleasure broke from her lips, and she hastened forward; but before she had gone far her face filled with disappointment, and she stopped abruptly.

"I thought it was Herman!" she exclaimed, almost petulantly.

She watched a man who was walking wearily. He looked dusty and wayworn, and the movement on the beaten path seemed to be toilsome and painful. She thought he must have travelled far, for he carried a heavy-looking wallet on his back, and the staff in his hand was used as though it was real labour to go forward.

"He is tired to death, poor man!" she muttered, her sympathy getting the better of her disappointment, and she crossed the meadow to intercept him.

Until he halted, in sheer weariness, to look around for some spot--a tree, or a bush--anything that would screen him from the glare of the sun, the man in the meadow did not see her; but the moment he spoke, Margaret knew that he was not one of her countrymen.

"Mistress, how far is it to the city?" he asked, in a foreign accent.

"That is it," she answered softly, and full of concern, for the stranger's limbs trembled, and his hand shook when he raised it to set his cap straight. With the other he gripped his staff tightly, lest he should fall.

"Yonder?" he exclaimed, gazing beneath his hand. "I did not see it in the blaze of the sunset. It seems a long way off."

"More than two miles," said Margaret.

"Two miles!" was the dismayed response; "so far as that?"

"Yes, sir. But how will you think to enter the city, since 'tis but a few minutes to sundown? They close the gates the moment the sunset bell has stopped."

"Is it so?" came the discouraged response. "I forgot that it is not here as it is in England, where our walled cities are so few. Then I must lie in the meadow till sunrise."

"You could enter if you had a pass," said Margaret, who was concerned for the stranger; for, in spite of his wallet and the travel stains, she saw that he was no common wanderer.

"But I have no pass."

The stranger and the girl, standing in silence, while the slanting sunlight was sending long shadows over the grass, looked around for some place--a hut, or a barn, or anything where a man who was tired could lie down and sleep; but there was nothing of that sort in view; no village, far or near.

"There is no place that I can see," said Margaret, who had never noticed how empty the fields were of houses until now, when they were so badly needed.

"Ah, well! I may not complain," the stranger muttered. "Why should I? Even the dear Lord saw many a sun go down, and had nowhere to lay His head."

He spoke more to himself, as if forgetful that the girl was near, until she moved.

"I will sit down under the chestnut tree, and take my chance, unless your home is anywhere outside the city walls."

"I live in the city, sir, but they know me, and I have a permit to get in after the gates are shut," said Margaret. "And yet I am so sorry for you," she went on softly.

"If I only knew where I might find some food I would not care," the stranger said, gazing around him, his hand above his eyes.

A low call came while he was speaking, like the sweet note of the last evening bird. It travelled over the meadow from the river, and Margaret looked up quickly. Her dark eyes flashed, and her lips parted with pleasure; then she sent back an answering cry, full of soft, rich music. The stranger, watching her pale face, saw the flush of colour darken it, and, worn out though he was, he marvelled at her beauty, and smiled to himself.

"Pardon me for a moment, sir," she exclaimed, when her answer ended. "I will come back again."

While she spoke she moved away with hurried steps to meet a young man who had appeared on the bank of the broad river. He had been bending low to fasten his boat to the root of one of the willows, but when he saw her coming he came to meet her, and, throwing his arms about her, he kissed her till she asked for breathing time.

"There's a stranger yonder, Herman, and he will see us," she exclaimed, her face burning at the thought.

"A stranger?" Herman cried, flushing at being caught like that, and the girl's laugh rang out when she held back, still in his arms, and saw the colour of his browned face deepen.

"'Tis what I have told you, Herman, again and again," she said roguishly. "You ought to look before you love."

"Look before I love!" the young fellow blurted. "I looked, and saw a girl so sweet and lovely that I lost my heart at once. That's looking before you love, is it not? But where's the stranger? I can't see anyone."

Her lover's arm was still about her when Margaret turned to point to the man she left standing near the chestnut tree.

"He's gone!" she exclaimed, in real surprise, and, breaking away from Herman, she ran to the spot where she and the stranger had been standing. Then a cry of dismay broke from her lips. The man lay in a heap in the hollow, and, leaping into it, she dropped on her knees, and gazed at him with startled eyes.

"Is he dead?" cried Herman, who had come at her heels, and now was in the hollow by her side.

"God forbid!" the girl exclaimed, beginning to chafe the unconscious man's hands.

"He came here while I was waiting for you, Herman. He wanted to know how far it was to the city, and he seemed so distressed when I told him the gates would soon be shut--long before he could reach them. We cannot leave him here, poor man!"

She broke off almost abruptly at a thought that came.

"I might have known! He asked if there was any place where he could buy some food, but when your call came I left him to go to you. It was so thoughtless of me!" she added reproachfully.

"You couldn't come to anyone better," said Herman, with a laugh, but only in jest, for he fully appreciated her regret.

"He must be hungry," the girl exclaimed. "He shall have some of this to help him on till he can get a good meal."

She drew her basket closer, and gave it to her lover, bidding him open a jar that was there. Then she put her arms around the shoulders of the helpless one, who was crouching in a bundled heap, and drew him to her, so that his head rested on her bosom. Putting out her hand for the jar, she gently poured some of the cordial between his lips.

The man swallowed it slowly, and presently his eyes opened.

"Ah, I remember!" he exclaimed weakly. "I have travelled far to-day, and, not being well, the heat and hunger have been too much for me."

"Drink more of this," urged Margaret, and when she held the jar once more to the parched lips the stranger drank the cool draught almost eagerly.

"Now eat this," said Margaret, with a pleasing peremptoriness, when, with one of her hands, she drew a parcel from her basket, and deftly unfolded the spotless cloth which wrapped round something. It was food, and she placed it so that he might help himself while she still held him close to her bosom. He seemed too weak otherwise to sit up.

The sun was now gone down, and the heavens were glowing with many-coloured splendour. Away to the west lay the emerald sea, whose silver-crested waves rolled against the sapphire shores, while purple islands dotted the waters and rested there in stately stillness, and the snowclad mountains on the mainland caught the changing glory. Some of that last beauty of the summer's evening entered the little hollow where these three were grouped together, one helpless in his weariness, the others wondering what they should do with him.

"I am another man," said the stranger presently, sitting up, while Margaret sat back on her heels, watching his face keenly. "Whoever you may be, may the Lord reward you both, for dealing so kindly towards me."

He attempted to rise, but failed completely. Not until Herman lifted him in his strong arms could he feel his feet, and even then he swayed, and flung his arm about the young man's shoulder.

"That does not look like walking two miles," said Herman seriously. "Do you know anyone in the city with whom you thought to stay?"

The stranger shook his head.

"No. I started on my way this morning, and, from what they told me, I expected to arrive in good time to look for a lodging; but the heat was so overpowering that I was forced to go slowly, and here I am, outside, and the city gates are closed."

Herman, still with the man's weight on his shoulder, wondered what he could do for this helpless one, whose face had won his confidence. Presently his perplexity passed.

"I have it!" he exclaimed. "I was to bring in that man whom the Burgomaster sent me to meet, and my permit was to admit both him and me by the water-gate. 'Tis the very thing, since Manton has proved a laggard, and word has come that he won't be here for a week or more. I will take you to my mother's house, master," he exclaimed. "Margaret, unstrap the wallet, and carry it, while I take him to the boat."

The girl's fingers moved about the buckles, and in a little while they were on the move, Herman giving the worn-out man the help of his strong arm. He stopped before they had gone far.

"We can't go on like this," he said decisively; and, taking the stranger in his arms bodily, he went forward with strong, swift strides, but as gently as he knew how, towards the river. The boat was there, and laying his burden in the stern, and bidding Margaret sit beside him, Herman pulled the little craft down the darkening stream, not pausing till he reached the water-gate.

He answered the challenge. What he said satisfied the sergeant of the gate, and, mounting the green-stained steps, now once more with the stranger in his arms, and Margaret following anxiously, lest her lover's feet should slip, he stood on the topmost step of all, and waited for her. Passing along the dark and narrow streets, they paused at last at the door of Herman's home.

Margaret threw the door open and waited for him to pass in.

"Mother," he cried, when, at the end of the passage, he stood in an open doorway, "I have brought you a lodger!"

The woman who sat at the table looked up, her needle half-drawn through the cloth, and her blue eyes opened so wide that Herman laughed at his mother's surprise.

Mistress Bengel started to her feet in wonder at seeing her son so burdened.

"Who is it?" she exclaimed. "Is he ill?" she asked, before there was time to answer her first question.

"Nay, not ill, but worn out. I will take him upstairs to the empty chamber."

He turned as he spoke, and mounted the stairs. At the top, before he thrust the door open with his foot, he called down to the others:

"Mother, you will find that I have brought home an angel unawares."

He laughed again. Yet he felt that it was no jest. He had watched the stranger, and something told him he was above the common run of men.

When the stranger lay quiet on the bed, sighing contentedly to find himself at rest, and clasping his hands for silent prayer before he slept, Herman turned away and crept down the stairs softly.

"Mother," he said, in little more than a whisper, when he entered the living-room and closed the door behind him noiselessly, "do you guess who that man is?"

The woman watched her son's face, and marvelled at the kindling of his eyes.

"No, my boy, I cannot. I did not so much as see his face."

Herman gazed around the room before he spoke again. His eyes turned to the window, as if he thought someone might be peering in. He went to the passage and looked along it. He did more than that, for he went to the street door and, opening it, looked into the dark street, but it was silent, and he saw no one. There was not so much as a footstep to be heard anywhere.

"Margaret," he asked, when he came back to the two wondering women, "did anyone, think you, see us enter the house?"

"No, Herman," the girl responded, in a whisper, awed by this mystery Herman had brought downstairs with him. "I looked about, but I cannot tell you why, and I saw no one. It was so dark. But what of it?"

The question came eagerly.

"What of it?"

Herman's voice sank to a scarcely audible whisper. "The man upstairs, mother, is a friend of Doctor Martin Luther. He is the Englishman for whom such tireless search is being made, and his name is William Tyndale! What would the Familiars of the Holy House say if they knew that he was here!"