CHAPTER XVII

THE MAN IN THE DUNGEON

"What will you give me, Deacon, if I hand you over this prisoner of mine, whose name, you say, is William Tyndale?"

Schouts lifted the silver flagon while he spoke, and filled his goblet.

"Two hundred and fifty golden crowns, my lord--the price that is set on that fellow's head," Cochlaeus answered.

"What!" cried Schouts, in sharp surprise, with the goblet half-way to his lips. "You would make a crafty bargain with me, and pay me as much as you would pay one of my retainers if they chanced to find this lean-faced Englishman?"

Schouts laughed scornfully, and instead of drinking he brought down the goblet heavily to the table, spilling the wine on his hand.

"'Tis a big sum, my lord. Two hundred and fifty golden crowns."

"It may be, Deacon, but I should get as much from this fellow's friends in Hamburg, for since I got hold of him I am told that some English merchants there have some regard for him, and are finding him money for this enterprise of his, this writing of pestilent papers. I shall go to them, perhaps to-morrow--perhaps to-night--and tell them how anxious the Churchmen are to burn their friend, but they only value him for fuel to an Inquisition fire at two hundred and fifty crowns. They will give me five hundred without a word, I'll warrant you, and think they got this Tyndale cheaply. But I'll not take five hundred from them, nor from you. The price for that Englishman in my dungeon is a thousand crowns, down here on this table, if you are the purchaser. Then you may torture him to your heart's content, or burn him, just as you are disposed."

"A thousand crowns!" cried Cochlaeus, gazing at the robber lord in blank amazement, and in his movement of surprise unwittingly overturning the wine goblet near his hand. "Who would give you such a preposterous sum? No one!"

He brought his clenched fist heavily on the table while he spoke.

Schouts laughed, then drank off his wine, draining his goblet and filling it again before he answered.

"I said a thousand crowns, and golden ones. And if nobody will give me that much, no one has him but myself, and I shall keep him. He won't cost much for his food, and I shall get a bit of satisfaction out of it all. I shall know, for instance, that you and your torturing crew in those Holy House cellars where you keep your racks and your thumbscrews are consumed with anger because you cannot work your will on that man you want so badly, and won't buy at my price."

Schouts sipped at his wine two or three times, staring at Cochlaeus, half amused at the look on the Churchman's face.

"I shall keep him for a time, and he may bring me in a good sum before I have done with him. His friends may go beyond the thousand when they know where he is."

"I can't believe it!" exclaimed Cochlaeus, in a tone of incredulity.

"Can you not?" cried Schouts. "Look you, Deacon Cochlaeus! If this man goes out of my hands, whether to his friends or to his foes, he will not go until I see a thousand crowns of gold on this table. Now you have my answer. I won't take nine hundred and ninety-nine. It shall be a thousand; and when you have brought me that many you may do as you please with him, for then he is yours, body and soul."

The robber had stood up, and, pushing back his chair, so that it fell to the floor with a noisy clatter, he went to the hearth, and, having kicked the logs together with his boot, stood with his back to the fire and looked to see how this emissary of the Inquisition received his ultimatum.

"Say seven hundred and fifty, my lord," exclaimed Cochlaeus, now standing. "A thousand crowns is such an enormous sum for a penniless man."

"'Tis William Tyndale's price, whether he is penniless or rolls in wealth," came the dogged answer. "And, as I said, I won't take a golden crown less, not even nine hundred and ninety-nine."

Cochlaeus paced the floor to and fro, his feet treading on some magnificent carpets which must have come from Turkish looms. He had no thought for all the luxury that was round him--the spoils of many a piracy. His thoughts were on the man for whose purchase he was bargaining, whom he longed to see crouching in one of the dungeons of the Inquisition, presently to be bound on the wheel and broken, or put to some other torture, and, if he had his own way, burnt in the open market-place of the city which he had dared to pollute with his shameless sheets!

But the price! This robber lord had the audacity to ask a thousand golden crowns, and as he had already protested, the sum was preposterous. Yet, before he came away to hunt down the arch-heretic, who was dealing such deadly blows at Mother Church, and spreading far and wide his pestiferous books, his fellow-Inquisitors had told him that a thousand, or even two thousand, golden crowns would not be too much if it would bring Tyndale into their power. They would be able to silence him for ever, and he would not then seduce the people to heresy.

Schouts stood with his back to the blazing logs, and watched the Churchman with a sinister look on his face, as he moved backwards and forwards, debating this question of payment to the bandit lord. As for the lord of the castle, he was smiling to himself, although his face was stern, to think that he was wringing out a thousand golden crowns from a Church for which, in his godless way, he had the most profound contempt.

"Well, Deacon, what decision?" he asked abruptly, when Cochlaeus seemed no nearer to it.

"I cannot decide," the Churchman protested. "The terms are so exorbitant. Who ever heard of such a sum--a thousand crowns--for one of Tyndale's stamp?"

Schouts laughed.

"I've more to add, and that, too, may prove preposterous!" he exclaimed. "I forgot, when I fixed the price for my prisoner, that I must have a full pardon for every sin of which I stand convicted--my robberies, what you and many another call my murders, my wanton insults--to quote you again--to some of the Church's high dignitaries--for everything that you and yours may count a sin! That and the thousand crowns! So now decide, and quickly, for I want to be gone."

He was going to say more, but there were quick steps on the stones of the corridor, and then a man came in without ceremony, and, breathless with haste, strode to where Schouts was standing.

[Illustration: "MY LORD, THERE IS A SHIP COMING ROUND THE BEND," THE MAN CRIED, BREATHLESSLY.]

"My lord," he cried, not heeding the Churchman, who had paused in his restless walk to hear what Schouts had to say, "there is a ship coming round the bend. She is the same you bade me keep a sharp look out for."

The man held his hands to his sides, and sought to regain his squandered breath, but Schouts, filling his goblet with wine, gave it to the soldier, told him to drink, and follow him quickly.

"I will talk with you later, Deacon Cochlaeus," Schouts exclaimed, facing his visitor; "but I must see to this business at once. But bethink you of what I said. A thousand crowns and absolution, or nothing." He halted at the door, and the confusion on the face of the Churchman so amused him that he burst into loud laughter. "By the way, twelve hours hence my price will be raised. Maybe I'll ask for fifteen hundred crowns."

He pulled the door after him, and walked swiftly along the corridor, looking to his weapons as he went.

The great bell of the castle clanged a few moments later. The sound of it travelled to the building's farthest depths, and away beyond the walls, into the forest itself, for, as Otto Engel whispered, he had often heard it in his hut, and knew that there was murder afoot.

Those who hid behind the curtain heard the tramp of men, and before long they came by in haste. They were taking the shortest cuts to be in time to form up and receive the commands from their lord, who was bawling out his orders in the courtyard, Some, to save time, rushed through the room in which Cochlaeus stood--in at one door and out at that where Herman and the forester were hiding. They were buckling on their swords as they went, and, careless of the Churchman's dignity, brushed past him, almost overturning him in their haste. Cochlaeus' jaw dropped when the last to pass through the chamber was a priest, who did not look his way, but hurried on with noisy cries and oaths and drunken laughter.

Before long the clatter of men's feet was heard outside, and a horse's hoofs beat on the stones, then thundered on the drawbridge when it was lowered. Herman and his companion knew what it meant, for the robber lord and his retainers were on the way to another daring act of piracy.

"God be praised!" exclaimed Engel, in a low tone. "'Tis our opportunity. That prayer in my hut is going to be answered," he whispered, but even then the voice thrilled with exultation.

Gripping Herman by the arm, he drew him from the curtains, and hurried with him down the passage they had traversed before, to the open door of the banqueting-hall. There they paused to look in cautiously, to discover whether it was empty. No one was there, and, taking the risks, they went through it at a run and out by the door at the other end.

When they passed the kitchens they, too, were empty. Not a sound was heard, save what was distant, for the bell was no longer clanging, and every man within the castle, throwing aside his task, whatever its nature, was gone, either to take his stand on guard at the drawbridge or above the gate, or to descend the slope to the river, to deal with the doomed vessel that had been daring enough to venture past in the dark night hours. She was going to pay the price of her mad audacity, and the robber lord was there to extort it to the last penny.

Going along the deserted corridor, Herman and the ranger came to some steps, down which they went swiftly after Engel had snatched at one of the few lamps that were hanging on the wall. The steps were black as night, but with the lamp's aid now they went down and down, until they came to a sudden stop at a blank wall. But here they saw that on the left were other steps, breaking off at right angles, and descending they came to a door studded with nails and sheeted with iron, crossed with bolts and bars.

"'Tis here," whispered Engel. "And here's the key, just as Sprenkel said."

A great key hung on a nail near by the door, and the ranger, taking it down, thrust it into the lock. When he twisted it, the bolt went back with a scream which seemed dangerously loud in the quietness of the castle depths. Herman, meanwhile, was busy, for they both knew well how precious the moments were, and what they were to do they must do quickly. He pulled back the bolts and dropped the bars, and, thus free to move, the door was thrust open into darkness.

"Are you there, Master Tyndale?" Herman whispered, stepping down into the dungeon.

"I am here. Who are you?"

The question came in tremulous tones, which gave the two strong men at the door the impression that the voice was that of a weakened man.

"'Tis Herman and a friend. Come at once. We want to get you away from this robber's castle, and the moments are precious."

Engel stood with the lamp lifted high, to see where the prisoner lay in this dank dungeon. The uneven floor was full of pools, and the walls ran with moisture, while, in the momentary silence, before any more was said, a drop of water fell with a musical note into one of the pools, and made the broken surface shimmer in the lamplight. Herman's eyes were quick to see the misery of the place. There were crawling creatures on the floor and the walls, and dull green moss coated the floor.

That, at first, was all he saw; but presently he saw William Tyndale kneeling on a spread of damp straw in a corner behind the door.

He was looking their way, uncertain as to those who had come to this fetid cell; half wondering whether it was reality, or that he was dreaming that he had really heard Herman's voice. Herman caught the gleam in his eyes from the lamp's light, and went forward. And still it seemed to the prisoner such an incredible thing, till Herman was really near him, scuffling his feet among the straw, and flinging a strong arm about his shoulder, kissing the cold cheek, and telling him that he and his comrade had been searching for him, meaning to get him away.

Tyndale put out his manacled hands to grasp those of the young man who had been tender and loving as a son for the past months.

"'Tis wonderful!" the prisoner exclaimed, trying to rise from his kneeling posture. "You might almost have heard the words of my prayer when you came to the door. 'Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, o Lord. Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise Thy name.' And think of it! The Lord heard my supplication, and made haste to help me!"

Herman bent down, and, throwing his strong arms about the kneeling prisoner, lifted him to his feet; but Tyndale could not stand without the young man's aid.

"I am very weak," Tyndale said, in a trembling tone. "Since I left your home I have not touched a morsel of food, and none has been brought to me."

For the first time they heard the clank of chains, and when Engel lowered the lamp he saw that Tyndale's feet were in irons.

"The cowardly hounds!" he exclaimed, his anger blazing forth when he saw what had been done. "God do so to me, and more also----"

But Tyndale checked him.

"Say it not, friend. God can best requite what has been done to me. But can we not go away, since, as you said, the moments are very precious? I should feel the stroke of my misfortune in double measure if you met with trouble in your desire to help me."

The forester looked carefully at Tyndale, at his hands and feet, and then, to his confusion, saw that there was a chain about his body which fastened the prisoner to the wall, so that at the farthest he could not get more than a yard or two across the floor.

"Herman, hold this lamp!" he cried. Then, passing closer to the wall, his lips shut tightly in his frenzy of determination, he gripped the chain with his strong hands and strove to wrench away the iron ring at the wall.

It was a task beyond his power, and Herman, understanding his purpose, set the lamp down on the floor and went to his side, to grip the chain as well. Then, with their strength combined, they tugged and tugged at what seemed a hopeless task. They pulled and strained, planting their feet against the wall, until the veins in their fore-heads seemed to stand out like whipcord.

"It's coming!" said Engel exultantly. "See! The iron is moving in the wall. Again! with all your might, Herman! We won't be done!"

The pull was the supreme effort of their strength, and the iron ring broke open, and the chain was set free, so suddenly that the two men fell backwards heavily on the floor among the pools.

Scrambling to their feet, scarcely waiting to rub their bruises, they went forward to where Tyndale sat in his weakness.

"Take up the lamp, Herman," said the forester, "and show the way. Tell me where the risky places are, so that I take no false step at all."

Herman asked no questions, and Engel, bending low, took Tyndale up in his strong arms as a woman might take a child. Making light of his burden, he followed at the younger man's heels, and, although the steps were treacherous with slime, he almost pressed Herman forward. For the younger man was going cautiously, not knowing what danger might suddenly confront them.

The castle seemed to be silent, and no sound was heard save that of their own hurried footsteps in the passage and the faint and occasional clinking of Tyndale's fetters.

"Make for the secret passage," Engel whispered, panting a little with his burden after having climbed the treacherous steps so quickly. "Go ahead, and see whether the way is clear. Put the lantern down, anywhere, for if anyone saw a moving light it would awaken suspicion, and we don't want to run the risk of being challenged. If you hear any sound, stand by and see if it means danger."

Herman blew out the light, and, setting the lantern on the floor in a dark place, he went forward at a run, on his toes, alert and urgent; but no one crossed his path. When he peeped into the banqueting-hall it was empty. For any sound or sight in that dangerous venture the great castle might have been deserted by everything living except himself and his companions. It was so wherever he went, and at last he came to the door in the wall.

Roye had drawn it after him, just as closely as he found it, to prevent suspicion in the mind of a possible passer-by and Herman stood by, without opening it, waiting for Otto Engel to come up with his burden. He turned the corner sooner than Herman expected, but in the dim light it was easy to see that the load he carried was growing heavy, as much almost with nervous strain as with the actual weight; for this daring enterprise was so beset with danger that the forester had lived what seemed to be hours of anxious thought in those brief minutes which passed between the dungeon and the secret door.

He knew that if they were seen by any of the castle soldiers or servitors, and caught red-handed, as it were, and with a helpless man in chains, he and Herman would have a desperate fight to wage against overwhelming odds. What, he asked himself, as he carried William Tyndale, worn down with weakness and privation, and feeling him growing heavier with every yard he covered--what if one of the page-boys or some of the women should be moving about and, seeing them, run away, screaming out an alarm! Only God could tell the consequences, and it might well end in death for each of the three.

The forester was within three or four yards of the place where Herman was awaiting him, when he caught the gleam of steel in the younger man's hand, and saw by the light of one of the lamps on the wall that he was bending forward and gazing along the passage. He went even more softly than before, and with his intensely quickened hearing he heard the sound of someone singing--a boyish voice shouting out the robber's song.

Although he had been feeling overborne with his burden, and the sweatdrops were on his brow, the forester hurried forward. He might have had no burden in his arms at all, so swiftly did he bound over those last few yards.

"Open the door!" he exclaimed, reckless now; for if he could pass through the doorway with his burden and the door could be pulled into its place again, he thought their safety was assured.

It was not necessary to say so much, for Herman dug his finger nails into what little edge there was, and pulled the door open, so that he looked into the dark, forbidding gap. Dark though it was, the forester did not hesitate, but hurried in.

Waiting for the moment when he could follow, Herman kept his gaze fixed on the distant end where there was a possible corner which the boy would turn at any moment. The passage was still empty, although the sound of stamping feet grew plainer, rattling to the rhythm of the song. The relief was intense, to know that William Tyndale was carried into the secret way without being seen. It was now his own turn to enter, and it must be at once.

He stepped into the blackness, careful as to where he placed his feet, and began to draw the door after him. At that moment Roye came near to him with his lantern, and in the swift glance he took along the passage, Herman saw that a sharp line of light from the lantern fell across the floor of the passage, and on the opposite wall. At that same moment the boy turned the corner and came into view. He must have seen the line of light, for he halted suddenly, and the song gave place to an exclamation of wonder and half of alarm. In his own keen thought Herman pictured the boy gazing along the passage with startled eyes; but he did not wait to see what happened. The opening in the wall closed up with a soft thud, and as he looked, Herman saw that the latch had caught, and the entrance was securely blocked.

How much had the boy seen? Herman asked himself, wiping the dampness from his forehead, for this narrow escape had startled him. Surely, only the flash of the line of light, for he had entered so speedily, urged on by the dread of discovery.

"Where are the others, Roye?" he asked, only seeing him, as he turned his back on the door.

"We're all right," said Engel, and Herman saw him close by in the passage, and, having set his burden gently on the floor, he was wiping his face and neck with his cap. "Did anyone see you?"

"No. The boy swung round the corner into the passage, a long way off, but he could not have seen more than the flash of this lantern across the floor just as I had stepped in and was pulling the door into its place."

Herman said it bravely, but this experience had tried him greatly, and now he stood with his back against the wall, in something like helplessness, and his knees were trembling, while he felt his lips quivering.

They turned their attention to Tyndale, and going on their knees beside him they sought to discover how much he was in need of help, and what likelihood there was of getting him away. The man for whom they had dared so greatly sat on the rocky floor, fettered heavily, his back set against the wall of rock, and his head bowed so that his chin rested on his bosom. But his thin hand was lifted to take theirs, while he thanked them for their splendid service.

Herman held him by the hand, while all three watched him anxiously. In that uncertain light he looked to them like a dying man, and he seemed to guess their thoughts.

"I am very weak and ill, Herman," he said quietly; "but you came in time. I shall not die, but live, for God has brought me out of the depths to give me the opportunity to complete His work."

Weak though he was, on life's borderland, as it seemed to his companions, there was a thrill of exultation in his voice. He spoke as one would speak who had unshaken confidence in the success of his mission.

Still watching him, they felt that his condition was serious. They saw in him a man capable of high and prolonged endurance, but the strain of the past few months, when he was compelled to remain in the house in hiding, foregoing exercise and recreation, and especially during these last few days, when he was seeking to get away from his would-be tormentors, had borne him down, and he had come to the end of his reserve strength. Yet, to their amazement, he was exultant and confident, and they realised in those moments of watching that William Tyndale was a man whose character had been matured in the hardest of all schools, annealed in the furnace, and not forgetful, although the chains were about his hands and feet, of the Hand that was strong beyond that of men, and had brought him out of the dungeon depths.

"Is my wallet all right, Herman?" Tyndale asked anxiously, too weak to look for himself; too weak, indeed, to lift his hand to feel for the strap across his breast.

Herman saw it hanging about his shoulders by the leather band, and told him it was there. He gently guided his hand so that he might feel it; then brought the wallet round for him to see, and have it in his lap. In spite of his chains, Tyndale hugged it to his bosom.

"I should have been bereft indeed if I had lost these treasures," he muttered. They were his stock-in-trade, as he had said at other times half humorously. His books were in the wallet--those precious volumes from whence he drew the material for his translated Bible.

But the watchers were anxious and perplexed, not knowing what next to do, now that they found Tyndale so near to collapse, and, in spite of his exultation and confidence, so near, as they thought, to death. What if, after having ventured so far, they had a dead man on their hands? Or if not that, how were they to get him away? And where should they lodge him until he grew stronger?