CHAPTER XX

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."