CHAPTER XXIII

IN THE LION'S MOUTH

For a little while Herman's courage failed him. To ascend those steps which he could see would probably mean such fearful experiences that the bravest of the brave might shrink back and leave his task undone.

Yet now that he had such unquestionable proof that Margaret had been at this door, and as certainly had entered it in the company of the black-robed ones of the Inquisition, how could he think other than that she was lying in one of the cells, if not already enduring torture? Loving her as he did, he could not be so craven as to turn away and leave her in the hands of the tormentors!

The bare suggestion in his mind that she might possibly have been done to death made his soul stand up in arms, and his hesitation was gone in an instant. He ascended the steps without halting until he came to the topmost one and found himself looking along a passage with doors on either side.

Were they the doors of cells, such as he had heard spoken of so often in the city, when men and women talked with bated breath of the horrors of the Holy House? And if they were, was Margaret in one of them?

The nearest door, when he ventured so far, opened as he pressed his hand against it. Looking in, he found the cell empty. It was the same with the next, the third, and the fourth, for he tried each door on either side. All were empty, but the straw lay on the floors, and the rats scrambled away when he entered. They had come to these dismal places to root among the straw for any crusts that might have been left by the prisoners who last occupied the cells.

Every place in the passage was unoccupied, and Herman ventured up twenty more steps to find himself in some open ground--a great garden bounded by some very high walls. He was so near to one of them that by the aid of the moon he could see the iron spikes which rendered escape impossible if any poor prisoner made the attempt.

He was in the greatest quandary now, for, looking along the garden, the immensity of the place set him wondering how he could possibly find Margaret. Some sixty yards away, beyond the grass and bushes, was the main building, and his darling must be there; but in which part? And how was he to enter unseen? If he passed along the passage at the top of this last flight of steps, what could he do? The cells that were occupied would be bolted and barred, and there was nothing to indicate the name of the victim on the other side of those strong, iron-sheeted doors.

He was dismayed with the thought of the hopelessness of it all.

Standing beneath a tree whose heavy branches hung round him like a tent, with an opening here and there, he watched the scene, trying to solve the problem of finding his darling. The first thing was to make a bolder endeavour yet--going into the very heart of the danger--to see where the Familiars had placed her. When that was done he must get into touch with her; and once with Margaret, none of those who kept that fearful house should hinder him from taking her away. And surely God would help him!

The moon was brilliant. She was sailing at her full across a cloudless sky, throwing deep shadows everywhere, but lighting up the open spaces like day. If anyone crossed the green expanse of grass he would know who it was if he ventured with uncovered face in the fine silvery light.

"'Tis no use standing here," he muttered. "I must take the risks. She must be found."

He went forward while he spoke, and, entering by the doorway through which he had come a few minutes before, he moved on down the passage, trying the doors. Like all the others, they were empty, and the bitter thought came that those who had last lodged there had paid the death penalty for their heresy, and the Familiars were in the city on the quest for others to take their places. Otherwise, would it be likely that he could come so far and find no one who could challenge his presence?

He came to a door like all the others--iron-sheeted, with bolts and bars on the outside and a key in the lock. He pressed against the door with his hand, but while the bars were leaning against the stonework, and the bolts were not thrust into their sockets, the door did not move.

"She may be here," he muttered, and his heart beat more quickly at the thought. He twisted the key, and the door opened and he passed in.

He was not sure, but he thought he heard a sound, but that might be the prisoner moving on the straw. As he stood within the dark cell, he spoke. "Is anyone here?"

There was no answer to the question, and he went farther in, holding out his lantern to scan the place with its aid. The straw was there, but no one on it. His foot kicked against a water-jar, and he heard the splash of the water, and saw it gleam as it scattered on the horrid floor. A rat was not far away, trying to carry with him in his flight a piece of black bread; but, look where he would, there was no other sign of life. Certainly nothing human was there.

He turned away, in disappointment, but, looking up, he started, and the lantern almost fell from his hand in the extremity of his alarm. Two Familiars were between him and the door, one carrying a lantern, the other closing the door as though to shut themselves and this intruder in.

"Who are you? and what are you doing here?" the nearer one asked, in a sharp and angry tone. "How dare you intrude like this?"

Herman made no answer, and the instinct of caution made him use his free hand to draw his cap low down to his eyebrows, to hide himself as much as possible. He had a thought of what might follow if he got away, and these men should recognise him. And while doing this, and staring at these men, he was wondering what he should do next--how he should get away.

"Answer my questions!" came the demand imperatively.

"I'll answer no questions!" cried Herman, his courage rising; and he was resolute to stand at nothing rather than be held a prisoner, to be at the mercy of these creatures who were facing him. He thought, and quickly, that he would make a sudden rush. He would dash his lantern in the cowled face of one of them, and then with his doubled fist strike out at both, in the hope, by taking them unawares, to throw them, and pass through the doorway.

He was in the act of throwing his hand back to hurl the lantern, but the others were on him, and one long, lean hand was feeling for his throat. Against such odds he dropped the lantern to be free. He gripped the wrist that was near his throat, and with the free hand he dashed his fist in the face of the other, who staggered back with a cry of pain.

But there was more to be done. He gave the wrist which he was gripping a twist which seemed to crack, and a scream of agony followed. But still the men pressed on him. Herman dropped the maimed hand so that his own two might be free; and because he fought as one who knew that defeat meant torture and death, his fists came with double weight until those who sought to overwhelm him put up their hands to ward off his quick and terrific blows from their faces. He gave them neither time nor mercy.

One of them, in a frenzy of anger, leapt at him, but Herman met him with a blow which sent him staggering backwards. He caught his heels in his black robe, and fell with a crash against the wall; then tumbled in a huddled and senseless mass to the floor. The sight of this added to the other's fury, and he, too, came at Herman, clawing with his fingers as if to tear at his face and eyes, but Herman, bending, took him at the waist, and in the full heat of this combat lifted him bodily and threw him over his head, as he had seen the wrestlers do in the city sports. The Familiar seemed, as Herman staggered with the effort, to hurtle through the air; his head crashed against the wall, and without a groan or cry, he fell, like the other, and lay still.

It was no time to see what had come to these who sought to overwhelm him. He knew that if he lingered he might have still greater odds to contend with, and escape would be impossible. The way to the door was clear, and he hurried to it, and, opening it, stood in the passage. Then the thought came to elude pursuit, supposing either of these two minions of the Holy House should recover and give the alarm. He closed the door swiftly, but softly. He twisted the key in the lock, and drew it away; and, carrying it in his hand, he strode to the door where, not long before, he had entered from the garden.

Out in the open he would be safer than within the house itself, and, hidden somewhere in the shadows among the dense bushes, he might think of some plan to scale the walls and get away. With the key still in his hand, he went to the tree where he had stood before to make his observations; and while he was trying to solve the problem of his next course he was startled. A bush, like laurels or rhododendrons, towards which he began to move to be in safer hiding, parted, and a face appeared, and then Herman saw the rough hair and straggling beard of a man.

The moon fell full on the face, and Herman knew it; but he kept still and silent for a few moments, listening for some possible alarm in the Holy House; but everything was silent. There was no clamour of voices to break the stillness of the night, no sound of men beating on the locked door to arouse attention.

Precious though the moments were, he watched the bearded face. The man's eyes were turned to the building, and his hands held back the bush on either side of him, so that his view should not be obscured. In a little while he came part way out into the open, and Herman saw, by the man's full body, that he was not mistaken as to his identity.

"Heinrich!" he exclaimed, just so loud that his voice travelled over the intervening space.

The man was alarmed, dropped back into the shadow of the bush, and was lost sight of completely.

Silence followed, and Herman listened as intently as before for any sound of alarm in the cell; but none came. He broke the silence, for here was someone who might be of service.

"Heinrich, don't you know my voice?"

The face reappeared, and Herman saw how it turned towards the tree where he was standing unseen. He was struck partly with its terror, partly with its cunning.

"Is it Herman Bengel?" came the question.

"Yes. I will come to you, for I want your help."

Herman was still speaking, when the man crossed to the tree with swift strides.

"Speak, so that I may know where you are," Heinrich whispered. "Nay, come here, where the moonlight is, and I may see your face; or how shall I know that you are not one of those murderous hounds of that house yonder, trying to get your sharp fangs into me?"

Herman stepped out into the moonlight, and the other, who watched him, caught at Herman's hand and kissed it.

"God has sent you!" he exclaimed, below his breath, lest anyone might hear beyond themselves. "Come with me, and I will show you what will do your heart good! Ay, and it will gladden your eyes."

Herman wondered what his meaning was, but he told him why he was here in the garden, and how anxious he was to get away because of that struggle in the cell.

"You really did all that?" exclaimed Heinrich, and, precious though the moments were, he danced right out in the moonlight for the joy of the thing. In the extremity of his jubilation his eyes were full of tears, and Herman looked on in wonder, and part, too, in dread, lest the poor, simple fellow had gone from imbecility to madness.

"Give me the key," Heinrich implored. "The day may come when I may use it and set some poor prisoner free." He put forth his hand for it, and Herman, having no need for it, gave it to him.

"But she is there, I feel assured, Heinrich, in that horrible place," said Herman anxiously. "And now I am helpless. I dare not go back for her."

"You need not!" Heinrich broke in on his words impulsively. "You need not. Go on your knees and thank God! Say what I heard Mistress Margaret say, 'Bless the Lord, O my soul!' Say it, for she is not there, in that accursed house. She was, but she is not now. She is safe. I got her away from the tormentors. Listen to me."

Heinrich dropped his voice to a whisper, and had put his arm about Herman's neck, to speak in his ear.

"I have her in safe keeping, hidden where none of those Familiars can find her," he said exultingly.

"Do you mean it?" whispered Herman, trembling at what he heard. "Is she not in that house yonder?"

"No. She was there. She was to be taken to the torture chamber, but I took her away, and I have her now in safe keeping, thank God! Listen again. She mourned, in spite of her gladness at being free, because she had lost a bracelet which you gave her on her betrothal day. I have come to find it. I am going to the cell from whence I brought her to look for it, and when I have found it I will take you to her."

Herman was elate with gladness, and his lips were quietly muttering his grateful thanks for God's deliverance of his darling.

"There is no need to seek for it, Heinrich. I have found the bracelet. It was that which made me confident that she had been taken to the Holy House. See, it is here!"

Holding back one of the drooping branches, Herman held it where the gold gleamed in the moonlight, and the jewels in it glanced in their many-coloured splendour.

"That is it, Heinrich. Will you take it and me to her?"

"I will!" the simple one exclaimed. "Let me carry it. She will then know that I redeemed my promise." He took the bracelet from Herman's hand, and kissed it.

Herman listened for any possible sound in the cell, but everything was silent. Even the night-birds made no sound to-night, and the trees scarcely moved, so that there was but little rustling among the leaves. He was relieved, for there was no alarm as yet, and they might get away.

"Time is precious, Heinrich," he said. "Those men may call for help."

"I do not hear them," said Heinrich simply. "But let us go. How glad she will be! to have this--and you!" He moved away while he was speaking.

"Where are we going?" Herman asked, when they stepped into the shelter of a bush after crossing a wide and moonlit lawn.

"To the wall. Can you climb it?"

A daring thought, since the silence was unbroken, came to Herman. It was next door to madness, but he yielded to it.

"I will take you by the way I came, Heinrich, and then you shall see how I came to feel so certain that Mistress Margaret had been taken to the Holy House."

"My way is best," said Heinrich doubtfully. "And it is safest."

"But 'tis worth trying. Besides, I have this, and if any try to bar the way, we'll use it;" and from his belt he drew the dagger which he had forgotten in that struggle in the cell.

"I, too, have one," cried Heinrich, drawing his own weapon; and then from caution he went on to the same readiness for recklessness which Herman was displaying.

They went carefully, to avoid being seen, in case any who dwelt in the place should be moving about the garden, or any eyes should be searching the moonlit grounds from the windows. The silence had emboldened Herman to this real madness, and he went forward to the door, alert and ready to strike a blow if anyone strove to bar the way.

They stepped in at the doorway and listened, but all was silent; not even a groan from that cell where Herman had left the Familiars. He saw what he had not seen before--a lighted lantern on the floor at one of the doors. It was not there when he had first gone to the cell, so that his thought was that one of the Familiars had left it there before entering the place where they found him.

"We'll take that with us, Heinrich," he whispered. "Mine is locked up in the cell."

Going swiftly down the steps, always ready if anyone approached, and past the open cells, they came to the opening in the rock, Heinrich's eyes moving in all directions to miss nothing. Herman watched him, and the thought came that he was projecting his mind to future days when he might use this passage and come to set some poor captive free, since it was his boasted delight to spoil the plans of the masters of the Holy House.

Heinrich watched with growing wonder how the rock door swung back noiselessly into its place after they had passed into the cavern, leaving no token of any opening.

"Show me how you opened it!" he exclaimed. "I may find my way in some day, and get someone out of this."

"You shall see," Herman answered, falling in with his desire. "Look at that spot there, where the rock by the door has scaled off ever so slightly."

"Here?" asked Heinrich, touching it with his finger.

Herman nodded. "Press hard."

Heinrich tried it again and again, watching with eager interest how the door moved back and forth at his will. Then the bearded face lit up with childish glee.

"I have been here before!" he exclaimed, looking round the place. "It was here that I saw them with Mistress Margaret. Yes, it was here. I shall often come here, and won't I spoil the Egyptians!"

He hugged himself at the thought, and was exultant while Herman led him to the cave's entrance, where they saw the great river rolling by in solemn silence, but shining under the moon's still rays. Heinrich gazed in all directions, and, rubbing his hands, he whispered, as though the bush had listeners in it:

"I know! I came into the cavern by this entrance. Yonder I shall find the gate. Away in that direction is the Burgomaster's house. Oh yes, I know! But let me be sure. There is this bush and that gleaming bit of rock, like a dog's head. Yes, 'tis the same. And to think of the dismay of the black Familiars when they come from time to time and find one of the cells empty! this one to-day, and that one to-morrow!"

He stopped, with a puzzled look on his face.

"I want to take you to Mistress Margaret, but I cannot. We are outside the city walls, and we may not go in again till dawn of day, when the gates are opened. Let us go back to that accursed house, and into the garden, and climb the wall."

Herman smiled as he watched Heinrich's anxiety.

"There is no need. I am going to take you by a private way if you will give me your solemn promise never to betray it to anyone."

The other looked at him reproachfully.

"How could you think I would do so base a thing?" he cried. "I, who love so much those who have been kind to me? How could you even think of it?"

Taking Herman's hand, Heinrich gazed into his eyes still more, and presently a tear fell down the poor fellow's face, and yet another, and many more.

"How could you think it?" he exclaimed again, protestingly.

"Dry up your tears, Heinrich!" Herman exclaimed hastily. "I never doubted you. I only wanted you to know the consequences of a careless word, for it might mean death to one or many of your friends."

"And you can trust me?"

"As much as I can trust myself," Herman answered.

"Then I am content. Come! Let us be going, for Mistress Margaret will be anxious since I have been so long away."

Before many minutes had gone they had passed through the doorway of rock which the eagle eyes of the keenest of the Familiars would never have suspected as an entrance, then through Tyndale's room and up the secret stairs into Herman's home. His mother heard him coming, and then the story, just where they met, was told.

"I shall go and tell Margaret's father!" Herman's mother exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with gladness; and although it was night, and the streets were dangerous for a woman to venture out, the thought of a father's and a sick mother's inexpressible anxiety, more painful because of her sense of helplessness, induced her to undertake the errand.

They kept each other company up to the point where they were compelled to part.

"Where is Mistress Margaret?" Herman asked, when he and Heinrich, watching his mother disappear at the bend of a street, turned into an alley.

"That's my secret," came the laughing answer. "Come and see."

They took all the byways, until Herman was completely lost, and then, unexpectedly, he was pulled up in front of a stable door, which Heinrich opened.

"Go in!" the simple one exclaimed, standing aside; "but wait," he added, when Herman stood within, not knowing where to move in the darkness. After some trouble, Heinrich lit his lantern and led the way up some rickety steps into a hayloft.

Standing on the top step, Herman saw a humble room where the furniture was scarce and poor. A table stood in the middle of the floor, and by it sat an elderly woman, working at a man's much worn garment by the candlelight, although the hour was so late. She looked up when she heard Heinrich's voice.

"Mother," he whispered, looking in through the half-opened door almost stealthily.

"Yes, my son."

"Is she asleep?"

"No. She was talking to me, anxious about you, until she heard you down below, and then she went to her room to be out of the way. But I heard someone else. Who is it?"

"Go and tell her, mother, to come and see her lover, the man she should have wedded to-morrow. Tell her that, mother."

Herman gazed around the bare and desolate place when he had stepped within. A few moments only had gone when a cry sprang to his lips. For through the open doorway which Heinrich's mother had passed, someone came. It was Margaret, her hands outstretched, her beautiful face wan and pale, transformed now from the consuming anxiety before the woman entered. Her eyes were gleaming with the love-light.

"Herman!" she cried, as she went to her lover's arms.