CHAPTER XXVII

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.