CHAPTER IX

THE MAN BY THE RIVER

There was the sound of footsteps behind her, and, turning quickly, Margaret saw her father walking to the door, where he drove the bolt into the socket.

"What does it all mean?" she asked eagerly, looking at him across the counter. "Father, my heart was almost bursting with anxiety; for when I saw those men searching the workshop, and Cochlaeus asked for the floor to be raised, there was no way out of the dreadful pass that I could see. I thought to see them go into the cellar and find the printing-press and those printed sheets. It was almost more than I could bear!"

She sank on the stool and buried her face in her hands, shuddering, and thus she stayed until her father bent over the counter to her, and gently stroked her hair.

"It was thoughtless of me, my dear," he said soothingly; "and I ought to have told you what I did. Gropper and I pulled the press to pieces and placed it in the storeroom. Then we spent another long night in covering William Tyndale's sheets with strong wrappers for a long journey, and they were taken in a waggon to a ship which is lying at the quay. There they are, stowed away in safety, where even Cochlaeus would scarcely find them."

"Then I saw them," she cried.

"They went this morning," the printer said light-heartedly; and for awhile, as the shadows fell and twilight gave place to darkness, save for the light which came in through the window from the lantern in the street, they talked of this danger which had threatened them.

"If only Master Tyndale were well out of the city," Byrckmann muttered. "I would go to him, but it would be unwise. Someone would see me, perhaps, and Gropper must not."

"Let me go," said Margaret.

"'Tis dark."

"I have been in the streets far later than this, father. Don't you remember?"

Without waiting for more, Margaret went to her room for her cloak and hood.

"What is the message?" she asked, coming into the shop again, fastening a dainty bow under her chin. She pulled the bow into shape and buttoned her cloak. "Give me the message and a kiss, and let me start."

"I will come part way with you, my dear," her father said; "but I will tell you before we leave the shop. The walls of the city seem to be all ears of late."

He took down his cap and buckled a sword on his thigh; then, having whispered the message, which he made her repeat, to know that it was thoroughly understood, he led the way into the street.

They parted at the archway where Margaret had sheltered from the storm, and she thought for a moment of the man who had been standing there. Byrckmann stood well in the shadow and watched his daughter, but when she came to the bend in the long street he hurried after her, to make sure that no harm came to her. From a dark doorway he watched, and saw her stop at Herman's door, and presently she passed into the house. After that he went to Gropper, but returned home, as he put it to himself, like a thief in the night, alert for every sound, and fearful lest he should meet the City Guard. The experiences of the day had shaken his nerve, and the very air seemed full of danger.

Herman's mother answered Margaret's knock on the door, and when she saw the girl she drew her into the dark passage, and thrust in the bolt.

"Herman," she called.

"Yes, mother," was the answer from the top of the stairs.

"A young lady to see you, my son," was the laughing call.

"Give her a kiss, mother--a nice one; and tell her I'll be down in two minutes!" the young man cried, his strong, clear voice vibrating with pleasure.

"I was dressing to come round to see your father," he said, before long, gazing at her as she stood in the lantern's light, looking radiant in her young beauty, her laughing face betraying the fact that in her love for Herman she had banished all her care.

"My father!" she exclaimed archly. "Would you dress like that to see him?" But he smothered her with kisses as soon as he had set down the lamp, and his hands were free.

"I am come on business, Herman," she said presently. "Father sent me with a message for Master Tyndale."

"He is in the cavern," said Herman doubtfully.

"Let me go to him at once," Margaret exclaimed, leading the way to the front room, and going into the darkness before Herman had brought the light; but ere long she was face to face with Tyndale.

"My father told me to say to you, 'Get you gone out of the city, for Cochlaeus is on your track.' He has been to our home to search for your printed sheets."

"And did he find them?" Tyndale asked anxiously.

"No. My father anticipated his coming, and the bundles are all on board a ship called the _Marburg_, now lying at the quay. She leaves to-night. He suggests that you should go through the cavern, of which I told him, and wait at the riverside, where you or Herman will send an owl's cry over the water as the vessel passes. He is gone to Gropper's house to bid him see the skipper, and ask him to leave at ten o'clock to-night. He is to listen for the owl's call, and take you on board."

There was no need for haste. Quietly and persistently Tyndale gathered up his few belongings. Some were most precious, but woe for him if Cochlaeus laid hands on them. He set them on the table at which he had been working when Margaret entered the lonely underground room, and he suffered her to look at them. One was a New Testament, the Latin version by Erasmus. The other was the Vulgate, and from these two books he was basing his translation into English for the people at home to read.

There was so much more than when he entered the city, a worn-out traveller, borne in Herman's arms. Then it was the heavy wallet, swung pilgrim-like on his shoulder, holding these precious volumes, and two or three necessaries, but no more. Now there were sheets on which he had laboured incessantly, almost feverishly, page after page, making a heap of papers, each scored over and corrected before he placed it on the pile with the others. These had to go with a few proofs which had come from Byrckmann's shop, smudged and rough from the printing-press. They had to be wrapped about with something, and presently they were ready to be borne in the wallet like a soldier's knapsack.

"A dangerous burden," said Tyndale quietly, when it lay on the table, "but a precious one; and in God's mercy it may more than balance much of the wickedness and sorrow in the world," he added, with kindling enthusiasm.

It wanted nearly an hour to the time when the _Marburg_ would leave her moorings and move up the river. They divided the burdens among them, Margaret's share being the lantern, and with this she led the way. She shuddered when she passed the spot where those dead ones were lying, but she did not tarry, and she only spoke when she whispered back a warning where to stoop, and where the footing was treacherous.

When they came into the open the moon was low down on the horizon, peeping between the heavy foliage of some trees, but making the shadow dense in which they sheltered themselves. Overhead were the glinting stars, Venus riding a few inches higher in the heavens than Jupiter, and close at hand was the dark and slowly moving river which reflected the sparkling sky dots and the dense bushes on the opposite bank. The waters were almost soundless but for the gurgle as they played with the plants and flowers which bent and nodded as the current moved.

Waiting but alert, they saw a great mass moving in the middle of the stream.

"'Tis a raft," said Herman, when he had peered beneath his hand. There were lights on it, and, as they flared, the watchers saw people moving to and fro, and when the moon uncovered her face there were ragged tents, and women sitting near them with their little ones about them.

"So much the better for your journey, Master Tyndale," said Herman, as the moving mass went by. "The river will be clear for the next few days."

The huge floating mass disappeared at a bend in the stream, and again the eyes of the watchers scanned the waters for some sign of the _Marburg_.

"I would that William Roye had been less dilatory," Tyndale said presently. "He promised to meet me weeks ago, and said he would send word as to his coming."

"Perhaps he heard that there was danger and dared not come," Herman suggested, without taking his eyes away from the river.

"William Roye was ever afraid of his skin," said Tyndale half bitterly. "But he would have been useful to me as my amanuensis."

"Ha!" exclaimed Herman, starting. "What was that?"

A few yards away he saw a man crawl into view from the bank, and stand up at his full height. From the same spot a boat was pulling into the centre of the stream as if to overtake the raft, which was no more in sight.

It might mean much. It might mean nothing. But whether friend or foe it was not desirable to have anyone so near when the ship they were awaiting might soon come into view. Yet nothing could be done.

"Stand well back in the shadows," Herman whispered. "The man may move away."

It was a difficulty for which they were not prepared. The bare idea of a little company, bent on furthering God's work in the world, resorting to violence was unthinkable; yet, to be cooped up like this, and suffer the ship to go by without her passenger, spelt disaster, for Cochlaeus was a veritable sleuth-hound, and might run Tyndale to earth.

The stranger appeared indifferent whether he was seen or heard, and time seemed to him of no importance, since he looked about him idly. The moon began to flood the meadows more freely, so that the fields and the dells, the woods and cornfields, the distant mountain slopes and their torrents became visible, but the man was the object from which those in hiding could not take their eyes.

The puzzle was to know what to do. The impulse came to Herman to walk along the bank as a casual wayfarer, and he would accost the man and lure him away, so that he would not see Tyndale join the ship. So much hung on the secret movements of him in whose wallet such precious things were hidden.

Before he had time to decide, the man was on the move. He walked at first apparently without an aim, but he swung round and approached the bushes where the others were hiding. As he drew nearer, the moonlight showed him plainly, a man of fine physique; and he, too, had a pilgrim's wallet on his back.

He paused to scan the stream again, attracted by the silver glint on the waters. The man coughed, and Margaret started. She had heard a sound like it somewhere, but where and when she could not tell. The man, drawing nearer to the bush, halted again, and spoke to himself in a grumbling tone.

"To think of missing my entrance into the city like this! Now I have to stay here the whole night through, and go in in the broad light of day, when God knows who may spot me, and what may chance."

Margaret remembered the voice. It was the form of the man to whom she had spoken when she sheltered in the archway from the pelting rain. It was certainly his voice.

"Herman," she whispered, "do you remember what I told you of the man in the archway the other night--the man who cursed the Inquisitors for what they had done for his daughter?"

"Yes, what of it?" asked Herman, keeping a watchful eye on the intruder.

"That is the man."

"Are you sure?"

"Certain."

"I wonder whether I dare go to him and speak," said Herman, half to himself; but Tyndale suddenly sprang to his feet, and tramped past him, muttering as he went. Herman threw out his hand to catch at him, but was too late. Tyndale was stalking on towards the man, who heard him coming, and, alarmed, had put his hand to the dagger in his belt.

"William Roye," exclaimed Tyndale.

The two men met, and clasped hands while they stood face to face.