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.