It told its own story. Word had reached him that a notable and troublesome heretic had come from England, whose name was William Tyndale. How it had happened no one knew, but this fellow, so it was said, had contrived to get into the city. Possibly he had come in disguise, a man with a godless heart, and a mind bent on spreading his scandalous heresy. He was hiding somewhere, but no one knew where, and was supposed to be translating the Scriptures into English. It was suspected, as well, that, if he had not already done so, he would be trying to induce one of the printers to run his wicked sheets through the printing-press. "I charge you, Master Byrckmann, as I am charging all the printers within my jurisdiction," the paper ran, "to abstain from having anything to do with this scandalous fellow who, like Doctor Martin Luther, is working out the devil's wicked will, and seeking to wean away the people from His Holiness the Pope and Mother Church. "For bethink you, Master Byrckmann, what can happen more calamitous to the credit of our famous city than that this man, Tyndale, should be sheltering in a house inside our walls, and daring, in his insolence, to interpret Divine Law, the statutes of our Fathers, and those decrees which have received the consent of so many ages, in a manner totally at variance with the opinion of the learned priests of the Church! Yet this fellow has dared to do this thing! He has done what Luther dared! and now, like him, he is tampering so wickedly with the Word of God. "I demand of you, Master Byrckmann, that if you come across him you shall take his work with a subtle readiness. Pretend to applaud his endeavours. Make him all sorts of promises. Make him believe that it is a joy to you to be of service in his cause; but when he is gone, send me instant word as soon as you have traced him to the house wherein he is lodging." "Father," said Margaret, whose arm stole about his neck while they still bent over the counter. He looked at her and saw the colour coming back to her face, and her lips were now relaxed to their usual softness after this intolerable strain. "What is it, my dear?" Byrckmann asked. "The Captain of the Guard had other papers in his belt, so he must be going the round of the printers. Do you not think so?" "That must be it, my child. I thank God," he murmured, clasping his hands like one in prayer as they rested on the counter. "None knows but God, and Master Tyndale and you and I----" "And Herman, father, and his mother," said Margaret softly. "They know." "Ah yes! I had forgotten. Now may God send the good man safe deliverance." He unclasped his hands and stood upright, and gazed out of the window with eyes that gleamed with tears which blurred the forms of those who walked along the street. None of the passers-by suspected what nearness to tragedy there had been in the printer's shop.