"That was Master Tyndale's voice," she whispered, half frightened, while she gripped Herman's hand tightly. "It was. I put him down here because I chanced to hear that Cochlaeus had been suggesting that he was lodging with us. I told the good man what I had heard, and proposed that he should go into hiding, and he did not hesitate, for he guessed how big and terrible was the net which had been cast for him. When he had gathered in his arms all that was most precious to him, his Bible and his papers, he followed me to this dark place without any demur." Herman drew the girl aside a little, and pointed into the darkness. From where she then stood she saw a light some distance away. Then she saw a man moving towards her, and carrying a lamp in his hand. When he drew nearer she saw a face; and the nearer it came, the more plainly did she see it. It was so close at last that she recognised the man to whom she was desirous of giving her father's letter. "Master Tyndale!" she exclaimed, with bated breath, going forward to meet him with outstretched hands. But something like revulsion came. Her heart had been crowded out with anxiety all that day, and during the night which preceded it she had slept but little, because of the many hours in which she and her father had been packing those incriminating sheets which meant so much. Then had come the journey through the rain-driven streets, and the anxious waiting in the archway, watching the passing of the City Guard. Her hopes had scarcely any being. Her fears were dominant. It was a wear on the mind, and to crown it all was the tension while the house was being searched. It was more than she could bear. The man who approached her seemed to sway. She felt that the place where they were standing was closing in on her. The floor appeared to ascend, and the roof to sink upon her. Then all was blank. Herman saw her swaying and caught her in his arms before she fell. "My darling!" he whispered, kissing her white face and her lips and her closed eyes. "What is wrong?" he asked, holding her to him, and full of fear when he found that she took no notice of him. "I will carry her to my mother," he exclaimed, taking her bodily into his arms, and turning back to the spiral staircase. "Nay, bring her to my chamber, my son," said Tyndale, who took both lamps and led the way, while Herman followed with Margaret. How long she lay on the rude bed she did not know, but when she opened her eyes, Herman's mother was kneeling by her side, doing what she could for her restoration. "Now, dear heart, take it quietly," the motherly woman said tenderly. "We are safe here. Give your message, and Herman shall presently take you home." The words were reassuring, and presently she sat on the edge of the bed.