"Master Tyndale," she said, one hand holding the woman's, and drawing the crumpled papers from her bosom with the other, "I found these in your room when Captain Berndorf was searching the house for you." She held the sheets towards Tyndale, but a cry of dismay escaped not him alone, but the others. Their faces paled, and Tyndale, calm though he was, with deadly danger circumscribing him, trembled. For a few moments he was dumb, but at last he spoke tremulously. "Ah! If these had fallen into the Captain's hands, of what avail my hiding in this dark place? And what of the danger to my friends?" His hand shook while it rested on Herman's shoulder. "I should never have forgiven myself," he muttered. "Never! To have brought sorrow to a home where I have received such unstinted kindness! But there," he added solemnly, "so much the greater reason for thanking God!" Margaret drew the soddened letter from her bosom. "My father sent me with this, Master Tyndale." Tyndale took it from her, and sitting at the table, he broke the covering and smoothed out the damp sheet, laying it flat on the table. The others watched him while he read, and saw how, when he came to the "end, his fingers closed over the written sheet convulsively. "God's will be done," he exclaimed, with his head bowed low. The anguish of the tone betrayed the intensity of his suffering. He looked up presently, and saw the faces of his companions, and read in them how they anticipated the worst, if deliverance did not come soon. "It will all come right in time, my friends," he said quietly, and his eyes and face glowed with confidence. "Are we not in the hands of God? We are always safe under His guidance. I wronged the Heavenly Father when I said that all things were against me. There is surely some blessing in our reverses." He read the letter through again with greater deliberation; then, laying it on the table, he sat back in his chair, with his head bowed down and his thin hands folded. "Your father bids me leave the city to-night," he exclaimed presently, looking at Margaret. "To-night?" she cried. Her eyes were fixed on him as on one who was set an impossible task. "Where would you go?" She came to his side, and her hand rested on his shoulder. "I will go to the city where Martin Luther is, and where he played his part so nobly four years ago." He stood up and began to pack his papers, the precious sheets on which he had spent his fine scholarship with such unremitting patience and splendid zeal. Apparently he did not realise the futility of it, as the others round him did. How could he think to get away from the city now that Cochlaeus had set the hunters on the move? It seemed to Margaret and the others, while they watched in silence, that William Tyndale was like a rat in a trap; not safe behind the iron bars, but certain to be routed out and snapped at by the sharp teeth of the dog the moment he left the cage.