When she passed the doors on her way downstairs the rooms seemed silent, tragic almost in their suggestion of disaster. A hush had come over the place which boded ill, but there was the rush of sound in her ears, and the beating of her heart. A mirror was at the bend of the stairs, and she was startled to see her face; it looked so weary, and so drawn with fear. She went on, wanting to learn the worst. It meant so much for the home; for her father, of whom she was so fond and proud; for her darling mother, from whom they kept all the rough winds of life because she had enough to bear in the way of bodily pain. Yes. And it meant so much for herself. For how could she think of marriage when she was known to the world as the daughter of a man who was to die at the stake, or, as an act of uncommon mercy, to end his days at the galleys? At the foot of the dark stairs she stood unseen, either by her father, or the Dean, or Cochlaeus. The Dean was unusually serious, and it was easy to see that his errand was an unwelcome one; solely one of duty; whereas Cochlaeus betrayed his satisfaction at the prospect of seeing Byrckmann undone, and Tyndale's hope of getting his Bible printed vanish. [Illustration: COCHLAEUS AND THE SOLDIERS SEARCHING THE PRINTER'S WORKSHOP.] What struck her most was her father's bearing. He was faced, she knew, with ruin, and she did not see how he could escape discovery. Cochlaeus was reputed to be well versed in all the tricks of heretics to hide their guilt, and he was not easily baffled. Yet her father was quite at ease. He was grave enough, but he had not the bearing of a man who feared the outcome of this search. Margaret saw the Dean look at him askance. They went to the workshop, followed by a couple of soldiers, who left their halberds in the shop as being too cumbersome to carry in the winding passages. Margaret stole after them, but was careful to keep out of sight. The workmen were all gone home, and through the glass door she saw that the workshop was left as usual. Printed sheets lay about. The presses were there, empty, waiting for the morning. The written papers which were copy for the printing were in the usual places, and tools, and ink, and other things. Her father contented himself with waving his hand, but she heard him say: "This is my workshop. Search as you will." The searchers moved in all directions, and Cochlaeus, more active than any, looked around for hidden places, and seemed to be calculating the thickness of the walls, suggestive of room for hiding; but there was nothing to bear out his suspicions in that matter. Nothing was discovered in the workshop, although with his strong hand Cochlaeus tore open every package to see that nothing in them was likely to belong to Tyndale. Even the paper wanted for printing was dealt with in the same ruthless way, until Byrckmann's patience reached its limit, and he made a protest to the Dean.