Only once did the moon peep through a rift in the cloud to light up the waters and show the _Marburg_ making her slow way against the stream. It was a fleeting glimpse which the watchers had as they stood on the bank before they turned to find their way back to the house by the cavern way. The shaft of silver, as it fell, revealed the dim form of the vessel which carried such a precious burden with it, and a life which meant so much for the world's weal. Then darkness fell again. Herman and Margaret stood hand in hand, gazing into the blackness, hoping that the clouds would drift by, and the sky be cleared to show them the empty river, with the ship gone out of sight, and safely away from the jurisdiction of the authorities of the city. Instead, they came more and more heavily, and the darkness grew denser. After a while they sat down and began to talk of their own concerns, and the married life they were going to lead within the week. Margaret, with her lover's arm about her, told him what her hopes were; but she spoke as well of her diffidence, lest he might be disappointed in his wife. "Hush, little sweetheart," whispered Herman, drawing her closer, so that their lips met. "'Twill be the finest bargain any man ever made; the best gift God ever gave to anyone. And when I think of it, 'tis hard to contain myself, that this day week you will be mine." Margaret was going to answer, but a sound came, and she bent forward to gaze into the darkness towards the harbour from whence the _Marburg_ had come. "What's the matter?" Herman asked. "Did you hear the sound of a man's feet? Can you not hear some voices?" she whispered. The stillness of the night, while they listened, was broken by the sound of voices and the tread of feet. It was no thing of the imagination. At first there was but a distant murmuring, but now it was undeniable that men were coming, swiftly, persistently, and, judging from the tone of their voices, they were greatly incensed. Before long, while Margaret and her companion sat shadowed from observation by the bush, they began to distinguish the words. "To think that I should have been duped like that," cried one. "'Tis Cochlaeus," Margaret whispered, but Herman made no answer. The man was saying more, and he would not miss a word. "I went through the ship, and through it again, but found no trace of that accursed Englishman; not a sound nor a sign of his presence. Nothing came of my search but the discovery of that mad stowaway, who has left marks on my fingers that will stay for many a day." The company halted close by, and Herman and Margaret, holding themselves in silence, neither moving hand nor foot, scarcely breathing lest they should betray their presence, peered into the darkness. Accustomed to it by this long night vigil, they saw the indistinct forms of six men, but who they were, or whether armed, it was impossible to tell. What they heard set their hearts palpitating with fear.