He sat in silence, in statuesque stillness, scarce breathing. The darkness where he was, was dense; but he felt perturbed when he thought that the moon in the open would show him, silhouetted, as it were, to anyone behind him. The sounds went on, always in stealth, and they drew so much nearer that he knew it was someone human, and not a prowling beast. Herman's impulse was to challenge the man, whoever he might be, but he thought it well to be silent and not betray his presence. After a while, sitting with his dagger drawn, ready for any onslaught, he knew from the sounds that the man was moving away towards the castle. He breathed more freely at the thought, for the man had other things in his mind. Unexpectedly the stranger stepped a little into the open, where the moonlight cast his shadow on the grass, and an exclamation of amazement sprang from Herman's lips. "Roye!" he said, in subdued tone, just loud enough for his voice to carry to the man who stood gazing at the castle. Roye started at the unexpected call, and dropped back among the trees. "Who is it?" he exclaimed, in a tone which betrayed his anxiety. "Herman Bengel. I am here." A moment later he had sprung from his seat and was trampling among the brushwood, the low-hanging branches of the trees rustling as his body swept against them. "Have you seen Master Tyndale?" Roye asked, the moment they met in the darkness, where they barely saw each other's form. "Yes. He was taken into the castle. But why should the robber lord take him there, a prisoner, more than any other on board the _Marburg_? Yourself, for example?" Herman asked in a puzzled tone. He scarcely paused, for another thought had come. "It could never be that the robber lord had some inkling that Master Tyndale was on board that ship and was thinking to carry him away to some safe place, just as was done once with Doctor Martin Luther, to hide him from his enemies." It was a new idea. There was something like hopefulness in Herman's soul when he considered the possibility, but the hope was dashed at once when Roye spoke. "Would God it were so. But this man, this bandit lord, I heard the sailors say, when they were speaking about him as we were beating up the river, has no fear of God in his heart. He scoffs as much at the Reformers as he does at the Catholics. The idea is to sell my master to the tormentors if they will pay the price." "God forbid!" Herman cried, smitten with horror at the thought. "It cannot be!" "Why not?" asked Roye. "Others have done it. The Inquisitors have bought the prisoners in these bandit castles by the score, paying big sums of money for them, to have the opportunity of dealing with them in the torture chambers of what they call their Holy Houses. Schouts must have heard that Master Tyndale is badly wanted, and he believes he has a prize."