"Nobody's here, Herman," said Otto Engel, who was watching his movements, and guessed his purpose. "I live here all alone. I've neither wife nor child, more's the pity!" he added sadly. "Those creatures from the Holy House in your city came out here one day, and took my wife. And the little one pined away, and her mother never came back." The big man clenched his fist, and brought it down with a resounding blow on the table, so that the flagon, which held the Rhenish wine, and the horn cups danced. His face flushed, not so much with anger and hate--though both were there--but with grief and the yearning for revenge if an opportunity ever came his way. Herman thought, as he gazed at him, that if any of those Familiars of the Inquisition ventured into his hut, though he were alone, and they were two or more, they would never leave the place alive. "What brings you here, Herman?" Engel asked, more quietly, when the tempestuous passion had gone; but his hand trembled as the fist, still clenched, rested on the table, and his face twitched with emotion. "William Tyndale is the cause of our being here to-night," Herman said, returning to his stool again, satisfied now that he could speak as freely as he pleased. "Tyndale?" cried Engel, his face full of surprise. "Do you mean the Englishman?" "Yes. I'll tell you all about it, Engel." Herman told the story from the day when he and Margaret met the tired traveller in the meadow, down to the capture of the _Marburg_ a few hours before. "Is that all?" Engel asked, having listened with parted lips. "All? Isn't it enough?" exclaimed Herman. Silence followed. Each man was busy with his thoughts--Herman and Roye wondering how far their dread concerning William Tyndale might become a certainty, and the prisoner should be handed over to the tormentors; Otto Engel ruminating on the memory that never left him, but wondering as well what he could do to set the man free who was daring so much for the world's uplifting. Herman had not mentioned his and Roye's fears as to what Schouts would do with his prisoner, but Engel's own thoughts had travelled in that direction. "My lord, in the robber's castle yonder, will make a pot o' money out of William Tyndale!" he exclaimed, breaking the long silence, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "How?" asked Herman, startled at the thought that their fears were likely to become a reality. "How? This Cochlaeus will offer Schouts a big sum, and the two will haggle over terms. Perhaps they'll spend days in making offers and rejecting them; but I can see the end as plainly as I see this fist of mine. The Inquisitors will get William Tyndale into their toils, while Schouts will get his price. Don't I know?" Silence followed again, save for the sounds of the sleeping dog on the hearth, who barked in his dreams, and the blazing and crackling of the pine-log fire.