Constantly in that night journey through the drizzle she thought of the stranger whom she and Herman had brought into the city some time before. She did not know how he spent his days, closeted in his room in Herman's home, where he sat from early morning until sundown. What his task was, neither she nor Herman nor his mother knew. Yet they felt that what he did was of the first importance in the man's estimation, and secret. There was no doubt as to the secrecy, for whenever he left his chamber for meals, or, after darkness had set in, went into the streets for air and exercise, he locked his papers in a strong oaken chest that was in the room. He had asked for the use of it when he saw it there, and never left the place without turning the key, and bringing it away with him. What was that work which so absorbed him? There was never any trace of it when Mistress Bengel put his room tidy in his occasional absence for the night walk in the streets; nothing on the table but an odd scrap or two of paper without a mark to indicate what he had been doing, and the pens with which he wrote. Surely there was nothing wrong in this task in which he was engaged! Such a man, the friend of Martin Luther, would not stoop to what was ignoble and unworthy! Margaret had the feeling whenever she thought of him, and more this night than usual, that Master Tyndale's deep thoughts were at work, and that he was bent on holy purposes. Something had made Herman and his mother, as well as Margaret, lock up in their hearts that secret fact, that such a man was in the house; for, while he never asked them to be silent, they had the idea that trouble would come, disaster, indeed, if it were whispered abroad that William Tyndale was inside the walls of the city. She was thinking of this, and forgetful of the drizzling rain, when a man's arms were flung around her, the cold hands passing over her eyes. "Who am I?" was the laughing question. Her alarm was gone in an instant, and her laughter burst out on the night air. She drew down the hands and kissed them; then, swinging round, she held up her lips for the man to kiss. "Why is my sweetheart out alone and at this time?" asked Herman, seriously now, for it was never well for a woman, and much less his own darling, to be alone in the dark streets at so late an hour. "My father asked me to carry a message to his foreman," Margaret answered, as they walked on, hand in hand. "He had no help for it but to send me to Gropper." Talking quietly, they came to a house in the Wendenstrasse, behind the cathedral, and, leaving Herman in the street, Margaret opened the door, moved along the dark passage, and, finding the stairs, groped her way up them, counting the doors until she came to the room she was seeking. She gave her message, and turned to go. "I'll see you to the door, and part way home, Mistress Margaret," said the man, standing, and reaching for his cap.