Engel stood with the lamp lifted high, to see where the prisoner lay in this dank dungeon. The uneven floor was full of pools, and the walls ran with moisture, while, in the momentary silence, before any more was said, a drop of water fell with a musical note into one of the pools, and made the broken surface shimmer in the lamplight. Herman's eyes were quick to see the misery of the place. There were crawling creatures on the floor and the walls, and dull green moss coated the floor. That, at first, was all he saw; but presently he saw William Tyndale kneeling on a spread of damp straw in a corner behind the door. He was looking their way, uncertain as to those who had come to this fetid cell; half wondering whether it was reality, or that he was dreaming that he had really heard Herman's voice. Herman caught the gleam in his eyes from the lamp's light, and went forward. And still it seemed to the prisoner such an incredible thing, till Herman was really near him, scuffling his feet among the straw, and flinging a strong arm about his shoulder, kissing the cold cheek, and telling him that he and his comrade had been searching for him, meaning to get him away. Tyndale put out his manacled hands to grasp those of the young man who had been tender and loving as a son for the past months. "'Tis wonderful!" the prisoner exclaimed, trying to rise from his kneeling posture. "You might almost have heard the words of my prayer when you came to the door. 'Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, o Lord. Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise Thy name.' And think of it! The Lord heard my supplication, and made haste to help me!" Herman bent down, and, throwing his strong arms about the kneeling prisoner, lifted him to his feet; but Tyndale could not stand without the young man's aid. "I am very weak," Tyndale said, in a trembling tone. "Since I left your home I have not touched a morsel of food, and none has been brought to me." For the first time they heard the clank of chains, and when Engel lowered the lamp he saw that Tyndale's feet were in irons. "The cowardly hounds!" he exclaimed, his anger blazing forth when he saw what had been done. "God do so to me, and more also----" But Tyndale checked him. "Say it not, friend. God can best requite what has been done to me. But can we not go away, since, as you said, the moments are very precious? I should feel the stroke of my misfortune in double measure if you met with trouble in your desire to help me." The forester looked carefully at Tyndale, at his hands and feet, and then, to his confusion, saw that there was a chain about his body which fastened the prisoner to the wall, so that at the farthest he could not get more than a yard or two across the floor.