The bird flew away, and Margaret's loneliness grew on her. Hunger had begun its torment, and thirst as well. Was this to be her treatment? Had they who brought her here discovered that she was a friend of William Tyndale, and now they meant to leave her to hunger and thirst and loneliness until she died? That thought brought her from her crouching attitude on to her knees; and then, with her hands clasped and her head bent low, she prayed. She asked for deliverance. She knew not how it would come, but God, she was sure, would find the way. Then came the alternative to her prayer, but she paused and wondered whether she could take it. Could she ask for deliverance, but then say, "If it be possible let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt"? She sobbed, for it was so hard to say, "Thy will be done." For a time she paused at that point, undergoing the struggle, shrinking from it. She was half rebellious at first; but presently the full surrender came; and the words rang out, "Not as I will but as Thou wilt." If she was to go the way of the martyrs, she pleaded that she might be true, and go on to the end of her martyrdom. It was late in the afternoon when she heard a sound by the door. A key was thrust into the lock from outside, and it screamed as it turned. Then came the thrusting back of bolts, so many of them, Margaret thought bitterly. What could a girl do, that she should be kept in durance by an iron door, with lock and bolts and bars? The door opened outwards, and, watching intently, wondering who was coming, she saw two men, cowled and gowned like the Familiars she had sometimes seen in the streets. Neither of them spoke, but one who carried a jar of water in one hand and a loaf in the other, set the water at her feet and tossed the bread on the straw. He turned away in silence, going back to the door with muffled tread, where, he waited, without a word. Margaret sprang to her feet, and, going to him, caught at his coarse, black robe, but he tore her hand away, still without speaking. "Why have you brought me here?" she cried, and her face was full of eagerness. The man made no reply, but stood looking at her, unmoved, apparently, in spite of the traces of her grief on her face. "Have you no answer for me? If you brought me here, what was your right? And what was my crime, that you should bring me to this horrible place?" She spoke impulsively and boldly, like one who was fighting for her life, and was taking the chance now that it was here. The man was silent and still, as though he had been stone, and the girl gazed at him in wonder. "Do you not hear me?" she cried.