“My son, my dear son.”
It was Father Ambrose, alias Sir Walter, and Cuthbert jumped up, and threw himself into his arms with a self-abandonment which shewed how far his feelings had been strained by their separation.
“My father, my more than father,” he cried.
“We are to be together till the end,” said Sir Walter, after a few moments of silence, during which they had grasped each other’s hands.
“To whom do we owe this mercy; to the governor? he seemed to feel for us.”
“No, he could not have ventured to oppose Sir John Redfyrne, who was armed with the authority of the Privy Council.”
Cuthbert flushed up at the sound of the hated name.
“He has no hand in this indulgence.”
“Indeed he has, my dear son, whatever his motives may be; he may repent of his ingratitude.”
Cuthbert shook his head.