'Throw yourself on that settle, my good fellow; but give me the letter first. When I have read it, you shall tell me all you know.'
The letter was written on thin parchment, and was scarcely legible, blotted, as it was, with tears, and the penmanship irregular and feeble.
'To Master Humphrey Ratcliffe—My Good Friend,—This comes from one nearly distraught with grief of mind and sickness of body. My boy, my boy! They have stolen him from me. Can you find him for me? He is in the hands of Jesuits—it may be at Douay—I dare say no more. I cannot say more. Good Ned, Heaven bless him, will find you out, and give you this. Pray to God for me. He alone can bind the broken heart of one who is yours, in sore need.
'M. G.
'I lost him this day se'nnight; it is as a hundred years to me. Tears are my meat. God's hand is heavy upon me.'
Humphrey read and re-read the letter, and again and again pressed it passionately to his lips.
'Find him! Find her boy; yes, God helping me, I will track him out, alive or dead.'
Then he turned to Ned,—