It was a long and weary tramp through spongy, low-lying land, and the way seemed interminable.
At last, just as the sun was sending shafts of light across river and swamp—making them glow like burnished silver, and covering every tall spike of rush and flag with diamonds—a few straggling cottages or huts came in sight.
A clump of pollards hid the cluster of buildings which formed the nucleus of the little hamlet, till they were actually before a low, irregular block of cottages, and at the door of one of these Mary's guide stopped.
'A few of our brethren took refuge here after the taking of Axel and the burning of our habitation there. We are under the protection of the Duke of Parma, who is advancing with an army for the relief of Zutphen, and will, as we believe, drive from before us the foes of the Holy Church.'
As they passed under the low doorway into a narrow entry paved with clay, Mary's guide said,—
'Tarry here, while I find what has passed in my absence.'
Mary was not left long in suspense.
The man presently returned, and, beckoning her, said,—
'Come, without delay!'
Mary found herself in a low, miserably furnished room on the ground-floor, where, in the now clear light of the bright summer morning, Ambrose Gifford lay dying.