'To my good brother, George Ratcliffe, from before Zutphen,—'This to tell you that I, making an expedition by order of my master, Sir Philip Sidney, to reconnoitre the country before Zutphen, where, please God, we will in a few days meet and vanquish the enemy, fell upon a farm-house, and entering, asked whether the folk there were favourable to the righteous cause we have in hand or the contrary. Methinks there never was a joy greater than mine, when, after some weeks of despair, I found there Mistress Mary Gifford and her son! Three weeks before the day on which I write, Mistress Gifford had disappeared from the town of Arnhem, nor could we find a trace of her. I have before told you how, in the taking of Axel, I got a wound in my back from the hand of a traitor, when I had rescued his son from the burning house, where a nest of Jesuits were training young boys in their damnable doctrines.
'From the moment I was carried wounded to Arnhem I heard nought of the child, snatched by the villain from my arms, till that evening when, God be praised, I was led to the very place where he has been nursed by his mother in a sore sickness. It has been my good fortune to give her, my ever-beloved mistress, safe convoy to Arnhem, where they are, thank God, safe under the care of that God-fearing man and worthy divine, Master George Gifford.
'Here I left them, returning to Flushing, where a strong force is ready to meet the enemy, ay, and beat them back with slaughter when they advance. The Earl of Leicester is in command, but the life and soul and wisdom of the defence lie with my noble master, Sir Philip. To serve under him is sure one of the greatest honours a man can know. We have his brave brothers also at hand. Robert is scarce a whit less brave than his brother, and of Mr Thomas, it is enough to say of him he is a Sidney, and worthy of that name.
'I write in haste, for the despatches are made up, thus I can say but little of the hope within my heart, which, God grant, will now at last be not, as for so many long years, a hope in vain.
'Ambrose Gifford died of the fever, and, having made his confession, was absolved by the priest, and forgiven by that saint who has suffered from his sins! This last more for his benefit than the first, methinks! But I can no more.
'Commend me to our mother and Mistress Lucy Forrester. If I fall in the coming fight, I pray you, George, remember to protect one dearest to me on earth.—I rest your loving brother,
'Humphrey Ratcliffe.'
'Post Scriptum.—The enemy is advancing, and we shall be ordered out to meet them ere sunset. God defend the right.
H. R.'