'Instantly one of the Jesuit brothers had seized him, saying,-- "You are safe, Ambrose, with me." 'I knew no more. I swooned from pain and loss of blood, and, when I came to, I found I was in a barge being brought hither with other of the wounded.' 'But my son!' Mary exclaimed. 'Are you sure it was my son?' 'As sure as I can be of aught that my eyes have ever looked upon. I saw the large eyes you speak of dilated with fear, as the flames leaped up in the surrounding darkness. And I verily believe the man who tore him from me was him who gave me this wound, and is the crafty wretch whom you know to be your husband.' 'Ah me!' Mary exclaimed, 'it is but poor comfort after all. My boy may be near, but I can never see him; he who has him in his power will take care he eludes our grasp. But I am selfish and ungrateful to you, my good friend. Pardon me if I seem to forget you got that sore wound in my service.' 'Ah! Mary,' Humphrey said, 'I would suffer ten such wounds gladly if I might but win my guerdon. Well for me, it may be, that I swooned, or, by Heaven, I should have run that wily Jesuit through the body.' 'Thank God,' Mary said fervently, 'that his blood lies not on your head.' Madam Gruithuissens had considerately withdrawn to a long, low chamber next the small one where Humphrey lay. She knew enough of Mary Gifford's history to feel that whatever Humphrey Ratcliffe had to say to her, he would prefer to say it with no listeners. And, full of charity and kindness, the good lady moved about amongst the wounded and dying, and tried to cheer them and support them in their pain, by repeating passages from the Bible, in English or in Dutch, according to the nationality of the sufferer. When Madam Gruithuissens returned to Humphrey's room, Mary said,-- 'I would fain watch here all night, and do my utmost for all the sufferers. Will you, Madam, give my uncle notice of my intention, and I think he will come hither and pray by the side of those whom I hear groaning in their pain.' 'I will e'en do as you wish, and send my servant back with cordials and linen for bands, and such food as may support you in your watch.' When Madam Gruithuissens departed, Humphrey and Mary Gifford were alone together. The servant who had been sent with the news keeping watch at the door outside, and Humphrey, for the time, seemed to go over, half unconsciously, the scenes of the taking of Axel, and Mary listened to it not exactly with half-hearted sympathy, but with the perpetually recurring cry at her heart that God would restore to her her only son. It is ever so--the one anxiety, the one centre of interest to ourselves, which may seem of little importance to others, drives out all else. All other cares and griefs, and grand achievements of which we hear, are but as dust in the balance, when weighed down by our own especial sorrow, or suspense is hardest, perhaps, to bear, which is pressing upon us at the time.