“No, surely?  O joyful sound!  Praised and blessed be the Lord, then; praised and blessed be the Lord!  But, madam, however did you know that?”

“I heard his voice on the river; but I did not hear Mr. Frank’s with him, Grace!”

“Oh, be sure, madam, where the one is the other is.  They’d never part company.  Both come home or neither, I’ll warrant.  Here’s your hood, madam.”

And Mrs. Leigh, with Grace behind her, started with rapid steps towards Bideford.

Was it true?  Was it a dream?  Had the divine instinct of the mother enabled her to recognize her child’s voice among all the rest, and at that enormous distance; or was her brain turning with the long effort of her supernatural calm?

Grace asked herself, in her own way, that same question many a time between Burrough and Bideford.  When they arrived on the quay the question answered itself.

As they came down Bridgeland Street (where afterwards the tobacco warehouses for the Virginia trade used to stand, but which then was but a row of rope-walks and sailmakers’ shops), they could see the strange ship already at anchor in the river.  They had just reached the lower end of the street, when round the corner swept a great mob, sailors, women, ’prentices, hurrahing, questioning, weeping, laughing:  Mrs. Leigh stopped; and behold, they stopped also.

“Here she is!” shouted some one; “here’s his mother!”

“His mother?  Not their mother!” said Mrs. Leigh to herself, and turned very pale; but that heart was long past breaking.

The next moment the giant head and shoulders of Amyas, far above the crowd, swept round the corner.

“Make a way!  Make room for Madam Leigh!”—­And Amyas fell on his knees at her feet.

She threw her arms round his neck, and bent her fair head over his, while sailors, ’prentices, and coarse harbor-women were hushed into holy silence, and made a ring round the mother and the son.

Mrs. Leigh asked no question.  She saw that Amyas was alone.

At last he whispered, “I would have died to save him, mother, if I could.”

“You need not tell me that, Amyas Leigh, my son.”

Another silence.

“How did he die?” whispered Mrs. Leigh.

“He is a martyr.  He died in the——­”

Amyas could say no more.

“The Inquisition?”

“Yes.”

A strong shudder passed through Mrs. Leigh’s frame, and then she lifted up her head.

“Come home, Amyas.  I little expected such an honor—­such an honor—­ha! ha! and such a fair young martyr, too; a very St. Stephen!  God, have mercy on me; and let me not go mad before these folk, when I ought to be thanking Thee for Thy great mercies!  Amyas, who is that?”

And she pointed to Ayacanora, who stood close behind Amyas, watching with keen eyes the whole.

“She is a poor wild Indian girl—­my daughter, I call her.  I will tell you her story hereafter.”