atch from
Sir Francis Walsingham. It is ill news, dearest lady, but not news which
leaves no room for hope.'

'It is news of Philip--Philip!' Lady Pembroke said, trying with trembling
fingers to break the seal and detach the silk cord which fastened the
letter. 'Take it, Lucy, and--and tell me the contents. I cannot see. I
cannot open it!'

Then, while the boy nestled close to his mother, as if to give her strength
by putting his arms round her, Lucy obeyed her instructions, and opening
it, read the Earl of Leicester's private letter, which had accompanied the
official despatch, giving an account of the investment of Zutphen and the
battle which had been fought before its walls. This private letter was
enclosed for Lady Pembroke in that to his Right Honourable and trusted
friend Sir F. Walsingham.

* * * * *

'In the mist of the morning of the 23d, my incomparably brave nephew and
your brother, Philip Sidney, with but five hundred foot and seven hundred
horsemen, advanced to the very walls of Zutphen.

'It was hard fighting against a thousand of the enemy. Philip's horse was
killed under him, and alas! he heightened the danger by his fearless
courage; for he had thrown off his cuisses to be no better equipped than
Sir William Pelham, who had no time to put on his own, and, springing on a
fresh horse, he went hotly to the second charge. Again there was a third
onset, and our incomparable Philip was shot in the left leg.

'They brought him near me, faint from loss of blood, and he called for
water. They brought him a bottle full, and he was about to raise it to his
parched lips, when he espied a poor dying soldier cast greedy, ghastly eyes
thereon. He forbore to drink of the water, and, handing the bottle to the
poor wretch, said,--

'"Take it--thy need is greater than mine."'

* * * * *

'Oh! Philip! Philip!' Lady Pembroke said, 'in death, as in life,
self-forgetting and Christ-like in your deeds.'

Lucy raised her eyes from the letter and they met those of her mistress
with perfect sympathy which had no need of words.

'Doth my uncle say more, Lucy? Read on.'

* * * * *

'And,' Lucy continued, in the same low voice, which had in it a ring of
mingled pride in her ideal hero and sorrow for his pain, 'my nephew would
not take on himself any glory or honour when Sir William Russel, also
sorely wounded, exclaimed,--