“Whose fancy was his only oracle;
Who could buy lands and pleasure at his will,
Yet slighted that which silver could not win.”
Rev. Horatius Bonar, D.D.
The Archbishop rapped softly on the door of the chamber, and Amphillis sprang to let him out. She had to let herself in, so he passed her with only a smile and a blessing, and going straight to his own chamber, spent the next hour in fervent prayer. At the end of that time he went down to the hall, and asked for writing materials.
This was a rather large request to make in a mediaeval manor house. Father Jordan was appealed to, as the only person likely to know the whereabouts of such scarce articles.
“Well, of a surety!” exclaimed the old priest, much fluttered by the inquiry. “Methinks I may find the inkhorn,—and there was some ink in it,—but as for writing-paper!—and I fear there shall be never a bit of parchment in the house. Wax, moreover—Richard, butler, took the last for his corks. Dear, dear! only to think his Grace should lack matter for writing! Yet, truly, ’tis not unnatural for a prelate. Now, whatever shall man do?”
“Give his Grace a tile and a paint-brush,” said careless Matthew.
“Cut a leaf out of a book,” suggested illiterate Godfrey.
Father Jordan looked at the last speaker as if he had proposed to cook a child for dinner. Cut a leaf out of a book! Murder, theft, and arson combined, would scarcely have been more horrible in his eyes.
“Holy saints, deliver us!” was his shocked answer.
Norman Hylton came to the rescue.
“I have here a small strip of parchment,” said he, “if his Grace were pleased to make use thereof. I had laid it by for a letter to my mother, but his Grace’s need is more than mine.”