The Archbishop took the offered gift with a smile.
“I thank thee, my son,” said he. “In good sooth, at this moment my need is great, seeing death waiteth for no man.”
He sat down, and had scarcely remembered the want of ink, when Father Jordan came up, carrying a very dilapidated old inkhorn.
“If your Grace were pleased to essay this, and could serve you withal,” suggested he, dubiously; “soothly, there is somewhat black at the bottom.”
“And there is alegar in the house, plenty,” added Matthew.
The Archbishop looked about for the pen.
“Unlucky mortal that I am!” cried Father Jordan, smiting himself on the forehead. “Never a quill have I, by my troth!”
“Have you a goose? That might mend matters,” said Matthew. “Had we but a goose, there should be quills enow.”
“Men culpa, mea culpa!” cried poor Father Jordan, as though he were at confession, to the excessive amusement of the young men.
Norman, who had run upstairs on finding the pen lacking, now returned with one in his hand.