Amphillis’s heart said “except,” and her conscience turned away and declined to pursue that road. Norman Hylton had shown no preference for her beyond others, so far as she knew, and her maidenly instinct warned her that even her thoughts had better be kept away from him. Before she answered, a shadow fell between her and the light; and Amphillis looked up into the kindly face of Archbishop Neville.
The Archbishop had delayed his further journey for the sake of the dying Countess, whom he wished to see again, especially if his influence could induce her son to come to her. He now addressed himself to Mr Altham.
“Master Altham, as I guess?” he asked, pleasantly.
Mr Altham rose, as in duty bound, in honour to a priest, and a priest who, as he dimly discerned by his canonicals, was not altogether a common one.
“He, and your humble servant, holy Father.”
“You be uncle, I count, of my cousin Amphillis here?”
“Sir! Amphillis your cousin!”
“Amphillis is my cousin,” was the quiet answer; “and I am the Archbishop of York.”
To say that Mr Altham was struck dumb with amazement would be no figure of speech. He stared from the Archbishop to Amphillis, and back again, as if his astonishment had fairly paralysed his powers, that of sight only excepted; and had not Regina roused him from his condition of helplessness by an exclamation of “Ach, heilige, Maria!” there is no saying how long he might have stood so doing.
“Ay, Uncle,” said Amphillis, with a smile; “this is my Lord elect of York, and he is pleased to say that my father was his kinsman.”