The Archbishop smiled, and for a moment placed his hand upon hers, which rested on the table beside him.
“A romance, perhaps, between myself and the Countess of long ago, for as I read these letters I used much of their contents for my own guidance, and found her precepts as wise to-day as they were in 1250, and to me ... to me,” the Archbishop sighed, “she seems to live again. Yes, I confess my ardent regard for her, and if you call that romance, it is surely of a very innocent nature.”
“But the other Archbishop? Your predecessor, the friend of Matilda; what of him?”
“There, Hildegunde, I have much less evidence to go upon, for his letters, if they exist, are concealed somewhere in the archives of Sayn Castle.”
“To-morrow,” cried the girl, “I shall robe myself in the oldest garments I possess, and will rummage those dusty archives until I find the letters of him who was Archbishop in 1250.”
“I have bestowed that task upon one less impulsive. Father Ambrose is the searcher, and he and I will put our wise old heads together in consultation over them before entrusting them to the perusal of that impetuous young noblewoman, the present Countess von Sayn.”
The impetuous person referred to brought down her hand with a peremptory impact upon the table, and exclaimed emphatically:
“My Lord Archbishop, I shall read those letters to-morrow.”
Once more the Archbishop placed his hand on hers, this time, however, clasping it firmly in his own. There was no smile on his face as he said gravely:
“My lady, to-morrow you will face three living Archbishops, more difficult, perhaps, to deal with than one who is dust.”