a
semi-celestial being. True, this Archbishop was not yet consecrated,
nor had he received his pallium from Rome, both which considerations
detracted from his holiness, and therefore from his importance; but he
was the Archbishop of the province, and the shadow of his future dignity
was imposing to an insignificant porter. Poor Wilkin went down on his
knees in a puddle, as soon as he had got the gate open, to beg the
potentate's pardon and blessing, and only rose from them summarily to
collar Colle, who had so little notion of the paramount claims of an
archbishop that he received the cavalcade with barks as noisy as he
would have bestowed on any worldly pedlar. Nay, so very unmannerly was
Colle, that when he was let go, he marched straight to the Archbishop,
and after a prolonged sniff at the archiepiscopal boots, presumed so far
as to wag his very secular tail, and even to give an uninvited lick to
the archiepiscopal glove. The Archbishop, instead of excommunicating
Colle, laid his hand gently on the dog's head and patted him; which so
emboldened that audacious quadruped that he actually climbed up the
prelate, with more decided wagging than before.

"Nay, my son!" said the Archbishop, gently, to an officious young priest
in his suite, who would have dragged the dog away--"grudge me not my
welcome. Dogs be honest creatures, and dissemble not. Hast thou never
heard the saw, that `they be ill folks that dogs and children will not
go withal'?"

And with another pat of Colle's head, the Archbishop dismissed him, and
walked into the hall to meet a further welcome from the whole family and
household, all upon their knees. Blessing them in the usual priestly
manner, he commanded them to rise, and Sir Godfrey then presented his
sons and squire, while Lady Foljambe did the same for the young ladies.

"Mistress Margaret Foljambe, my son's wife, an' it please your Grace;
and Mistress Perrote de Carhaix, my head chamberer. These be my
bower-women, Agatha de La Beche and Amphillis Neville."

"Neville!" echoed the Archbishop, instantly. "Of what Nevilles comest
thou, my maid?"

"Please it you, holy Father," said the confused Amphillis, more
frightened still to hear a sharp "your Grace!" whispered from Lady
Foljambe; "I know little of my kin, an' it like your Grace. My father
was Walter Neville, and his father a Ralph, but more know I not, under
your Grace's pleasure."

"How comes it thou wist no more?"

"May it p