equivalent of a live Archbishop.

He consulted Lady Foljambe, and found her of the same mind as himself.
It would be awkward, she admitted, if the Countess died, to find
themselves censured for not having supplied her with spiritual
ministrations proper for her rank. Here was a perfect opportunity. It
would be a sin to lose it.

It was, indeed, in a different sense to that in which she used the
words, a perfect opportunity. The name of Alexander Neville has come
down to us as that of the gentlest man of his day, one of the most
lovable that ever lived. Beside this quality, which rendered him a
peculiarly fit ministrant to the sick and dying, he was among the most
prominent Lollards; he had drunk deep into the Scriptures, and,
therefore, while not free from superstition--no man then was--he was
very much more free than the majority. Charms and incantations, texts
tied round the neck, and threads or hairs swallowed in holy water, had
little value to the masculine intellect of Alexander Neville. And along
with this masculine intellect was a heart of feminine tenderness, which
would enable him to enter, so far as it was possible for a celibate
priest to enter, into the sad yearnings of the dying mother, whose
children did not care to come to her, and held aloof even in the last
hour of her weary life. In those times, when worldliness had eaten like
a canker into the heart of the Church, almost as much as in our own--
when preferment was set higher than truth, and Court favour was held of
more worth than faithfulness, one of the most unworldly men living was
this elect Archbishop. The rank of his penitent would weigh nothing
with him. She would be to him only a passing soul, a wronged woman, a
lonely widow, a neglected mother.

After supper, Sir Godfrey drew the Archbishop aside into his private
room, and told him, with fervent injunctions to secrecy, the sorrowful
tale of his secluded prisoner. As much sternness as was in Archbishop
Neville's heart contracted his brows and drew his lips into a frown.

"Does my Lord Duke of Brittany know his mother's condition?"

"Ay, if it please your Grace." Sir Godfrey repeated the substance of
the answer already imparted to Perrote.

"Holy saints!" exclaimed the Archbishop. "And my Lady Basset, what
saith she?"

"An' it like your Grace, I sent not unto her."

"But wherefore, my son? An' the son will not come, then should the
daughter. I pray you, send off a messeng