“Ah, very true, very true,” agreed the Archbishop.  “Some of the Counts of Sayn led turbulent lives, and except with a battle-ax it was difficult to persuade them not to meddle with the goods and chattels of their neighbors.  A strenuous line they proved in those olden days; but many noble women have adorned the Castle of Sayn whose lives shine out like an inspiration against the dark background of medieval tumult.  Did you ever hear of your forebear, the gracious Countess Matilda von Sayn, who lived some hundreds of years ago?  Indeed, the letters I have been reading, written in her quaint handwriting, are dated about the middle of the thirteenth century.  I cannot learn whether she was older or younger than the Archbishop of Cologne of that period, and thus I wish to enlist the interest of Father Ambrose in searching the archives of Sayn for anything pertaining to her.  The Countess sent many epistles to the Archbishop which he carefully preserved, while documents of much more importance to the Archbishopric were allowed to go astray.

“Her letters breathe a deep devotion to the Church, and a warm kindliness to its chief ornament of that day, the then Archbishop of Cologne.  She was evidently his most cherished adviser, and in points of difficulty her counsel exhibits all the clarity of a man’s brain, to which is added a tenderness and a sense of justice entirely womanly.  I could not help fancying that this great prelate’s success in his Archbishopric was largely due to the disinterested advice of this noble woman.  It is clearly to be seen that the Countess was the benignant power behind the throne, and she watched his continued advancement with a love resembling that lavished on a favorite son.  Her writings now and then betray an affection of a quality so motherly that I came to believe she was much older than the great Churchman, but then there is the fact that she long outlived him, so it is possible she may have been the younger.”

“Why, my Lord, are you about to weave us a romance?”

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.”