"I lost my eye at the celebration of a christening," said Sir Bryan de Barreilles. "My uncle of Malmescott pushed it in with the handle of his dagger." "I got this wound on my forehead at a feast after a funeral," said Hasket of Norland. "I quarreled with Morley Poyntz, and he cut my eyebrow with an axe. 'Twas a merry party in spite of that." "The Parson of Pynsent jumped on my face at a festival in honour of the birth of Sir Ranulph Berlingcourt's heir," said Maulerer of Phascald. "I had been knocked on the floor by the Archdeacon of Warleileigh, and the Parson of Pynsent trode on my nose. He was the biggest man in Yorkshire, and squeezed my nose out of sight--a rare jovial companion, was the Parson of Pynsent, and many is the joke we have had about the weight of his foot. Ah! we have no fun now--no fighting, no grinning through a horse-collar, no roasting before a fire, no singing"-- "Yes," said Reginald, "we have Phil Lorimer." "Let him come--let us hear him," said some of the party. "I hate songs," said Dr Howlet; "and think all ballads should be burned." "And the writers of them, too," added Mr Peeper, with a fierce glance towards the fireplace, from which Phil Lorimer emerged. "Oh no! I think songs an innocent diversion," said Mr Lutter, "and softening to the heart. Sit near me, Mr Lorimer." "Make a face, Phil," cried the knight; "I would rather see a grin than hear your ballad." "Jump, Phil," said Hasket of Norland, applying his fork to Phil's leg as he passed, "you are a better morris-dancer than a poet." Phil, who was imperturbably good-natured, did as he was told. He opened his mouth to a preternatural size, turned one eye to the ceiling, and the other down to the floor, till Sir Bryan was in ecstasies at his achievement. He then sprang to an incredible height in that air, and danced once or twice through the hall, throwing himself into the most grotesque attitudes imaginable, and the table was nearly shaken in pieces by the thumpings with which the party showed their satisfaction. "Now then, Phil; here's a cup of sherry-wine--drink it, boy, and sing a sweet song to the lady," said Reginald. "Songs are an invention of the devil," said Mr Peeper. "Unless they are sung through the nose," said Mr Lutter, with a sneer. "You approve of songs then?" inquired Mr Peeper, with a fierce look. "Certainly," said Mr Lutter, "when their subject is good, and the language modest." "Then you are an atheist," retorted Mr Peeper. "What has a ballad to do with atheism?" enquired Mr Lutter, looking angry. "You approve of wicked songs, and therefore are an atheist." "A man is more like an atheist," retorted Mr Lutter, "who is ungrateful to God for the gift of song, and shuts up the sweetest avenue by which the spirit approaches its Creator. I admire poetry, and respect poets." "Any one who holds such diabolic doctrines is not fit to remain in Belfront Castle."