Sir Oliver’s birthday was ever a high festival at the manor-house. This year it was the pleasure of his daughter to celebrate it by a masque; and all the arrangements for this masque were referred by Mistress Katharine to Cuthbert Noble. He cheerfully undertook them; and having gained some experience in these matters at college, and having some skill in painting, set himself to prepare scenes--then a very recent invention. As, with a painting brush in his hand, he was standing before a scene, nearly finished, and dashing in the white and foamy water upon canvass, that was fast changing into a torrent, falling from rocks, and rushing through a lonely glen,--and as he stood back surveying the effect, and humming the fragment of a song, Philip came slowly up the gallery, and said gravely,-- “Master Cuthbert, Sir Oliver wants to speak with you directly.” “Where is he?” “In the garden, on the lower terrace; and I wish he was looking more pleasant:--it’s my thought, Master, there’s something wrong; for it is not a small matter that can vex him.” Cuthbert put down his brush and palette, and proceeded slowly towards the terrace. As he was descending the wide steps which led to it, he could not but observe that the good knight was serious, if not angry. “Master Cuthbert,” said Sir Oliver with an air of gravity and displeasure, “I have sent for you to hear from your own lips some little explanation or defence of a matter that hath come to my knowledge by the accident of a child’s artless utterance. It may be that it was only a word lightly dropped by you--a passing levity--a lapsus of the tongue, not of the judgment--such an indiscretion as I may pass over in one of your unripe age and little experience, without further correction than a faithful reproof, and a timely warning of the danger of such vain observations, and of their unsuitableness and impropriety in one who fills so important an office in my family, and hath so far enjoyed my confidence as to have doubtless a great influence for evil or for good.” This long preface Sir Oliver delivered, pacing slowly on the terrace with his eyes bent upon the ground. Cuthbert walked by his side, anxious for the direct charge, now too plainly whispered from within by his own swift thoughts. Sir Oliver paused, and, looking full and steadily upon the serious countenance of the youthful tutor, demanded of him whether it were true that he had said publicly before any of his family or household, that it was a barbarous and cruel thing to cut off Master Prynne’s ears? “I certainly so expressed myself,” was the calm answer of Cuthbert. “Where and to whom did you thus speak?” “It was in the library--the lady Alice was present, and Master Arthur was there at his lesson.” “And are these the lessons that you teach in my house and to my children?--know you, sir, that Master Prynne is a traitor--that he speaketh evil of dignities, and soweth disloyalty--that he is a hypocrite and a fanatic?”