“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.”

“Nay,” replied Mr Lutter, “Belfront Castle would be infinitely improved if such doctrines were adopted in it.”

“Gentlemen,” said Reginald, “you are both learned men; and I know nothing about the questions you discuss.”

“Your lady shall judge between us,” said Mr Lutter.

“She shall not,” said Mr Peeper; “I am the sole judge in matters of the kind.”

“Let us hear Phil’s song in the mean time,” said Reginald.  “Come, Lorimer.”

“What shall it be?” said Phil.

“Something comic,” said Sir Bryan.

“Something bloody,” said Hasket of Norland.

“Something loving,” said Maulerer of Phascald.

“Will the lady decide for us?” said Phil, with a smile.  “Will you have the ‘Silver Scarf,’ madam; or ‘the Knight and the Soldan of Bagdad?’ They are both done into my poor English from the troubadours of Almeigne.”

The lady fixed, at haphazard, on “the Knight and the Soldan of Bagdad:”  and Phil prepared to obey her commands.  He took a small harp in his hand, and sate down in the vacant chair next to Sir Bryan de Bareilles.  The rest of the company composed themselves to listen; and, after a short prelude, Lorimer, in a fine manly voice, began—­