Frank prayed. He fancied his whole life being blighted in one moment by this reckless lark. He forgot that the man for whose salvation he was praying had been almost universally despised by the students. He forgot that Digby Rudge was a spy, a tattle-tale, a sneak and a manufacturer of trouble unmentionable for the students. He remembered that Rudge was a human being, and that was quite enough. The water gurgled with the same choking sound that had been a warning to him--a warning to which he had paid no heed. For a moment his nerve seemed deserting him, and he longed to scream--to shriek for help. He was angry with the current, and, almost as he prayed for the life of Digby Rudge, he cursed the strength of the water, for he felt that it had dragged the helpless proctor down--down. A train came rushing along and passed over the bridge. Then he realized that the current had carried him a long distance away, and the despair that was crushing his heart grew stronger. “Rudge! Rudge!” Twice he cried out the name of the proctor. It was when the train was yet on the bridge, and then he realized that with the water-soaked blanket over his head the man could not answer if he heard. But he felt that the ears of Digby Rudge were forever deaf to the sound of a human voice. By this time the deadly water had done its work, and the man was murdered. Then Frank thought how four living persons besides himself had been ruined by this wild prank that had ended in a tragedy. The lives of the four fellows who had assisted in carrying out the scheme had been blighted. “I am the one who is all to blame,” he told himself. “It was my plan. I’ll swear to that. I did the most of the work--I’ll swear to that. Perhaps it will help them.” His mind worked strangely then, for he felt a twinge at one thought. He would make a clean breast of it--a full confession. He would try to lift as much of the burden as possible from the shoulders of the fellows with him; but he knew it would be regarded as bravado on his part. The finger of scorn would be pointed at him, and the newspapers would tell how he gloried in the deed. That thought hurt him. “It will be part of my punishment,” he reasoned. “I shall deserve it all!” Never before in all his life had Frank felt like a criminal, and the sensation was new to him. It was far more terrible to his sensitive nature than anything else could be. It filled him with repulsion for himself. He did not try to make any excuses to himself by saying it was an accident. He felt that there could not be an excuse, for he had been warned by his feelings at a time when he could have stopped short of the act which brought about the tragedy. When he remembered how he had felt, and how he had failed to stop then and there and set the proctor at liberty for all of anything his companions might say, he scorned himself as a coward. He was sure he had done one cowardly act, and this was what it had brought him to.