Wednesday evening came, and next morning the result was to be made known. As certainty approached, and suspense was nearly terminated, Julian awaited his fate with sickening, almost with trembling anxiety. At nine o'clock he knew that the paper on which was written the name of the Clerkland scholar would be affixed to the senate-house door, but he did not venture to go and read it. He knew that, if he were successful, a hundred men would be eager to rush up to his rooms with the joyful intelligence; if unsuccessful, he still trusted that he had one or two friends sufficiently sincere to put an end to his painful anxiety by telling him the news. Nine o'clock struck. Oh, for the sound of some footstep on the stairs! Many must know the result by this time. Julian's hopes were still high, and he could not fail to hear of the numerous and seemingly authoritative reports which had ascribed success to him. He pressed his hands hard together, as he prayed that what was most for his welfare might be granted to him, and thought what boundless delight success would bring with it. What a joy it would be, above all, to write home, and gladden their hearts by the news of his triumph. Every moment his suspense made him more feverish, and now the clock struck a quarter past nine, and he feared that in this case no news must be bad news. He leaned out of the window, and at this moment Mr Grayson strolled across the bowling-green. Then he heard another don, who was following him, call out-- "I say, do you know that the Clerkland is out?" "Is it?" said Mr Grayson, with unusual show of interest. "Yes. Who do you think has got it?" "A Saint Werner's man, I hope." "Yes." "Well, who is it?" What was the answer--Owen or Home?--at that distance the names sounded _exactly alike_. "Oh, then, I am very sorry for--" Again Julian _could_ not, with his utmost effort, catch the name with certainty; and, unable any longer to endure this state of doubt, he seized his cap and gown, when the sound of a slow footstep stopped him. But it was Brogten's step, and Julian heard him pass into his own room. A moment of breathless silence, and then another step, or rather the steps of two men; he detected by the sound that they were Lillyston and De Vayne. In one moment he would know the--Was it the best or the worst? He stood with his hand on the handle of the door; but it seemed as if they would never get to the top of the stairs. Why on earth were they so slow? "Well," said Julian, as they came in sight, "is the Clerkland out?" He knew it was, but would not ask them the result. "Yes," they both said; and Lillyston added, in a sorrowful tone of voice, "I am sorry for you, Julian, but Owen has got it." Julian grew very pale, and for one second reeled as if he would faint. Lord De Vayne caught him as he staggered, and added eagerly, "But you are most honourably mentioned, Julian, `proxime accessit,' and an allusion to your illness during one paper."