When he had vanished within the doorway of his staircase, Meyrick, who had had a great deal too much champagne, said fiercely— “I vote we give that young beggar a lesson! I still owe him one for that business of a month ago.” “When he very nearly settled you, Jim,” laughed a Wykehamist, a powerfully built fellow, who had just got his Blue for the Eleven, had been supping freely and was in a mood for any riotous deed. “That was nothing,” said Meyrick—“but this can’t be stood!” And he pointed to the sheet that Falloden, who was standing in the centre of the group, was at the moment reading. It was the latest number of an Oxford magazine, one of those _éphémérides_ which are born, and flutter, and vanish with each Oxford generation. It contained a verbatim report of the attack on the Marmion “bloods” made by Radowitz at the dinner of the college debating society about a fortnight earlier. It was witty and damaging in the highest degree, and each man as he read it had vowed vengeance. Falloden had been especially mocked in it. Some pompous tricks of manner peculiar to Falloden in his insolent moods, had been worked into a pseudo-scientific examination of the qualities proper to a “blood,” with the happiest effect. Falloden grew white as he read it. Perhaps on the morrow it would be in Constance Bledlow’s hands. The galling memories of the evening just over were burning too in his veins. That open humiliation in the sight of Oxford had been her answer to his prayer—his appeal. Had she not given him a right to make the appeal? What girl could give two such rendezvous to a man, and not admit some right on his part to advise, to influence her? It was monstrous she should have turned upon him so! And as for this puppy!— A sudden gust of passion, of hot and murderous wrath, different from anything he had ever felt before, blew fiercely through the man’s soul. He wanted to crush—to punish—to humiliate. For a moment he saw red. Then he heard Meyrick say excitedly: “This is our last chance! Let’s cool his head for him—in Neptune.” Neptune was the Græco-Roman fountain in the inner quad, which a former warden had presented to the college. The sea god with his trident, surrounded by a group of rather dilapidated nymphs, presided over a broad basin, filled with running water and a multitude of goldfish. There was a shout of laughing assent, and a rush across the grass to Radowitz’s staircase. College was nearly empty; the Senior Tutor had gone to Switzerland that morning; and those few inmates who still remained, tired out with the ball of the night before, were fast asleep. The night porter, having let everybody in and closed the gate, was dozing in his lodge. There was a short silence in the quadrangle. Then the rioters who had been for a few minutes swallowed up in a distant staircase on the western side of the quadrangle reëmerged, with muffled shouts and laughter, bringing their prey with them—a pale, excited figure.