The word was not a blessing, but you are at liberty to substitute one. The little old men, to whom each chorister had bowed profoundly as they passed him, turned, and bent their severe yellow faces upon Aultane. Lewis junior crept away petrified; and Aultane, with the red flush of shame on his brow, slunk back to his place. They were the learned judges. They positively were. But no wonder Aultane had failed to recognise them, for they bore no more resemblance to the fierce and fiery visions of the morning, than do two old-fashioned black crows to stately peacocks. "What may your name be, sir?" inquired the yellower of the two. Aultane hung his head in an agony: he was wondering whether they could order him before them on the morrow and transport him. Wilberforce was in another agony, lest those four keen eyes should wander to his damaged surplice and the pins. Somebody else answered: "Aultane, my lord." The judges passed on. Arkell would not look towards Aultane: he was too noble to add, even by a glance, to the confusion of a fallen enemy: but the other choristers were not so considerate, and Aultane burst into a flow of bad language. "Be silent," authoritatively interrupted Henry Arkell. "More of this, and I will report you to the dean." "I shan't be silent," cried Aultane, in his passionate rage. "There! not for you." Beside himself with anger, he crossed over, and raised his hand to strike Arkell. But one of the sextons, happening to come out of the choir, arrested Aultane, and whirled him back. "Do you know where you are, sir?" In another moment they were surrounded. The dean's wife and daughter had come up; and, following them, sneaked Lewis junior, who was settling himself into his surplice. Mrs. Beauclerc passed on, but Georgina stopped. Even as she went into college, she would sometimes stop and chatter to the boys. "You were quarrelling, young gentlemen! What is the grievance?" "That beggar threatened to report me to the dean," cried Aultane, too angry to care what he said, or to whom he spoke. "Then I know you deserved it; as you often do," rejoined Miss Beauclerc; "but I'd keep a civil tongue in my head, if I were you, Aultane. I only wonder he has not reported you before. You should have me for your senior." "If he does go in and report me, please tell the dean to ask him where his gold medal is," foamed Aultane. "And to make him answer it." "What do you mean?" she questioned. "_He_ knows. If the dean offered him a thousand half-crowns for his medal, he could not produce it." "What does he mean?" repeated Miss Beauclerc, looking at Henry Arkell. He could not answer: he literally could not. Could he have dropped down without life at Georgina's feet, it had been welcome, rather than that she should hear of an act, which, to his peculiarly refined temperament, bore an aspect of shame so utter. His face flushed a vivid red, and then grew white as his surplice.