Bright beams beyond doubt; but not so bright to the four admiring eyes as the pistol barrels. Never had such pistols been seen, although Loftus major—as Mr. Dick communicated in open-hearted confidence—had only given an old song for them at some pawnbroker's. They lifted, they touched, they stroked, they cocked, they took aim. The caps were on; and it was only by an amount of incomprehensible self-denial, that they did not fire. But that might have betrayed all; and Dick Loftus, though daring a great deal in a harmless sort of way, did not dare that. Dick fenced with the one, Smart with the other; they were like a couple of little children, playing with make-believe swords. All in a moment, Dick caught sight of a trencher, poking itself gingerly through the trees, and regarding them. A master's trencher, too, for the two tassels, one over the other, were distinctly visible. With a smothered cry of warning to his companion, Dick vanished, carrying his pistol with him. Smart, nearly beside himself with terror when he comprehended the situation, vanished in Dick's wake; but in his confusion he dropped his pistol into the sheet of wadding on the bench. The coast clear, the spy (an unintentional spy, it must be confessed) came forward. It was not a master; it was one of the boys, who, in coming out, had unwittingly caught up a master's trencher in mistake for his own. He took up the pistol and examined it—he turned over the wadding on which it lay, and the brown paper, and the case; scrutinizing all carefully in the moonlight, and coming on a written direction at last. "Oh, indeed! 'Albert Loftus, Esquire'! What does he want with pistols? Is he thinking to shoot any one of the fellows? And Mr. Dick has stolen a march on him, and brought them out, has he?" He took up the pistol, looked at it again, critically held it for a minute before him; then took aim, and fired it off. The answer to this was a human cry and a fall; the charge—shot or bullet, which ever it might be—had taken effect on some one but a few paces off. The culprit remained perfectly still for one minute, possibly scared at what he had done; he then quietly put the pistol on the case, crept off on tiptoe amidst the trees, and—came face to face with the new master, Mr. Henry. Mr. Henry was on his road to the station to order his luggage to the college. He had left it on his arrival, not knowing where he was to lodge. Dr. Brabazon had offered to send a servant, but Mr. Henry coveted the walk in the cool, lovely night; he and his head were alike feverish from the effects of the sea voyage; so they directed him through the plantation, as being the nearest way.