No shouts of victory--but stern, sullen, half-ashamed silence--as of guilty things after the perpetration of a misdeed. Still glaring savagely, ere yet the wrath of fight has subsided in his heart, and going and returning to the bloody place, uncertain whether or not his enemy were about to return, Fro finally lies down at some distance, and with bloody flews keeps licking his bloody legs, and with long darting tongue cleansing the mire from his neck, breast, side, and back--a sanguinary spectacle! He seems almost insensible to our caresses, and there is something almost like upbraiding in his victorious eyes. Now that his veins are cooling, he begins to feel the pain of his wounds--many on, and close to vital parts. Most agonising of all--all his four shanks are tusk-pierced, and, in less than ten minutes, he limps away to his kennel, lame as if riddled by shot-- "Heu quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore!" gore-besmeared and dirt-draggled--an hour ago serenely bright as the lily in June, or the April snow. The huge waggon moves away out of the clachan without its master, who, ferocious from the death of the other brute he loved, dares the whole school to combat. Off fly a dozen jackets--and a devil's dozen of striplings from twelve past to going sixteen--firmly wedged together like the Macedonian Phalanx--are yelling for the fray. There is such another shrieking of women as at the taking of Troy. But "The Prince of Mearns stept forth before the crowd, And, Carter, challenged you to single fight!" Bob Howie, who never yet feared the face of clay, and had too great a heart to suffer mere children to combat the strongest and most unhappy man in the whole country--stripped to the buff; and there he stands, with "An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;"