I wish you could have witnessed the change in Gerald Yorke’s countenance! A streak of scarlet crossed its pallor, his eyes blazed forth defiance, and a tremor, as of fear, momentarily shook him. To the surprise of the boys, who had no notion what might have been the purport of Charley’s whisper, he seized the boy by the arm, and fiercely dragged him away up the cloisters, turning the corner into the west quadrangle. “Get down!” he hissed; “get down upon your knees, and swear that you’ll never breathe a syllable of that calumny again! Do you hear me, boy?” “No, I will not get down,” said brave Charley. Gerald drew in his lips. “You have heard of a wild tiger, my boy? One escaped from a caravan the other day, and killed a few people. I am worse than a wild tiger now, and you had better not provoke me. Swear it, or I’ll kill you!” “I will not swear,” repeated the child. “I’ll try and keep the promise I gave you, not to betray about the surplice--I will indeed; but don’t you say again, please, that Arthur is guilty.” To talk of killing somebody, and to set about doing it, are two things. Gerald Yorke’s “killing” would have amounted to no more than a good thrashing. He held the victim at arm’s length, his eyes dilating, his right hand raised, when a head was suddenly propelled close upon them from the graveyard. Gerald was so startled as to drop his hold of Charley. The head belonged to Stephen Bywater, who must have crept across the burial-ground and chosen that spot to emerge from, attracted probably by the noise. “What’s the row?” asked he. “I was about to give Miss Channing a taste of tan,” replied Gerald, who appeared to suddenly cool down from his passion. “He’d have got it sweetly, had you not come up. I’ll tan you too, Mr. Bywater, if you come thrusting in yourself, like that, where you are not expected, and not wanted.” “Tan away,” coolly responded Bywater. “I can tan again. What had the young one been up to?” “Impudence,” shortly answered Yorke. “Mark you, Miss Channing! I have not done with you, though it is my pleasure to let you off for the present. Halloa! What’s that?” It was a tremendous sound of yelling, as if some one amidst the throng of boys was being “tanned” there. Gerald and Charley flew off towards it, followed by Bywater, who propelled himself upwards through the mullioned frame in the best way he could. The sufferer proved to be Tod Yorke, who was writhing under the sharp correction of some tall fellow, six feet high. To the surprise of Gerald, he recognized his brother Roland.