'You will go to your room, de Ward,' said the classical master, bending over Smithson, who having been 'knocked silly' still remained in that condition, 'and the headmaster will consider your case to-morrow. You will probably be expelled.' Quentin went to his room and thought over his position. It seemed to be desperate. How was he to know that the classical master was even then saying to the Head: 'He's got something in him, prig or no prig, sir.' 'You were quite right to send him to his room,' said the Head, 'discipline must be maintained, as Mr. Ducket says. But it will do Smithson major a world of good. A boy who reads Shakespeare for fun, and has views about Atlantis, and can knock out a bully as well.... He'll be a power in the school. But we mustn't let him know it.' That was rather a pity. Because Quentin, furious at the injustice of the whole thing--Smithson, the aggressor, consoled with; himself punished; expulsion threatened--was maturing plans. 'If mother had known what it was like,' he said to himself, 'she would never have left me here. I've got the two pounds she gave me. I shall go to the White Hart at Salisbury ... no, they'd find me then. I'll go to Lyndhurst; and write to her. It's better to run away than to be expelled. Quentin Durward would never have waited to be expelled from anywhere.' Of course Quentin Durward was my hero's hero. It could not be otherwise since his own name was so like that of the Scottish guardsman. Now the school in Salisbury was a little school for little boys--boys who were used to schools and took the rough with the smooth. But Quentin was not used to schools, and he had taken the rough very much to heart. So much that he did not mean to take any more of it. His dinner was brought up on a tray--bread and water. He put the bread in his pocket. Then when he knew that every one was at dinner in the long dining-room at the back of the house, he just walked very quietly down the stairs, opened the side door and marched out, down the garden path and out at the tradesmen's gate. He knew better than to shut either gate or door. He went quickly down the street, turned the first corner he came to so as to get out of sight of the school. He turned another corner, went through an archway, and found himself in an inn-yard--very quiet indeed. Only a liver-coloured lurcher dog wagged a sleepy tail on the hot flag-stones. Quentin was just turning to go back through the arch, for there was no other way out of the yard, when he saw a big covered cart, whose horse wore a nose-bag and looked as if there was no hurry. The cart bore the name, 'Miles, Carrier, Lyndhurst.' Quentin knew all about lifts. He had often begged them and got them. Now there was no one to ask. But he felt he could very well explain later that he had wanted a lift, much better than now, in fact, when he might be caught at any moment by some one from the school.