Paul took up a pen as he sat and waited, and idly traced words upon the blotting-paper. But his thoughts were far away. He was thinking of the interview he had just had with Mr. Travers. He was still thinking of it when the door opened and Hibbert entered.

"Have you posted the letter?" Paul asked.

"Yes; the postman was just clearing the box when I slipped it in."

Paul would almost as soon that he had not succeeded in posting it—that he had brought the letter back with him. Perhaps it was best as it was, however.

"Thanks, Hibbert."

He did not notice that the boy was looking uncomfortable—as though he had something on his mind but dared not speak it.

"You have seen Mr. Travers?"

"Yes." Then noticing for the first time the nervous, apprehensive look in the boy's eyes, and thinking it was due to the fear that he had got into further trouble with the master, he added: "Nothing happened. He was quite nice with me."

"I'm glad of that."

By this time Hibbert was standing by Paul's side. Suddenly an exclamation came from his lips.

"Hallo! What's wrong?"

Paul, looking at the boy, saw that his eyes were fixed upon the blotting-paper.

"That—that! Do you know anybody of that name?" he asked, as he pointed to a name Paul had unconsciously traced on the blotting-paper—that of Zuker.

"Why? Do you?" Paul asked.

"Y-yes," answered the boy, with hesitation. "I—I once knew a boy of that name."

"Where?" asked Paul, at once interested.

"When I was at school in Germany; but there are a good many Zukers there, you know, and the boy I speak of is dead."

"Dead! Did you know his father?"

Hibbert shook his head. Paul tore up the blotting-paper. It was just possible that Mr. Weevil might catch sight of the name, just as Hibbert had done.

"You—you don't like the name?" the boy asked, as he watched Paul.

"Oh, it's as good as any other, I suppose."

"You must have known some one of that name—I'm certain of it," persisted the boy.

"Well, I don't mind telling you, Hibbert—you've been such a good little chap to me—it was through a man of that name my father lost his life."

"A man of the—of the name of Zuker?" stammered Hibbert.

"Yes."

"Tell me—do tell me—all about it?" pleaded the boy, clutching Paul suddenly by the arm.

"Oh, it's a sad tale, and it won't interest you."

"Indeed it will—very, very much. Anything that has to do with you interests me. Tell me."

Without intending to compliment Paul, the boy had paid him the most delicate compliment he could have done. Besides, Paul was now very much alone, and in his loneliness it was nice to have some one to speak to; so he told his eager listener the tragic circumstances that had cost his father his life. Hibbert scarcely spoke or moved all the time Paul was telling the story. He hung upon every word.

"How noble of your father to jump overboard and save the man—the man Zuker," said the lad, when Paul had finished. "There's not many who would have risked their life to save an enemy. I think you said Zuker was an enemy."

"Well, I don't know about an enemy. He seems to have been a wretched, contemptible spy; but what's wrong with you?" he suddenly exclaimed, as his eyes went to the boy's face. It was of an ashen pallor, and he was trembling in every limb.

"Nothing wrong, except—except that I can't help thinking what a lot you and your mother must have suffered after your father's death."

"I didn't suffer much, because I was too young to remember him. I was only a little more than a year old when it all happened. Still, I should so like to have known my father. They say he was very brave, and kind, and true, and one of the best captains in the Navy; and when sometimes I think of him, and what he might have been to me, I feel very bitter against the man for whom he gave his life. Then I battle against the feeling, and a better takes its place. I think to myself—What nobler death could a man die than in trying to save the life of one who had done him wrong."

"Yes, Percival," said the boy, looking away; "it was a noble death—very noble—and your father must have been a noble man. What was it the spy did?"

"Got into my father's cabin, and tried to get at his private despatches."

"And where were they taking this man—the spy—when he jumped overboard?"

"To Gibraltar, where he was to be tried by court-martial."

"And after they'd tried him by court-martial?"

"If the court-martial had found him guilty, they would have shot him."

"Shot him?"

"Yes, they showed no quarter at that time, I believe, to one who stole, or tried to steal, State secrets."

"Oh, how horrible!" cried the boy, covering his face with his hands.

"Don't you think that a man like that deserves to die, Hibbert? Remember, it isn't only one life he places in peril, but hundreds—thousands. He betrays a country."

"Yes, yes, I dare say you are right, Percival—I'm certain you are right; but none the less, it sounds very terrible. Is it the same now as it was then—that no quarter would be given to a spy, I mean?"

"I think so. But I'm sorry I told you the story," said Paul, looking at the boy apprehensively. His face was still deathly pale, while he trembled in every limb. "I didn't think it would cut you up so. Any one would think," he added, with a sad smile, "that it was your father's death I'd been talking about instead of mine."

"Yes, my father"—and the boy gave a little, stifled laugh. "I—I've been putting myself in your place, you see. How was it the spy got away?"

"He was tried by court-martial, but nothing could be proved against him, you see; for my father was the principal witness, and he was at the bottom of the sea."

"At the bottom of the sea," repeated the boy, as a tear stole slowly down his cheek. "And you don't know what became of the spy?"

"Oh, I suppose he returned to his own country after that," said Paul carelessly; for he did not want to tell Hibbert his suspicions that Zuker was still in England and not so far away. "But be off now, and have a good run in the open. You've had enough of my yarn, and will be dreaming about spies and drowning all night."

Hibbert brushed the tear from his eye. It seemed as though his heart were too full for speech; for he went out without a word.

"What a sensitive little chap he is!" thought Paul. "He was full to overflowing as I told him that story. I wonder what his people are like?"

He got up as he spoke and went out. A throng of boys were playing in the grounds. Too absorbed in their games, they took no notice of Paul, for which he was devoutly thankful. He walked out of the grounds, along the road leading to St. Bede's. Scarcely noticing the direction in which he was travelling, he was rudely awakened from his reverie by the shout of "A Gargoyle—a Gargoyle!" And before he could move a step farther he found himself surrounded by a dozen boys, who danced wildly round him, shouting the name of contempt again and again, as though they were a band of savages, and had suddenly discovered a victim for the sacrifice.

Paul saw at a glance that he had fallen into the hands of the enemy—in other words, into the hands of the rival school. There were senior boys and junior boys. Prominent amongst the latter he noticed Mellor, who was quite ecstatic with delight at having trapped a Gargoyle.

"Why, hanged if it isn't the fellow who turned tail and ran!" cried one of the seniors.

"Yes, Percival. Didn't you see that?" said Mellor.

"So it is," came in a chorus.

"The noble champion of the Gargoyles—ho, ho!" cried the senior.

"Ho, ho!" came in a chorus, and they commenced dancing round Paul, in a wilder, madder fashion than before. "Ho, ho, ho! The noble champion of the Gargoyles."

"'And he bared his big right arm,'" cried one, when this chorus had ceased.

"And cried aloud, 'Come on,'" shouted another.

shouted a third.

A scream of laughter greeted this sally, and then the dancing was resumed to the old chorus.

"Ho, ho! ho! The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"

Paul stood motionless as a statue and as white as one in the midst of the jeering, mocking throng. He made no answer to the jibes, but waited until they had exhausted themselves. It was some time before that happened. At length the cries grew feebler, the wild dancing slackened.

"Well, have you nearly finished?" Paul asked.

"Listen. The noble champion of the Gargoyles is speaking. He's got a tongue," exclaimed the senior who had first spoken.

"And legs as well," said a second.

"And doesn't he know how to use them!" added a third—an observation which drew out another shriek of laughter. From white Paul turned scarlet.

To keep silent under provocation, more especially provocation that is undeserved, is one of the hardest lessons that can be learned, boys and girls. Paul was only a boy, with a boy's impulses, passions, and feelings. But some time was to pass before he was to learn the great lesson of how to keep these passions under perfect control—and many things were to happen in the interval—but he had begun the task. Rough and bitter though the schooling was, in no better way could the lesson have been taught than in that school of adversity through which he was now passing.

"When you've quite finished," said Paul, as they once more came to a pause, "I would like to go on my way."

"Where? To the sand-pit?" came a voice.

"No; he'd rather keep away from that. He'll always give that a pretty wide berth," some one answered.

"Why not take him there? He doesn't know what a nice place it is for a picnic."

The suggestion was hailed with delight.

"The sand-pit—the sand-pit!" was the cry.

Immediately a rush was made for Paul. It was more than flesh and blood could stand. Paul had kept wonderfully calm and cool up to the moment; but directly they tried to put hands upon him he struck out right and left. With so much vigour did he strike that he might have made his way through the howling, struggling pack, but just at the moment he had got himself free, Mellor, who was one of those who had been knocked to the ground, caught him by the legs and brought him with a crash to the ground.

"On him—on him!" was the cry.

"Back—back! Cowards all!"

At the instant they were about to seize Paul a figure dashed into their midst, scattering the struggling pack to right and left.