Though the boys of St. Bede's and those of Garside regarded themselves as adversaries, to their credit be it said no outbreak of temper had resulted from their meeting at the sand-pit. There had been some amount of good-humoured chaff bandied to and fro across the pit, but nothing more. All were eager for the coming struggle.

A cheer went up from the Garsides directly they caught sight of Paul. The Bedes eyed him critically.

"Looks grim enough—as though he meant business," said one, as Paul advanced to the pit.

The cheer of his comrades put fresh life into Paul. His blood, which had seemed stagnant, began to race through his veins.

"For the honour of the Form," he said to himself, between his clenched teeth, "I must—I will win!"

As though his comrades wished to give him all the encouragement in their power, another cheer went up as he entered the pit, and took up his position on the floor of hard-pressed sand below.

"Where's the other fellow?" he asked.

"Doesn't seem to have turned up yet," said Arbery; "but I don't think it's quite time. How goes it, Levy?"

Leveson had a stop-watch and was very proud of it. He usually acted as timekeeper at the school sports, when the stop-watch was very much to the fore. He prided himself on one thing—always knowing the right time. His was the only watch that kept the right time at Garside—so, at least, Leveson said. To ask Leveson the "correct time" was one of the greatest compliments you could pay him. It was a tacit acknowledgment that the time kept by Leveson's stop-watch was superior to any other.

"Three minutes eighteen seconds to three," answered Leveson, after examining the watch.

"Oh, we'll make you a present of the seconds," said Arbery. Then he shouted across to the Bedes: "I say, Beetles, is that champion of yours coming on an ambulance?"

"No; that's coming after," cried a bright-eyed lad named Sterry, from the other side, "to take your champion home!"

A loud laugh from the Bedes greeted this retort.

"He scored over you there, Arbery," said indolent Waterman.

Scarcely had the laughter died away than it was followed by a loud cheer.

"Their man's coming at last. What's the time, Levy?"

"One minute thirty secs. to the hour. He's cut it rather fine—must be a cool sort of bounder," answered Leveson. "Hallo, look there! Hang me if there isn't Master Plunger and a lot of the howlers from his form."

Arbery looked in the direction indicated. Plunger and his companions were lying at full length on the banks of the pit, peering over its sides and taking the deepest possible interest in the proceedings below.

"So it is. How did the little beggar get to know what was going on, I wonder?"

"Said he was going eel-fishing. Thought it was a blind," said Devey. "Hallo, they're peeling!"

Paul had taken off his coat, and rolled back his sleeves. The champion of the other Form could not at first be seen because of the throng which had gathered round him, but presently he came from the group that surrounded him with his coat off, and his arms bared, just as Paul stepped into the ring.

Their eyes met. Paul staggered back, as though he had been struck. The youth who stood before him was Gilbert Wyndham, he who had helped him on the night he was fleeing from Zuker. Fight him? Impossible! Not though his life depended on it!

The excited murmur of voices that followed the two into the ring ceased. A strange silence rested on the place, as the two boys confronted each other. Then as the two schools were waiting eagerly for the first blow to be struck, they saw Paul's hands fall helpless to his side; saw the colour go from his face; saw the white lips move. What did it mean? They stared in wonder, and the wonder grew as Paul turned away and took his coat from Moncrief.

"I cannot fight," he murmured.

With his coat on his arm he hastened from the pit. Then the silence was broken by the Bedes. They howled, and jeered and hooted. And above the hooting and the jeers there rose the cry:

"The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"

Heedless of the shouting and the jeers, Paul walked swiftly away, as one seized with sudden fear. His own Form still remained silent. They might have been struck dumb. It was all so strange—so unexpected.

Then they in turn shouted and jeered after the retreating figure.

Paul heard the shouts. Those from the Bedes made him shiver. These from his own Form cut into him like whips.

"They do not understand! How—how can I tell them?" he murmured as he pressed on, anxious to get away from the place as quickly as possible. He did not pause till he came in sight of the old flag waving above the school. Had he disgraced that flag—the legacy of a brave soldier? Had he dishonoured it? God would be his judge.

He passed three or four boys as he entered the grounds. They knew nothing of what had happened at the sand-pit. One boy spoke to him, but Paul took no heed of him. He had not heard him. He was as though deaf and blind to all around him. He did not pause till he reached one of the class-rooms; then his head fell on his arms.

The shouts and jeers followed him, and broke harshly in upon the stillness of the room. With startling distinctness he could hear them, and the cry went ringing through his brain:

"The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"

Then resting there, with his head bowed on his arms, he searched his conscience, and asked himself the question—"Have I done right?" Had he acted as his father would have wished him to act had he been living? Had he done right in the sight of God? Yes, he felt confident he had done right in refusing to fight Wyndham, though he could not explain to his class-mates why he had so acted. That night ride was known only to Stanley and him. It was impossible for him to divulge the secret to his Form. He must suffer their taunts in silence, trusting that the time would soon come when he might speak.

"There's one good thing, old Stan will understand me. I can make it clear enough to him. He ought to be here by this time. Why doesn't he come?" he asked himself.

He tried to shake off the gloom that oppressed him, but could not. His head went to the desk again, and again he heard the yells and hooting of the boys at the pit; but the cries seemed fainter.

"Why doesn't Stan come—why doesn't Stan come?" he kept asking himself.

He rested thus for some time—how long he knew not—when he was roused by a timid hand resting on his arm, while a gentle voice whispered: "Percival."

He looked up quickly. Hibbert was standing beside him, his face, usually so pale, was slightly flushed, as the brown eyes turned to Paul.

"I haven't disturbed you, have I?" he asked.

"What do you want with me, Hibbert?" Paul asked rather sharply; for he did not like the lad breaking in upon him so quietly.

"You looked so wretched and miserable I could not help coming in. You're not angry with me, are you?"

"Angry with you? No; why should I be?" answered Paul, forcing a smile to his face at the boy's eager question.

"Oh, I'm so used to people being angry with me, except you and—and Mr. Weevil."

"Mr. Weevil! Doesn't he ever get angry with you?"

"No; he's very good to me."

Paul was rather astonished at this piece of information, knowing that Weevil had a reputation for harshness.

"Glad to hear it. He makes it up on the other fellows." Paul's mind flitted back to the night when Stanley was sent to Dormitory X. "But why aren't you outside, enjoying yourself with your class-mates?"

"They never want me to play with them. I'm no good at their games," answered the boy sadly; "but I've been with some of them this afternoon. I was at the—sand-pit."

He volunteered the information with some hesitation. Paul flushed. What had happened would soon be known, then, to every boy in the school.

"We found out what was going to happen in our Form; and so I went with the rest to see you—to see you——"

Again the boy hesitated.

"To see me turn tail and run. Out with it. Don't be afraid of hurting my feelings," cried Paul bitterly. "The other fellows won't. You'll hear what they'll be calling me presently—quite a choice collection of names—cur, pariah, coward, and the rest of it."

"No, not coward. I know you couldn't be," said the boy confidently. "Any one can see that by looking in your face. I know you had some reason for going away. It's that made you so wretched. I knew you would be, and so—and so after waiting a little time to see what would happen, I followed after you."

Paul was touched at Hibbert's devotion. In that one moment the boy had repaid a hundredfold the little act of kindness he had shown him when he first entered the school. He had come to Paul in his loneliness, and had brought a ray of sunshine into the gloom that had suddenly sprung up around him.

"Do you know, Hibbert, you're a very good little chap to speak of me as you do, and to think of me as you do? I'm a long way off deserving it, I can tell you. You waited after I left the sand-pit, you say, to see what would happen? What did happen? They kept up the groans for me till they were tired, I suppose?"

"Don't speak of it," said the boy, shivering.

"You needn't be afraid of giving me pain, I tell you. I'm getting pretty tough. After they'd done hooting me——"

"While they were still hooting you, Moncrief threw off his jacket, and leapt into your place."

"What!" cried Paul, starting to his feet, and staring at the boy. "Leapt into my place?"

"Yes, stood up to the Beetle—the fellow they call Wyndham; then the hooting stopped, and our fellows cheered madly, specially when Newall came forward and backed up Moncrief major."

"Newall! backed up Moncrief!" repeated Paul, bewildered. "Do you mean to say Moncrief fought with Wyndham?"

"Yes, wildly—madly."

Paul closed his eyes, shuddering. He could see the two confronting each other, and staggering about in the sand-pit. For some moments he could not speak, and when his hands came from his face, it was as white as the boy's before him.

"And who—who came off best, Hibbert?"

"I don't know. I—I could not stop. To see them fighting so made me—made me feel bad all over. I'm not like other boys. And—and all the time I was thinking of you; so I hastened here, and—and found you."

"They were still fighting as you left?"

"Yes, yes; but where are you going?"

Paul had seized his cap and turned to the door.

"To see what has happened."

"It will be all over by now; don't go," pleaded the boy.

But Paul was deaf to Hibbert's pleading.

"What have I done—what have I done?" he asked himself as he rushed into the grounds. "Fool—fool, not to have guessed what would happen!"

Somehow we do rarely guess what will happen. Things which seem so clear to us after they have happened are quite hidden from our sight beforehand. The best of us grope about in the dark, and stumble blindly along as Paul Percival had done.

Paul rushed on—back—back to the sand-pit. Suddenly he came to a dead stop. The hum of many voices reached his ears. A crowd of boys were coming towards him.