“Pooh!” said Pietrie; “we’re all getting such saints, that one can’t have the least bit of spree now-a-days.”

“Spree!” burst in Montagu indignantly; “fine spree, to make sots of yourselves with spirits; fine spree, to——­”

“Amen!” said Wildney, who was perched on the back of a chair; and he turned up his eyes and clasped his hands with a mock-heroic air.

“There, Williams,” continued Montagu, pointing to the mischievous-looking little boy; “see that spectacle, and be ashamed of yourself, if you can.  That’s what you lead boys to!  Are you anxious to become the teacher of drunkenness?”

In truth, there was good ground for his sorrowful apostrophe, for the scene was very painful to a high-minded witness.

They hardly understood the look on Eric’s countenance; he had been taking far more than was good for him; his eyes sparkled fiercely, and though as yet he said nothing, he seemed to be resenting the intrusion in furious silence.

“How much longer is this interesting lecture to last?” asked Bull, with his usual insufferable drawl; “for I want to finish my brandy.”

Montagu rather looked as if he intended to give the speaker a box on the ear; but he was just deciding that Bull wasn’t worth the trouble, when Wildney, who had been grimacing all the time, burst into a fit of laughter.

“Let’s turn out these impudent lower-school fellows,” said Montagu, speaking to Duncan.  “Here! you go first,” he said, seizing Wildney by the arm, and giving him a swing, which, as he was by no means steady on his legs, brought him sprawling to the ground.

“By Jove, I won’t stand this any longer,” shouted Eric, springing up ferociously.  “What on earth do you mean by daring to come in like this?  Do you hear?”

Montagu took no sort of notice of his threatening gesture, for he was looking to see if Wildney was hurt, and finding he was not, proceeded to drag him out, struggling and kicking frantically.

“Drop me, you fellow, drop me, I say.  I won’t go for you,” cried Wildney, shaking with passion.  “Eric, why do you let him bully me?”

“You let him go this minute,” repeated Eric, hoarsely.

“I shall do no such thing.  You don’t know what you’re about.”

“Don’t I?  Well, then, take that, to show whether I do or no!” and suddenly leaning forward, he struck Montagu a violent back-handed blow on the mouth.

Everybody saw it, everybody heard it; and it instantly astounded them into silence.  That Montagu should have been struck in public, and that by Eric—­by a boy who had loved him, and whom he had loved—­by a boy who had been his schoolfellow for three years now, and whose whole life seemed bound to him by so many associations; it was strange, and sad indeed.

Montagu sprang straight upright; for an instant he took one stride towards his striker with lifted hand and lightning eyes, while the blood started to his lips in consequence of the blow.  But he stopped suddenly and his hand fell to his side; by a strong effort of self-control he contrived to master himself, and sitting down quite quietly on a chair, he put his white handkerchief to his wounded mouth, and took it away stained with blood.