But Eric heard the words, and knew that it was his brother’s voice.  The thought rushed on him how degraded his whole position was, and how different it might have been.  He felt that he was utterly in the wrong, and Montagu altogether in the right; and from that moment his blows once more grew feeble and ill-directed.  When they again stopped to take rest, the general shout for Montagu showed that he was considered to have the best of it.

“I’m getting so tired of this,” muttered Eric, during the pause.

“Why, you’re fighting like a regular muff,” said Graham; “you’ll have to acknowledge yourself thrashed in a minute.”

“That I’ll never do,” he said, once more firing up.

Just as the third round began, Duncan came striding in, for Owen, who had left the room, told him what was going on.  He had always been a leading fellow, and quite recently his influence had several times been exerted in the right direction, and he was very much looked up to by all the boys alike, good or bad.  He determined, for the credit of the sixth, that the fight should not go on, and bursting into the ring, with his strong shoulders he hurled on each side the boys who stood in his way, and struck down the lifted arms of the fighters.

“You shan’t fight,” he said, doggedly, thrusting himself between them; “so there’s an end of it.  If you do, you’ll both have to fight me first.”

“Shame!” said several of the boys, and the cry was caught up by Bull and others.

“Shame, is it?” said Duncan, and his lip curled with scorn.  “There’s only one way to argue with, you fellows.  Bull, if you, or any other boy, repeat that word, I’ll thrash him.  Here, Monty, come away from this disgraceful scene.”

“I’m sick enough of it,” said Montagu, “and am ready to stop if Williams is,—­provided no one touches Wright.”

“I’m sick of it too,” said Eric sullenly.

“Then you two shall shake hands,” said Duncan.

For one instant—­an instant which he regretted till the end of his life—­Montagu drew himself up and hesitated.  He had been deeply wronged, deeply provoked, and no one could blame him for the momentary feeling:  but Eric had observed the gesture, and his passionate pride took the alarm.  “It’s come to this, then,” he thought; “Montagu doesn’t think me good enough to be shaken hands with.”

“Pish!” he said aloud, in a tone of sarcasm; “it may be an awful honor to shake hands with such an immaculate person as Montagu, but I’m not proud on the subject;” and he turned away.

Montagu’s hesitation was but momentary, and without a particle of anger or indignation he sorrowfully held out his hand.  It was too late; that moment had done the mischief, and it was now Eric’s turn coldly to withdraw.

“You don’t think me worthy of your friendship, and what’s the good of grasping hands if we don’t do it with cordial hearts?”