And as he spoke, a loud and continued clapping of hands proceeding from within was distinctly heard above the roar of the students.

“That may be at his defeat,” muttered the Spaniard, between his teeth.

“No such thing,” replied the Scot.  “I heard the name of Crichton mingled with the plaudits.”

“And who may be this Phoenix—­this Gargantua of intellect—­who is to vanquish us all, as Panurge did Thaumast, the Englishman?” asked the Sorbonist of the Scot.  “Who is he that is more philosophic than Pythagoras?—­ha!”

“Who is more studious than Carneades!” said the Bernardin.

“More versatile than Alcibiades!” said Montaigu.

“More subtle than Averroes!” cried Harcourt.

“More mystical than Plotinus!” said one of the Four Nations.

“More visionary than Artemidorus!” said Cluny.

“More infallible than the Pope!” added Lemoine.

“And who pretends to dispute de omni scibili,” shouted the Spaniard.

“Et quolibet ente!! added the Sorbonist.

“Mine ears are stunned with your vociferations,” replied the Scot.  “You ask me who James Crichton is, and yourselves give the response.  You have mockingly said he is a rara avis; a prodigy of wit and learning:  and you have unintentionally spoken the truth.  He is so.  But I will tell you that of him of which you are wholly ignorant, or which you have designedly overlooked.  His condition is that of a Scottish gentleman of high rank.  Like your Spanish grandee, he need not doff his cap to kings.  On either side hath he the best of blood in his veins.  His mother was a Stuart directly descended from that regal line.  His father, who owneth the fair domains of Eliock and Cluny, was Lord Advocate to our bonny and luckless Mary (whom Heaven assoilzie!) and still holds his high office.  Methinks the Lairds of Crichton might have been heard of here.  Howbeit, they are well known to me, who being an Ogilvy of Balfour, have often heard tell of a certain contract or obligation, whereby—­”

“Basta!” interrupted the Spaniard, “heed not thine own affairs, worthy Scot.  Tell us of this Crichton—­ha!”

“I have told you already more than I ought to have told,” replied Ogilvy, sullenly.  “And if you lack further information respecting James Crichton’s favor at the Louvre, his feats of arms, and the esteem in which he is held by all the dames of honor in attendance upon your Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medicis—­and moreover,” he added, with somewhat of sarcasm, “with her fair daughter, Marguerite de Valois—­you will do well to address yourself to the king’s buffoon, Maitre Chicot, whom I see not far off.  Few there are, methinks, who could in such short space have won so much favor, or acquired such bright renown.”

“Humph!” muttered the Englishman, “your Scotsmen stick by each other all the world over.  This James Crichton may or may not be the hero he is vaunted, but I shall mistrust his praises from that quarter, till I find their truth confirmed.”