The door opened; a glimmering yellow light fell upon the white faces; it called to mind ‘The Victims of Terrorism’ in Luxembourg.  Then all again became dark, and the black-robed emissary of the College flitted through the room like a bat, with the famous white document in his claws.

He began to read.

Never in my life had I been less inclined for leaping; and yet I started violently at the first words.  ‘The monkey!’ I had almost shouted; for he it was—­it was evidently the coffee-stain on page 496.  The paper bore precisely upon what I had read with so much energy the preceding night.

And I began to write.  After a short, but superior and assured preamble, I introduced the high-sounding words of Schweigaard, ’One might thus certainly assume,’ etc., and hurried down the left page, with unabated vigour down the right, reached the monkey, dashed past him, began to grope and fumble, and then I found I could not write a word more.

I felt that something was wanting, but I knew that it was useless to speculate; what a man can’t do, he can’t.  I therefore made a full stop, and went away long before any of the others were half finished.

He has dismounted, thought my fellow-sufferers, or he may have leaped wide of the hoop.  For it was a difficult paper.

* * * * *

‘Why,’ said the advocate, as he read, ’you are better than I thought.  This is pure Schweigaard.  You have left out the last point, but that doesn’t matter very much; one can see that you are well up in these things.  But why, then, were you so pitiably afraid of the process yesterday?’

‘I didn’t know a thing.’

He laughed.  ‘Was it last night, then, that you learned your process?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did anyone help you?’

‘Yes.’

’He must be a devil of a crammer who could put so much law into your head in one night.  May I ask what wizard it was?’

‘A monkey!’ I replied.

A TALE OF THE SEA.

Once there lay in a certain haven a large number of vessels.  They had lain there very long, not exactly on account of storm, but rather because of a dead calm; and at last they had lain there until they no longer heeded the weather.

All the captains had gradually become good friends; they visited from ship to ship, and called one another ‘Cousin.’

They were in no hurry to depart.  Now and then a youthful steersman might chance to let fall a word about a good wind and a smooth sea.  But such remarks were not tolerated; order had to be maintained on a ship.  Those, therefore, who could not hold their tongues were set ashore.

Matters could not, however, go on thus for ever.  Men are not so good as they ought to be, and all do not thrive under law and order.