The spell that Oxford had already cast on Mark, the glamour of the firelight on the walls and raftered ceiling of this room haunted by centuries of youthful hope, did not persuade him how foolish it was to surrender all this.  On the contrary, this prospect of Oxford so beautiful in the firelight within, so fair in the moonlight without, impelled him to renounce it, and the very strength of his temptation to enjoy all this by winning the scholarship helped him to make up his mind to lose it.  But how?  The obvious course was to send in idiotic answers for the rest of his papers.  Yet examinations were so mysterious that when he thought he was being most idiotic he might actually be gaining his best marks.  Moreover, the examiners might ascribe his answers to ill health, to some sudden attack of nerves, especially if his papers to-day had been tolerably good.  Looking back at the Principal’s attitude after dinner that night, Mark could not help feeling that there had been something in his manner which had clearly shown a determination not to award the scholarship to poor Emmett if it could possibly be avoided.  The safest way would be to escape to-morrow morning, put up at some country inn for the next two days, and go back to Wych-on-the-Wold; but if he did that, the college authorities might write to Mr. Ogilvie to demand the reason for such extraordinary behaviour.  And how should he explain it?  If he really intended to deny himself, he must take care that nobody knew he was doing so.  It would give him an air of unbearable condescension, should it transpire that he had deliberately surrendered his scholarship to Emmett.  Moreover, poor Emmett would be so dreadfully mortified if he found out.  No, he must complete his papers, do them as badly as he possibly could, and leave the result to the wisdom of God.  If God wished Emmett to stammer forth His praises and stutter His precepts from the pulpit, God would know how to manage that seemingly so intractable Principal.  Or God might hear his prayers and cure poor Emmett of his impediment.  Mark wondered to what saint was entrusted the patronage of stammerers; but he could not remember.  The man in whose rooms he was lodging possessed very few books, and those few were mostly detective stories.

It amused Mark to make a fool of himself next morning in the general knowledge paper.  He flattered himself that no candidate for a scholarship at St. Osmund’s Hall had ever shown such black ignorance of the facts of every-day life.  Had he been dropped from Mars two days before, he could scarcely have shown less knowledge of the Earth.  Mark tried to convey an impression that he had been injudiciously crammed with Latin and Greek, and in the afternoon he produced a Latin prose that would have revolted the easy conscience of a fourth form boy.  Finally, on the third day, in an unseen passage set from the Georgics he translated tonsisque ferunt mantelia villis by having pulled down the villas (i. e. literally shaved) they carry off the mantelpieces which he followed up with translating Maeonii carchesia Bacchi as the lees of Maeonian wine (i.e. literally carcases of Maeonian Bacchus).