their presence as soon
as authority should arrive upon the scene.

"What does the Dean matter?" cried others, flinging more faggots on to
the fire until it crackled and spat and bellowed more fiercely than
ever, lighting up with its wavy radiance the great elms beyond the
Warden's garden and the Palladian fragment of New quad whence the dons
like Georgian squires pondered their prosperity.

Presently against the silvery space framed by the gateway of St.
Cuthbert's tower appeared the silhouette of the Dean, lank and tall with
college cap tip-tilted down on to his nose and round his neck a gown
wrapped like a shawl. Nearer he came, and involuntarily the freshmen so
lately schoolboys took on in their attitude a certain anxiety. Somehow
the group round the bonfire had become much smaller. Somehow more
windows looking upon the quad were populated with flickering watchful
faces.

"Great Scott! What can Ambrose do?" demanded Lonsdale despairingly, but
when at last the Dean reached the zone of the fire, there only remained
about eight freshmen to ascertain his views and test his power. The Dean
stood for a minute or two, silently warming his hands. In a ring the
presumed leaders eyed him, talking to each other the while with slightly
exaggerated carelessness.

"Well, Mr. Fane?" asked the Dean.

"Well, sir," Michael replied.

"Damned good," whispered Lonsdale ecstatically in Michael's ear. "You
couldn't have said anything better. That's damned good."

Michael under the enthusiastic congratulations of Lonsdale began to feel
he had indeed said something very good, but he hoped he would soon have
an opportunity to say something even better.

"Enjoying yourself, Mr. Lonsdale?" inquired the Dean.

"Yes, sir. Are you?" answered Lonsdale.

"Splendid," murmured Michael.

A silence followed this exchange of courtesies. The bonfire was
beginning to die down, but nobody ventured under the Dean's eye to put
on more faggots. Under-porters were seen drawing near with pails of
water, and though a cushion aimed from a window upset one pail, very
soon the bonfire was a miserable mess of smoking ashes and the moon
resumed her glory. From an upper window some second-year men chanted in
a ridiculous monotone:

"The Dean--he was the Dean--he was the Dean--he was the Dean! The
Dean--he was the Dean he was--the Dean he was--the Dean!!"

Mr. Ambrose did not bother to look up in the direction of the glee, but
took another glance at Mi