r forgets. The burning of Troy probably seemed a
large-sized conflagration to the pious Aeneas, and made an impression
on him which he carried away with the feeble Anchises.

In the centre of the room, lightly brandishing the piston-rod of a
steam-engine, stood Guy Heavystone alone. I say alone, for the pile of
small boys on the floor in the corner could hardly be called company.

I will try and sketch him for the reader. Guy Heavystone was then only
fifteen. His broad, deep chest, his sinewy and quivering flank, his
straight pastern, showed him to be a thoroughbred. Perhaps he was a
trifle heavy in the fetlock, but he held his head haughtily erect. His
eyes were glittering but pitiless. There was a sternness about the
lower part of his face,--the old Heavystone look,--a sternness,
heightened, perhaps, by the snaffle-bit which, in one of his strange
freaks, he wore in his mouth to curb his occasional ferocity. His
dress was well adapted to his square-set and herculean frame. A
striped knit undershirt, close-fitting striped tights, and a few
spangles set off his figure; a neat Glengarry cap adorned his head. On
it was displayed the Heavystone crest, a cock regardant on a dunghill
or, and the motto, "Devil a better!"

I thought of Horatius on the bridge, of Hector before the walls. I
always make it a point to think of something classical at such times.

He saw me, and his sternness partly relaxed. Something like a smile
struggled through his grim lineaments. It was like looking on the
Jungfrau after having seen Mont Blanc,--a trifle, only a trifle less
sublime and awful. Resting his hand lightly on the shoulder of the
head-master, who shuddered and collapsed under his touch, he strode
toward me.

His walk was peculiar. You could not call it a stride. It was like
the "crest-tossing Bellerophon,"--a kind of prancing gait. Guy
Heavystone pranced toward me.

CHAPTER II.

"Lord Lovel he stood at the garden gate,
A-combing his milk-white steed."

It was the winter of 186- when I next met Guy Heavystone. He had left
the University and had entered the 76th "Heavies." "I have exchanged
the gown for the sword, you see," he said, grasping my hand, and
fracturing the bones of my little finger, as he shook it.

I gazed at him with unmixed admiration. He was squarer, sterner, and
in every way smarter and more remarkable than ever. I began to feel
toward this man as Phalaster felt towards Phyrgino