And above the
hooting and the jeers there rose the cry:

"The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"

Heedless of the shouting and the jeers, Paul walked swiftly away, as one
seized with sudden fear. His own Form still remained silent. They might
have been struck dumb. It was all so strange--so unexpected.

Then they in turn shouted and jeered after the retreating figure.

Paul heard the shouts. Those from the Bedes made him shiver. These from
his own Form cut into him like whips.

"They do not understand! How--how can I tell them?" he murmured as he
pressed on, anxious to get away from the place as quickly as possible.
He did not pause till he came in sight of the old flag waving above the
school. Had he disgraced that flag--the legacy of a brave soldier? Had
he dishonoured it? God would be his judge.

He passed three or four boys as he entered the grounds. They knew
nothing of what had happened at the sand-pit. One boy spoke to him, but
Paul took no heed of him. He had not heard him. He was as though deaf
and blind to all around him. He did not pause till he reached one of the
class-rooms; then his head fell on his arms.

The shouts and jeers followed him, and broke harshly in upon the
stillness of the room. With startling distinctness he could hear them,
and the cry went ringing through his brain:

"The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"

Then resting there, with his head bowed on his arms, he searched his
conscience, and asked himself the question--"Have I done right?" Had he
acted as his father would have wished him to act had he been living? Had
he done right in the sight of God? Yes, he felt confident he had done
right in refusing to fight Wyndham, though he could not explain to his
class-mates why he had so acted. That night ride was known only to
Stanley and him. It was impossible for him to divulge the secret to his
Form. He must suffer their taunts in silence, trusting that the time
would soon come when he might speak.

"There's one good thing, old Stan will understand me. I can make it
clear enough to him. He ought to be here by this time. Why doesn't he
come?" he asked himself.

He tried to shake off the gloom that oppressed him, but could not. His
head went to the desk again, and again he heard the yells and hooting of
the boys at the pit; but the cries seemed fainter.

"Why doesn't Stan come--why doesn't Stan come?" he kept asking himself.

He rested thus for some time--how long he knew not--when