any associations; it was strange, and
sad indeed.

Montagu sprang straight upright; for an instant he took one stride
towards his striker with lifted hand and lightning eyes, while the blood
started to his lips in consequence of the blow. But he stopped suddenly
and his hand fell to his side; by a strong effort of self-control he
contrived to master himself, and sitting down quite quietly on a chair,
he put his white handkerchief to his wounded mouth, and took it away
stained with blood.

No one spoke; and rising with quiet dignity, he went back into his study
without a word.

"Very well," said Duncan; "you may all do as you like; only I heartily
hope now you will be caught. Come, Owen."

"Oh, Williams," said Owen, "you are changed indeed, to treat your best
friend so."

But Eric was excited with drink, and the slave of every evil passion at
that moment. "Serve him right," he said; "what business has he to
interfere with what I choose to do?"

There was no more noise that night. Wildney and the rest slunk off
ashamed and frightened, and Eric, leaving his candle flaring on the
table, went down to his bed-room, where he was very sick. He had neither
strength nor spirit to undress, and flung himself into bed just as was.
When they heard that he was gone, Owen and Duncan (for Montagu was
silent and melancholy) went into his study, put out the candle, and had
only just cleared away, to the best of their power, the traces of the
carouse, when Dr. Rowlands came up stairs on his usual nightly rounds.
They had been lighting brown paper to take away the fames of the brandy,
and the Doctor asked them casually the cause of the smell of burning.
Neither of them answered, and seeing Owen there, in whom he placed
implicit trust, the Doctor thought no more about it.

Eric awoke with a bad headache, and a sense of shame and sickness. When
he got up he felt most wretched, and while washing he thought to
himself, "Ah! that I could thus wash away the memory of last night!" Of
course, after what had occurred, Eric and Montagu were no longer on
speaking terms, and miserable as poor Eric felt when he saw how his blow
had bruised and disfigured his friend's face, he made no advances. He
longed, indeed, from his inmost heart, to be reconciled to him; but
feeling that he had done grievous wrong, he dreaded a repulse, and his
pride would not suffer him to run the risk. So he pretended to feel no
regret, and, supported by his late boon-co