he ears of the awful _Dominus_
himself; but he only shook his powdered head in derision and disdain.

On that cold, foggy fifth of November, we all sat down to a dinner as
cold as the day, and with looks as dark as the atmosphere. Amidst the
clatter of knives and forks, the rumour already ran from table to table
that a horse and cart was just going to remove the enormous pile of
combustibles collected for the bonfire. We had good spirits amongst us.
There was an air of calm defiance on a great many. The reason was soon
explained, for, before we rose from our repast, huge volumes of red
flame rose from the field,--the pile had been fired in twenty places at
once, and, at this sight, a simultaneous and irrepressible shout shook
the walls of the school-room. The maid-servants who were attending the
table, shrieking, each in her peculiar musical note, hurried out in
confusion and fear; and there was a rush towards the door by the
scholars, and some few got downstairs. However, the masters soon closed
the door, and those who had escaped were brought back. The shutters of
the windows that looked out upon the fire, were closed; and thus, in the
middle of the day, we were reduced to a state almost of twilight.

Every moment expecting actual collision with their pupils, the masters
and ushers, about sixteen in number, congregated at the lower end of the
room near the door, for the double purpose of supporting each other, and
of making a timely escape. The half-suppressed hubbub among three
hundred boys, confined in partial darkness, grew stronger each moment;
it was like the rumbling beneath the earth, that precedes the
earthquake. No one spoke as yet louder than the other--the master-voice
had not yet risen. That dulled noise seemed like a far-off humming, and
had it not been so intense, and so very human, it might have been
compared to the wrath of a myriad of bees confined in the darkness of
their hives, with the queen lying dead amongst them.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

HARD WORDS THE PRECURSORS OF HARD BLOWS--A TURN-UP, TO BE APPREHENDED,
BUT NOT MERELY OF POLYSYLLABLES--RALPH COMMENCES RAVING--ROOT
RESISTING--THE LATTER GETS THE WHIP-HAND OF US.

Whilst this commotion was going on in the school-room, Mr Root was
active in the field, endeavouring, with the aid of the men-servants, to
pluck as much fuel from the burning pile as possible. The attempt was
nearly vain. He singed his clothes, and burnt his hands, lost