over," but--no--"Try for Cambridge."

A deafening shout from behind the ropes, then a breathless pause whilst
Lawrence stepped back to take the kick, then a shattering roar as the
ball sailed between the posts.

Ten points all and three minutes left to play.

They were back to the centre, the Dublin men had kicked, Tester had
gathered and returned to touch. There was a line-out, a Cambridge man
had the ball and fell, Cambridge dribbled past the ball to the half, the
ball was in Cardillac's hands.

Let this be ever to Cardillac's honour! Fame of a lifetime might have
been his, the way was almost clear before him--he passed back to Olva.
The moment had come. The crowd fell first into a breathless silence,
then screamed with excitement--

"Dune's got it. He's off!"

He had a crowd of men upon him. Handing off, bending, doubling, almost
down, slipping and then up again--he was through them.

The great clouds were gathering the grey sky into their white arms. Mr.
Gregg, at the back of the stand, forgetting for once decorum, white and
trembling, was hoarse with shouting.

Olva's body seemed so tiny on that vast field--two Dublin three-quarters
came for him. He appeared to run straight into the arms of both of them
and then was through them. They started after him--one man was running
across field to catch him. It was a race. Now there fell silence as the
three men tore after the flying figure. Surely never, in the annals of
Rugby football, had any one run as Olva ran then. Only now the Dublin
back, and he, missing the apparent swerve to the right, clutched
desperately at Olva's back, caught the buckle of his "shorts" and stood
with the thing torn off in his hand.

He turned to pursue, but it was too late. Olva had touched down behind
the posts.

As he started back with the ball the wide world seemed to be crying and
shouting, waving and screaming.

Against the dull grey sky far away an ancient cabman, standing on the
top of his hansom, flourished his whip.

But as he stood there the shouting died--the crowds faded--alone there
on the brown field with the white high clouds above him, Olva was
conscious, only, of the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder.

CHAPTER XV

PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY

1

He had a bath, changed his clothes, and sitting before his fire waited.

As he looked around his room he knew that he was leaving it for ever.
What ever might be the issue of his conversation with Rupert, he kne