r the school had
spoken of nothing else for a day, Dunc Robertson asked the Count boldly
whether such things were true.

"_Mon ami_," said the Count, who had tasted Nestie's romance with much
relish, "you will pardon me, but it is a _banalite_, that is what you
call a stupidity, to ask whether so good a _jeu d'esprit_ is true. True?
Truth is a dull quality, it belongs to facts; but Nestie, he does not
live among facts, he flies in the air, in the atmosphere of poetry. He
is a _raconteur_. A tournament with knights on the North Meadow--good!
Our little Nestie, he has been reading _Ivanhoe_ and he is a
troubadour." And the Count took off his hat in homage to Nestie's
remarkable powers as an author of fiction.

"But yes, it will be a tournament; but not for the body, for the mind.
My dogs are jolly dogs; they can run, they can leap, they can swim, they
can kick the ball; now they must think, ah! so deep. They must write
their very best words, they must show that they have beautiful minds;
and they will do so, I swear they will, in the tournament, which will
not be on the meadow--no; too many cows there, and too many washers of
clothes--but in seclusion, in the class-room of that brave man called
the Bulldog. It will be a battle," concluded the Count with enthusiasm,
"of heads: and the best head, that head will have the prize, _voila_."

"Silence!" and Bulldog brought his cane down upon his desk that
Wednesday afternoon when the whole upper school was gathered in his
class-room, bursting with curiosity. "The Count has a proposeetion to
lay before you which he will explain in his own words and which has the
sanction of the Rector. Ye will be pleased to give the Count a
respectful hearing, as he deserves at yir hands." And Bulldog was there
to see that the Count's deserts and his treatment strictly corresponded.

"Monsieur," and the Count bowed to Bulldog, "and you," and now he bowed
to the boys, "all my friends of the Seminary, I have the honour to ask a
favour which your politeness will not allow you to refuse. Next Saturday
I will dare to hold a reception in this place, with the permission of
the good Bull---- I do forget myself--I mean the distinguished master.
And when you come, I promise you that I will not offer you coffee--pouf!
it is not for the brave boys I see before me, _non_," and the Count
became very roguish. "I will put a leetle, very leetle sentence on
the----" ("Blackboard," suggested Bulldog). "_Merci_,