judgment as
themselves.

To-day, however, the whole gathering was hungering and thirsting for the
declaration of the Count's prize, because there never had been such a
competition in Muirtown before, and the Count was one of our characters.
When he came forward, wonderfully dressed, with a rose in his buttonhole
and waving a scented handkerchief, and bowed to everybody in turn, from
the Provost to Mr. McGuffie, his reception was monumental and was
crowned by the stentorian approbation of Speug's father. Having thanked
the company for their reception, with his hand upon his heart, and
having assured the charming mothers of his young friends of his (the
Count's) most respectful devotion, and declared himself the slave of
their sisters, and having expressed his profound reverence for the
magistrates (at which several bailies tried to look as if they were only
men, but failed), the Count approached the great moment of the day.

The papers, he explained upon his honour, were all remarkable, and it
had been impossible for him to sleep, because he could not tear himself
away from the charming reflections of his young friends. (As the boys
recognised this to be only a just compliment to their thoughtful
disposition and literary genius, Bulldog had at last to arise and quell
the storm.) There was one paper, however, which the Count compared to
Mont Blanc, because it rose above all the others. It was "ravishing,"
the Count asserted, "superb"; it was, he added, the work of "genius."
The river, the woods, the flowers, the hills, the beautiful young women,
it was all one poem. And as the whole hall waited, refusing to breathe,
the Count enjoyed a great moment. "The writer of this distinguished
poem--for it is not prose, it is poetry--I will read his motto." Then
the Count read, "Faint Heart never Won Fair Lady," and turning to the
Provost, "I do myself the honour of asking your Excellency to open this
envelope and to read the name to this distinguished audience." Before
the Provost could get the piece of paper out of the envelope, Speug, who
was in the secret of the motto, jumped up on his seat and, turning with
his face to the audience, shouted at the pitch of his voice through the
stillness of the hall, "Nestie Molyneux." And above the great shout that
went up from the throat of the Seminary could be heard, full and clear,
the view-hallo of Mr. McGuffie senior, who had guessed the winner
without ever seeing the paper.

M