had spoken up for him that morning. The bitterness of his words now told
him that, and the vindictiveness in his eyes spoke even plainer than
speech. Paul had been deceived, and he had been deceived. Why had he
demeaned himself by asking a fellow like Newall to shake hands with him?
He ought to have known better from past experience.

"You understand?" went on Newall in the same bitter tone. "Oh, yes, I
see you do. You struck me a blow. The marks of it are still here, you
see"--pointing to his lip, which was discoloured and cut. "I'm glad of
it. It kept me awake last night, thinking of you. And when I looked at
myself in the glass this morning, I thought of you again. It's nice to
have a memento of your friends, don't you think so?"

Stanley did not answer. What answer was possible to these mocking jibes?
Paul was silent, too. All power of speech seemed taken from him.

"Well, I mean having that blow back--the cowardly blow you gave me over
Percival's shoulder. I could give it to you now"--his fist was clenched
as though he would have dearly liked to make good his words--"but that
would only mean that one or the other would be sent to the den from
which I've just rescued you. That would be idiotic and make matters
worse."

"You mean to say that you don't wish to end the quarrel between us. You
wish to fight it out to the bitter end?" demanded Stanley, at last
finding voice.

"You've got it!" came the slow, firm answer--"to the bitter end!"

CHAPTER XI

FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FORM

Paul was grieved at the turn things had taken. Just at the moment when
he thought the quarrel ended it had burst out again in a deadlier form.
Stanley was very pale. His hands were clenched, as were the hands of
Newall, and the passion that distorted the one face was reflected in a
lesser degree in the other. Hate never was, and never will be, a
beautifier of the face. Like some subtle acid, it makes ugly lines. You
will never see those lines in a beautiful or noble face, boys and girls.
So, if you want to keep from getting ugly, never hate.

Stanley was not only angry at the jibes of Newall, but angry at being
led into a false position.

"I really had no wish to shake hands with you. I'm just as keen on
fighting it out as you are," he began.

"One minute," interrupted Paul, stepping between them. "Let me have a
word."

"You get out of it, and speak when you're spoken to!" cried Newall
roughly. "It was through you coming