at his window,
his golden hair more halolike than ever in the bright sun.

"What are you doing, you idiots?"

"Stop that noise, Radowitz!" shouted Falloden. "It annoys us!"

"Can't help it. It pleases me," said Radowitz shortly, proceeding to
close the window. But he had scarcely done so, when Falloden launched
another bottle, which went smash through the window and broke it. The
glass fell out into the quadrangle, raising all the echoes. The rioters
below held their laughing breaths.

"I say, what about the dons?" said one.

"Keep a lookout!" said another.

But meanwhile Radowitz had thrown up the injured window, and crimson
with rage he leaned far out and flung half a broken bottle at the group
below. All heads ducked, but the ragged missile only just missed
Meyrick's curly poll.

"Not pretty that!--not pretty at all!" said Falloden coolly. "Might
really have done some mischief. We'll avenge you, Meyrick. Follow me,
you fellows!"

And in one solid phalanx, they charged, six or seven strong, up
Radowitz's staircase. But he was ready for them. The oak was sported,
and they could hear him dragging some heavy chairs against it.
Meanwhile, from the watchers left in the quad, came a loud cough.

"Dons!--by Jove! Scatter!" And they rushed further up the staircase,
taking refuge in the rooms of two of the "raggers." The lookout in the
quadrangle turned to walk quietly towards the porter's lodge. The Senior
Tutor--a spare tall man with a Jove-like brow--emerged from the library,
and stood on the steps surveying the broken glass.

"All run to cover, of course!" was his reflection, half scornful, half
disgusted. "But I am certain I heard Falloden's voice. What a puppy
stage it is! They would be much better employed worrying old boots!"

But philosopher or no, he got no clue. The quadrangle was absolutely
quiet and deserted, save for the cheeping of the swallows flitting
across it, and the whistling of a lad in the porter's lodge. The Senior
Tutor returned to the library, where he was unpacking a box of
new books.

The rioters emerged at discreet intervals, and rejoined each other in
the broad street outside the college.

"Vengeance is still due!"--said Falloden, towering among them, always
with the faithful and grinning Meyrick at his side--"and we will repay.
But now, to our tents! Ta, ta!" And dismissing them all, including
Meyrick, he walked off alone in the direction of Holywell. He was going
to look out a