ion would be like, and to
secure his first class, Kennedy repressed altogether by one blow the
moral element of his being, and concentrated his whole intellect on the
paper before him. To read it through was the work of a minute; when it
was read through, it was too late to wish the act undone, and without
suffering himself to dwell, or even to recur in thought to the nature of
his proceedings, Kennedy deliberately read through the whole paper a
second time.

But this imperious effort of the will was not exercised without visible
effects. Absorbed as he was in seizing every prominent subject in the
questions, his forehead contracted, his hand shook, his knees trembled,
and his heart palpitated with violence. He observed nothing; he did not
notice the shadow that chequered the sunlight streaming from the door of
the inner room; he did not hear the light step which passed over the
carpet; he did not feel the breath of a man who stood behind him, looked
over his shoulder, watched his eager determination to secure the unfair
advantage, smiled at his agitation, and then slipped back again into the
inner room, unnoticed as before.

It was done. Not a question but was printed indelibly on Kennedy's
memory. Quickly, fearfully, he shut the book, and glided back to the
armchair, in the vain attempt to look and feel at ease.

At ease! No, now the tumult broke. Now Kennedy hated himself; called
himself mean, vile, contemptible, a reptile, a cheat. Now his insulted
honour began to vindicate its rights, and his trampled sense of truth to
spring up with a menacing bound, and his conscience to speak out calmly
and clearly the language of self-condemnation and contempt. Good
heavens! how could he have sunk so low; fancy if Julian had seen him, or
could know his meanness. Fancy if _anybody_ had seen him. Hazlet, or
Fitzurse, or Brogten himself, could hardly have been guilty of a more
dishonourable act.

You miserable souls, that do not know what honour is, or what torments
rend a truly noble heart, if ever it be led to commit an act which to
your seared consciences and muddy intelligence appears a trivial sin, or
even no sin at all; you, the mean men to whom an offence like this is so
common, that, unless it were discovered, it would not trouble your
recollections with a feather's weight of remorse,--for you, I scorn to
write, and I scorn from my inmost being the sneer with which you will
regard the agony that Kennedy suff