“A Saint Werner’s man, I hope.”
“Yes.”
“Well, who is it?”
What was the answer—Owen or Home?—at that distance the names sounded exactly alike.
“Oh, then, I am very sorry for—” Again Julian could not, with his utmost effort, catch the name with certainty; and, unable any longer to endure this state of doubt, he seized his cap and gown, when the sound of a slow footstep stopped him.
But it was Brogten’s step, and Julian heard him pass into his own room.
A moment of breathless silence, and then another step, or rather the steps of two men; he detected by the sound that they were Lillyston and De Vayne. In one moment he would know the— Was it the best or the worst? He stood with his hand on the handle of the door; but it seemed as if they would never get to the top of the stairs. Why on earth were they so slow?
“Well,” said Julian, as they came in sight, “is the Clerkland out?” He knew it was, but would not ask them the result.
“Yes,” they both said; and Lillyston added, in a sorrowful tone of voice, “I am sorry for you, Julian, but Owen has got it.”
Julian grew very pale, and for one second reeled as if he would faint. Lord De Vayne caught him as he staggered, and added eagerly, “But you are most honourably mentioned, Julian, ‘proxime accessit,’ and an allusion to your illness during one paper.”