Then a light was set to the pile, and in a few minutes the flames were ascending sky-high. Every house around stood out in bold and fiery relief, and the Duke’s monument looked like a martyr at the stake.
“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the frantic mob. Then in a huge circle they joined hands and danced around the blazing fire, just as many a time since have I seen savages in Central Africa do.
How they yelled! How they shouted! How they sang!
But the fire began to burn dull and low at last, and just about this time there arose a shout of alarm: the Provost in his robes was coming in an open carriage to read the Riot Act.
“Come now, Sandie,” cried Willie, “we’ve had enough fun for one night. Father musn’t see me here.”
Nor did he.
Indeed, he saw but very few.
For the mob had no wish to have a collision with the soldiers—“the gallant Forty-twa,” so they melted away like snowflakes in a river, and truly speaking, the Act was read to the dying embers of the fire.
One large party of students had still a little fun left in them, however. They formed fours-deep, and went marching off down King Street, singing “The Land o’the Leal.”
“We’re wearin’ awa’, Jean,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,
We’re wearin’ awa’—a’—a’
To the Land o’the Leal.”