"Tom! you are mad."
"What! that voice? not the proctor's!"
"No, no," cried the visitor, kicking again; "Jacquelin's."
"Ah, ah!"
And with these ejaculations the inmate of the chamber was heard drawing back a table, then the butt of a gun sounded upon the floor, and the door opened.
The young man who had asserted his inalienable natural rights with so much fervor was scarcely twenty—at least he had not reached his majority. He was richly clad, with the exception of an old faded dressing gown, which fell gracefully like a Roman toga around his legs; and his face was full of intelligence and careless, somewhat cynical humor. The features were hard and pointed, the mouth large, the hair sandy with a tinge of red.
"Ah, my dear forlorn lover!" he cried, grasping his visitor's hand, "I thought you were that rascally proctor, and was really preparing for a hand-to-hand conflict, to the death."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, sir! could I expect anything else, from the way you turned my knob? You puzzled me."
"So I see," said his visitor; "you had your gun, and were evidently afraid."