"Do you know that you are the cause of Henry Arkell's death?" continued the dean, in a low but distinct accent, which penetrated the room. "And that you might, in justice, be taken up as a murderer?"
Lewis junior burst into a dismal howl, and fell down on his knees and face, burying his forehead on the ground, and sticking up his surpliced back; something after the manner of an ostrich.
"It was the fall in the choir on Assize Sunday that killed Henry Arkell," said the dean, looking round the hall; "that is, he has died from the effects of the fall. You gentlemen are aware of it, I believe?"
"Certainly they are, Mr. Dean," said the head master, wondering on his own account, and answering the dean because the "gentlemen" did not.
"He was thrown down," resumed the dean; "wilfully thrown down. And that is the one who did it," pointing with his finger at Lewis junior.
Two or three of the boys had been cognisant of the fact, as might be seen from their scarlet faces; the rest wore a look of timid curiosity; while Mr. Wilberforce's amazed spectacles wandered from the dean's finger to the prostrate and howling Lewis.
"Yes," said the dean, answering the various looks, "the author of Henry Arkell's death is Lewis junior. You had better get up, sir."
Lewis junior remained where he was, shaking his back as if it had been a feather-bed, and emitting the most extraordinary groans.
"Get up," cried the dean, sternly.
There was no disobeying the tone, and Lewis raised himself. A pretty object he looked, for the dye from his new black gloves had been washed on to his face.