"Of course he's not German by birth," returned Dick; "anybody can see that. Onions said——"
"What's all that talking about?" roared out Mr. Long, suddenly becoming awake to the noise. "Is that the way you do your lessons?" And for a few moments, at any rate, silence supervened.
Where was Trace? I think I shall have to tell you. After digesting Sir Simon Orville's words in the plantation, he set off quickly, to be in time for the evening study, which was the preparation of lessons for the next day, and rarely lasted more than an hour. Running full pelt into the cloisters, he ran against one of the masters.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, thinking it was Mr. Baker; for the cloisters were in almost total darkness.
It was Mr. Henry; and when Trace became aware of the fact, his spirit rose up in rebellion at having called him "sir." A feeling of dislike to this new master was rife within him, having its source no doubt in the past friendship the stranger had avowed for the unfortunate Captain Paradyne, and in his present evident intention to befriend the boy, and defend him against surreptitious lance-shafts. Trace was apt to be so prejudiced.
"Is it you, Trace?" cried Mr. Henry, recognizing the voice. "I would say a word to you."
"Be quick, if you please, then," was the half-discourteous answer. "We have only one hour to prepare everything, and I am late as it is."
"You have heard probably that George Paradyne is to stay here," began Mr. Henry, leading the way into the open quadrangle, where it was lighter, and there could be no danger of eaves-droppers.
"Yes; and I am surprised at Dr. Brabazon. My uncle, Sir Simon Orville, sanctions it too. He—he—"
Trace stopped. The generally cool voice seemed overflowing with passion; and Mr. Henry looked at him in the light of the rising moon.