“I wonder whether the cloisters are still open!” Arthur exclaimed.
“It will not take a minute to ascertain,” said Hamish. “If not, we must go round.”
They found the cloisters still unclosed, and passed in. Gloomy and sombre were they at that evening hour. So sombre that, in proceeding along the west quadrangle, the two young men positively started, when some dark figure glided from within a niche, and stood in their way.
“Whose ghost are you?” cried Hamish.
A short covert whistle of surprise answered him. “You here!” cried the figure, in a tone of excessive disappointment. “What brings you in the cloisters so late?”
Hamish dextrously wound him towards what little light was cast from the graveyard, and discerned the features of Hurst. Half a dozen more figures brought themselves out of the niches—Stephen Bywater, young Galloway, Tod Yorke, Harrison, Hall, and Berkeley.
“Let me alone, Mr. Hamish Channing. Hush! Don’t make a row.”
“What mischief is going on, Hurst?” asked Hamish.
“Well, whatever it may have been, it strikes me you have stopped it,” was Hurst’s reply. “I say, wasn’t there the Boundaries for you to go through, without coming bothering into the cloisters?”
“I am sorry to have spoiled sport,” laughed Hamish. “I should not have liked it done to me when I was a college boy. Let us know what the treason was.”