But not for long.
With a cry something resembling a howl, the school by a sudden simultaneous movement turned upon him.
He put up his hand instinctively, half-deprecatingly, half in self-defence. Then as his eyes dropped once more on the motionless form over which Mr Freshfield was bending, he took half a step forward and gasped, “I did not—”
Whatever he had intended to say was drowned by another howl of execration. The sound of his voice seemed to have opened the floodgates and let loose the pent-up feelings of the onlookers. A score of boys rushed between him and his victim and hustled him roughly out of the ring.
“Murderer!” cried Scarfe as he gave the first thrust.
And amidst echoes of that terrible cry the Cad was driven forth.
Once he turned with savage face, as though he would resist and fight his way back into the ring. But it was only for a moment. It may have been a sudden glimpse of that marble face on the grass, or it may have been terror. But his uplifted hand fell again at his side, and he dragged himself dejectedly to the outskirts of the crowd.
There he still hovered, his livid face always turned towards the centre, drinking in every sound and marking every movement, but not attempting again to challenge the resentment of his school-fellows by attempting to enter the awe-struck circle.
It seemed an age before help came. The crowd stood round silent and motionless, with their eyes fixed on the poor lifeless head which rested on Mr Freshfield’s knee; straining their eyes for one sign of animation, yearning still more for the arrival of the doctor.
Mr Freshfield did not dare to lift the form, or even beyond gently raising the head, to move it in any way. How anxiously all watched as, when the water arrived, he softly sponged the brow and held the glass to the white lips!