"No," said Clarian, firmly, proudly, like a poet about to kneel that he may receive the laurel crown, "no, you do not know me yet."
And he was right. We did not yet know him.
"That is a boy after my own heart", said Mac, after we had returned to our room. He was standing by the open window, and I at his elbow, both of us thinking of the strange child we had just left, while our eyes took note of the fair night, how the silvery sheen of the moonlight glistened upon the leaves, and sprinkled itself in dappling flecks between the trees on the soft even sward of the campus below. "A boy after my own heart,—and, in spite of all his twaddle, will make an artist. It's in him."
"But did you not think him strangely wild to-night? I never heard him talk so fluently; but it was not the talk of a sane man."
Mac looked at me, laughing long and loud. "Thou dear innocent Ned!" cried he at last, "what a diagnostic thou wouldst make! It was indeed the talk of madness, good chum, and a very pretty madness was it, one that needeth not any Anticyran purgatives to expel it. So thou must not fash thyself about the lad, du liebe dummkopf, for he will come right very speedily. Didst remark not what he said about the 'herb Pantagruelion,' which, in the vulgar, meaneth only hemp? And surely you noted the warm flush of his cheek, the dilatation of his eye, and its phosphorescent glow? Dr. Thorne would soon enough tell you what these things signify. The boy is not crazy, Ned, but drunk,—drunk in the decorous delirium of a Damascene Pacha, propped against a Georgian maid, and fanned by Houris of Bethlehem Judah. He has been reading Monte Cristo, perhaps, or has somehow heard about the Indian Hemp, not the 'utilissima funibus cannabis' of practical Pliny, but Cannabis Indica, wherewith, I believe, Amrou spurred on his Arabs to their miraculous feats of war, when he conquered Egypt and drove Alexandria's Prefect into the sea,—the bhang of amok-running Malays, the haschish of Syria and Cairo. This is what hath made him drunk, and, i' faith, the intoxication does not ill become him. He will be all right in the morning, and all the better for this little brush. And anyhow, Ned, you must not watch the boy too closely, nor interfere with him. Let him 'gang his ain gait.' He comes of another breed than ours, I begin to suspect, and our rough fodder and grooming may not suit his higher blood.—Ach, Himmel! Ned," cried he, laughing, "it pleased me, though, to see how adroitly he contrived to twist that new reading out of the bon homme François. It was quite in the style of St. Augustine, and would have delighted that ex-sophist hugely; for, great as he was, and self-denying as he was, he always had a hankering after the dialectic flesh-pots. How he would have rubbed his hands, when Clarian wanted to persuade us that the herb Pantagruelion was no other than Haschish, the expander of souls!—Hollo! yonder goes the lad now. I wonder what he is up to. See him, Ned, yonder, just coming out of the shadow of North College. How fast he walks! how he is swinging his arms! I'll bet he is repeating poetry. I wonder what the lad is after, anyhow.—There he goes, round the corner of West College,—over the fence. Can he mean to have a game of ball by moonlight?—No,—he's making across the fields; if he had a pitcher with him now, I'd say he was going to the spring in the hollow.—Confound that tree! I've lost him."
I proposed following Clarian, being really uneasy about him, but Mac entered his veto,—
"No, Ned,—there's no need, and—it's none of our business. Children like him have a hundred baby-houses we do not know anything about. He wants a bath in the moonlight, I suppose, and wouldn't thank you for playing Actæon to the naked Diana of his midnight musings. Come, 'tis bedtime; or do you want to finish Sternberg's 'Herr von Mondschein'? It is à propos, and I see your book is opened to the very place."
[To be continued.]
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