Every man in the room was on his feet, crowding towards the table where we stood, I facing them all, holding both Dundonald and old Colin as my sureties at the point of my weapons, my men keeping the door as I knew, though I dared not so much as glance towards them, and every one strained up to the point of outburst, only waiting for the next move.
Come the morning session, Votbinnik played on for a dozen moves then resigned.
Such a state of affairs most naturally has aroused the interest of those who are jealous and zealous for the welfare of the colleges and universities and individual students, and the tide of public opinion has gradually been swelling until now it threatens the utter destruction of the game. But will the students themselves come to the rescue and save the game while there is yet time, by agreeing to an honest, clean abolition of the objectionable features of the game? For, in the last analysis of the situation, it is “up to them.”
“In all the terror and the tempest of these long hours,——for there’s been a fearful storm, though you haven’t felt it,” said mother,——“in all that, Mr. Gabriel can’t have slept. But at first it must have been that great dread appalled him, and he may have been beset with sorrow. He’d brought her to this. But at last, for he’s no coward, he has looked death in the face and not flinched; and the danger, and the grandeur there is in despair, have lifted his spirit to great heights,——heights found now in an hour, but which in a whole life long he never would have gained,——heights from which he has seen the light of God’s face and been transfigured in it,——heights where the soul dilates to a stature it can never lose. O Dan, there’s a moment, a moment when the dross strikes off, and the impurities, and the grain sets, and there comes out the great white diamond! For by grace are ye saved, through faith, and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God,——of Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into the morning. O, I will believe that Mr. Gabriel hadn’t any need to grope as we do, but that suddenly he saw the Heavenly Arm and clung to it, and the grasp closed round him, and death and hell can have no power over him now! Dan, poor boy, is it better to lie in the earth with the ore than to be forged in the furnace and beaten to a blade fit for the hands of archangels?”
“Well,” I repeated, as though it were a relief to say, “I could swear he did it for the poney.”
129We were at lunch when he arrived: a rather solemn lunch: a lunch at which the guests were ill assorted. A ponderous scholar from Scotland insisted upon discussing the authorship of Homer—a subject about which our host evidently knew little and cared less. In the middle of a rather painful silence, Brown was ushered into the dining-room; he was carrying a little book of Laurence Binyon’s that had just been published. His burly figure, his genial face, his ready tongue soon lifted us out of the atmosphere of black boredom that had settled upon us. In five minutes he had disposed of the Scottish scholar, had drunk a whisky and soda, and had combated Hall Caine’s opinion that Binyon “had entirely missed the point” in one of the poems he (Binyon) had written.
"Given him a month," Hubert replied.
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