replied the other; and as he spoke he divested himself of the academical garb that scarcely concealed his sky-blue tights, and stood, a model of manly beauty, on the banks of the rushing river. Then, throwing away a half-finished cigar, Trevyllyan strode into the boat.

    Per Bacco

   ! ’twas a magnificent sight. As the crack Eight of the river sped swiftly after her rival, cheers arose from the bank, and odds on both boats were freely taken and offered by the

    cognoscenti

   .

   You and I,

    amigo mio

   ! have seen many a race in our day. We have seen the ’Varsity crews flash neck and neck past Lillie Bridge: we have held our breath while Orme ran a dead heat with Eclipse for the Grand National: we have read how the victor of the

    pancratium

   panted to the

    meta

   amid the Io Triumphes of Attica’s vine-clad Acropolis. But we did not see the great Christ Church and Charsley’s race—that great contest which is still the talk of

   many a learned lecture-room. They say the pace was tremendous. Four men fainted in the Christ Church boat, and Trevyllyan’s crew repeatedly entreated him to stop. But he held on, inexorable as the Erinnyes.

   Fair as Pallas Anadyomene—fair as the Venus whom Milo fashioned

    pour se désennuyer

   in his exile at Marseilles—the Lady Gwendolen de St. Emilion sat throned on the University Barge, and watched the heroes as their bare arms flashed in the moonlight. And now they were through the Gut, and the nose of the Charsley’s boat pressed hard on its rival: yet Fane Trevyllyan did not make his final effort. Would he spare Glanville Ferrers?

    Quien sabe

   ? They had been friends—once. But the die was cast. As the boats sped past her the Lady Gwendolen stooped from her pride of place and threw a rose—just one—into the painted poop of the Christ Church wherry. That was all: but it was 

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