It was anything but a noble sight; the faces of the
combatants were streaked with blood and sweat, and as the miserable gang
of lower school-boys backed them on with eager shouts of--"Now Eric, now
Eric," "Now Montagu, go it, sixth, form," etc., both of them fought
under a sense of deep disgrace, increased by the recollections which
they shared in common.
All this Vernon marked in a moment, and, filled with pain and vexation,
his said in a voice which, though low, could be heard amid all the
uproar, "Oh Eric, Eric, fighting with Montagu!" There was reproach and
sorrow in the tone, which touched more than one boy there, for Vernon,
spite of the recent change in him, could not but continue a favorite.
"Shut up there, you little donkey," shouted one or two, looking back at
him for a moment.
But Eric heard the words, and knew that it was his brother's voice. The
thought rushed on him how degraded his whole position was, and how
different it might have been. He felt that he was utterly in the wrong,
and Montagu altogether in the right; and from that moment his blows once
more grew feeble and ill-directed.
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