Radcliffe romances say, "I turned to thank my preserver, but he was
gone."

When I recovered my breath, I went up to a balcony on the first floor
and looked out. The tide of the affray was surging gradually back into
the wide open space before the inn, and very shortly this was filled
with a chaos of furious faces and struggling arms. The University were
evidently recoiling, pressed back by the sheer weight of their
opponents; but soon came a re-enforcement of grooms and stable-men,
lightweights, active and wiry; and these, with their hunting-crops and
heavy cutting-whips used remorselessly--like Cæsar's legionaries, they
struck only at the face--once more re-established the balance of the
battle.

Suddenly the _melée_ seemed to converge to one point--the mid-eddy, as
it were, of the whirlpool; then came a lull, almost a hush; and then
fifty strong arms, indiscriminately of town and gownsmen, were locked to
keep the ground, while a storm of voices shouted for "A ring!"

In that impromptu arena two men stood face to face under the full glare
of the gas-lamps--one was Guy Livingstone; the other a denizen of the
Potteries, yclept "Burn's Big 'un," who had selected B---- as his
training quarters, in preparation for his fight to come off in the
ensuing week with the third best man in England for £100 a side.

They made a magnificent contrast. Guy, apparently quite composed, but
the lower part of his face set stern and pitiless; an evil light in his
eyes, showing how all the gladiator in his nature was roused; his left
hand swaying level with his hip; all the weight of his body resting on
the right foot; his lofty head thrown back haughtily; his guard low. The