CHAPTER IX.

Yet Randal Leslie was altered. His dark cheek was as thin as in boyhood,
and even yet more wasted by intense study and night vigils; but the
expression of his face was at once more refined and manly, and there was
a steady concentrated light in his eye, like that of one who has been in
the habit of bringing all his thoughts to one point. He looked older
than he was. He was dressed simply in black, a colour which became him;
and altogether his aspect and figure were, not showy indeed, but
distinguished. He looked to the common eye a gentleman; and to the more
observant a scholar.

Helter-skelter! pell-mell! the group in the passage now pressed each on
each, now scattered on all sides, making way, rushing down the mews,
against the walls, as a fiery horse darted under shelter. The rider, a
young man with a very handsome face, and dressed with that peculiar care
which we commonly call dandyism, cried out, good-humouredly, "Don't be
afraid; the horse sha'n't hurt any of you. A thousand pardons--so ho!
so ho!" He patted the horse, and it stood as still as a statue, filling
up the centre of the passage. The groups resettled; Randal approached
the rider.

"Frank Hazeldean!"

"Ah, is it indeed Randal Leslie?"