Mr. Burley turned and bowed.

The two men looked at each other; you could not see a greater contrast,--
Mr. Burley, his gay green dress already shabby and soiled, with a rent in
the skirts and his face speaking of habitual night-cups; Mr. Norreys,
neat and somewhat precise in dress, with firm, lean figure, and quiet,
collected, vigorous energy in his eye and aspect.

"If," replied Mr. Burley, "a poor devil like me may argue with a
gentleman who may command his own price with the booksellers, I should
say it is no consolation at all, Mr. Norreys. And I should like to see
any man of sense accept the condition of Boethius in his prison, with
some strangler or headsman waiting behind the door, upon the promised
proviso that he should be translated, centuries afterwards, by kings and
queens, and help indirectly to influence the minds of Northern
barbarians, babbling about him in an alley, jostled by passers-by who
never heard the name of Boethius, and who don't care a fig for
philosophy. Your servant, sir, young man, come and talk."

Burley hooked his arm within Leonard's, and led the boy passively away.

"That is a clever man," said Harley L'Estrange. "But I am sorry to see
yon young student, with his bright earnest eyes, and his lip that has the
quiver of passion and enthusiasm, leaning on the arm of a guide who seems
disenchanted of all that gives purpose to learning, and links philosophy
with use to the world. Who and what is this clever man whom you call
Burley?"

"A man who might have been famous, if he had condescended to be