Bywater's eyes and his good-humoured countenance fell before the steady
gaze of the prelate. But in the gaze there was an earnest--if Bywater
could read it aright--of good feeling, of excuse for the mischief,
rather than of punishment in store. The boy's face was red enough at
all times, but it turned to scarlet now. If the bishop had before
suspected the share played in the affair by the college boys, it had by
this time been converted into a certainty.

"Boy," said he, "confess it if you like, be silent if you like; but do
not tell me a lie."

Bywater turned up his face again. His free, fearless eyes--free in the
cause of daring, but fearless in that of truth--looked straight into
those of the bishop. "I never do tell lies," he answered. "There's not
a boy in the school punished oftener than I am; and I don't say but I
generally deserve it! but it is never for telling a lie. If I did tell
them, I should slip out of many a scrape that I am punished for now."

The bishop could read truth as well as any one--better than many--and
he saw that it was being told to him now. "Which of you must be
punished for this trick as ringleader?" he asked.

"I, my lord, if any one must be," frankly avowed Bywater. "We should
have let him out at ten o'clock. We never meant to keep him there all
night. If I am punished, I hope your lordship will be so kind as allow
it to be put down to your own account, not to Ketch's. I should not
like it to be thought that I caught it for _him_. I heartily beg your
pardon, my lord, for having been so unfortunate as to include you in
the locking-up. We are all as sorry as can be, that it should have